How shall we paint the joy of Paula at this change in her beloved

child! Her dearest wishes had been granted. This, too, was a

fruitful conversion; others imitated such an example; and Paula's

house soon became a sort of monastery, which Jerome would call

the _fireside church_. He gives a most beautiful description

of Paula and her children at this period, when the blessing of

God was so visibly on her household. Her fervor increased. She

determined on a complete sacrifice of her worldly goods, and, in

the words of St. Jerome, "being already dead to the world, though

still living, she distributed all her fortune among her

children," thereby entirely initiating herself into the holy

poverty of Christ. Notwithstanding all the consolations God had

sent her, she was still uneasy and dissatisfied; her life was not

yet all that she sighed for. A great disgust toward Rome filled

her mind, and the descriptions Epiphanius had given her of the

East rose up for ever in her, making her soul long for the

monastic life of the desert. The example of Melanie was then to

increase this longing, for Melanie had now been for some years

realizing her dreams in her convent on the Mount of Olives.

There was now nothing to prevent Paula from going. Blesilla, as

well as Eustochium, wished to follow their mother in her

pilgrimage, and many of their friends desired to join them. St.

Jerome, the veteran pilgrim, was to be their pilot to holy

places. He had strengthened them all in the love of God and

nourished them with the Holy Scriptures. His letters to

Eustochium at this time were exquisite. What could be more

touching than the friendship uniting the austere old monk and

this sweet young maiden? "O my Eustochium! O my daughter! O my

sister!" he wrote to her, "since my age and charity alike permit

me to give you these names, if you are by birth the noblest of

Roman virgins, I beseech you guard zealously your own heart and

keep it from evil. Imitate our Lord Jesus Christ, be obedient to

your parents, go out rarely, and honor the martyrs in the

solitude of your chamber. Read often and you will learn much. Let

sleep surprise you with the holy book in your hands, and, if your

head drop down with fatigue, let it be on the sacred pages."

Eustochium was grateful to him for his wise counsels, and,

wishing to express her appreciation of his letters to her, she

gathered courage to send him a little offering of a basket of

cherries, with several of those bracelets called _armillae_

and some doves. The whole was accompanied by a sweet, girlish

letter, full of affection. The cherries, she said, were a symbol

of purity, to remind him of his letters; the bracelets were such

as were given to reward brilliant deeds, and were to put him in

mind of his own victories in controversy; and, lastly, the doves

were emblematic of his tenderness to her from her childhood.

{511}

St. Jerome received with great kindness the little offerings of

his spiritual daughter, and thanked her for them in a letter full

of affection, mingled with the grave counsels which ever flowed

from his pen.

The time was approaching for the departure of Paula for the East.

It was in the autumn of 384 A.D., when Blesilla suddenly fell ill

of the same fever which had once before laid her so low. The news

of her illness filled her friends with consternation, for

Blesilla was tenderly loved by them. She sank so rapidly that

there was soon no hope left of her recovery. This was but four

months after her conversion, and God already judged her ready for

a better life, and called her to himself.

She was but twenty, and was going to die. Her mother, her

sisters, her relations, her friends, Marcella and St. Jerome, all

gathered around her death-bed in tears. Blesilla alone did not

weep. Though the fever was consuming her, a ray of celestial

light illuminated her countenance with a beauty not of earth, and

transfigured her. Her only regret was, that her repentance had

been so short. She turned to those who were around her: "Oh! pray

for me," she cried, "to our Lord Jesus Christ, to have mercy on

my soul, since I die before I have been able to accomplish what I

had in my heart to do for him." These were her last words; every

one present was moved to tears by them. Jerome eagerly offered

consolation. "Trust in the Lord, dear Blesilla," said he; "your

soul is as pure as the white robes you have worn since your

consecration to God, which though but recent was so generous and

complete that it came not too late." These words filled her soul

with peace. And shortly afterward, to use the words of St.

Jerome, "freeing herself from the pains of the body, this white

dove flew off to heaven!"

Her obsequies were magnificent, followed by all the Roman nobles.

Such was the custom of the patricians. A peculiar interest and

sympathy were felt in the fate of this brilliant young woman, as

well as universal compassion for the sorrow of her venerable

mother. The long procession walked through the streets, followed

by the coffin covered with a veil of gold. St. Jerome, though not

approving of this display, dared not interfere to prevent it, as

it seemed a sad consolation to Paula to see the honors paid to

the child so tenderly loved. She undertook to accompany Blesilla

to her last resting-place; but her strength failed, and, having

taken but a few steps, she fainted away and was brought back to

her house insensible.

The days that followed the funeral only increased her grief. She

was crushed by it. In vain did she try to submit to the divine

will, her heart failed her, and Jerome felt that he must make an

effort to give her strength, or else she would succumb to the

pressure. The effort was great on his part, for Blesilla was his

beloved pupil, and this death annihilated all his own cherished

hopes of her. He never found the courage to conclude a

commentary, begun expressly for her, on Ecclesiastes. But feeling

it a duty to help Paula, he wrote to her a letter filled with

true delicacy of feeling and Christian faith. He commenced by

weeping with her over the lost Blesilla, for he said: "While

wishing to dry her mother's tears, am I not weeping myself?"

{512}

He continued this noble letter in these words, alike reproachful

and sympathizing: "When I reflect that you are a mother, I do not

blame you for weeping; but when I reflect also that you are a

Christian, then, O Paula! I wish that the Christian would console

the mother a little."

He reminded her of the children she had left, and with all the

authority of his holy office bid her take care lest, "in loving

her children so much, she did not love God enough." "Listen," he

says, "to Jesus, and trust in him: 'Your daughter is not dead,

but sleepeth.'"

Then Jerome would picture to Paula her daughter in all her

celestial glory. He would suppose Blesilla calling upon her

mother in these words: "If you have ever loved me, O my mother!

if you have ever nourished me from your bosom, and trained my

soul with your words of wisdom and virtue, oh! I conjure you, do

not lament that I have such glory and happiness as is mine here!

What prayers does Blesilla not now offer up for you to God!" And

St. Jerome adds, "She is praying for me also, for you know, O

Paula! how devoted I was to her soul, and what I did not fear to

brave, that she might be saved."

St. Jerome's letter awoke new Christian strength and resignation

in the broken spirit of Paula. The tears ceased to flow, but the

wound bled inwardly and never healed. The void left by Blesilla

in her mother's heart must ever make it desolate. Rome became

insupportable to her, and the pilgrimage to the East, so long

thought of, seemed now the only thing that could interest her.

About this time Pope Damasus died. He was a great loss to St.

Jerome, for his successor had not the same moral courage, and

dared not sustain the old monk in advocating monastic life, which

so enraged the patricians.

Finally, worn out by persecution, and perhaps longing to return

to that solitude he had never ceased to regret, Jerome determined

to leave Rome. This was in the year 385 A.D. His friends were

only waiting for his signal to accompany him in numbers, and many

were the tears shed by his gentle pupils in Rome at his

departure. His farewell letter to them all was addressed to the

venerable Asella, through whom he sent his last greetings to

Paula, Eustochium, Albina, Marcella, Marcellina, and Felicity,

"his sisters in Jesus Christ." Many of these he was destined to

see no more. But the decision of Paula was irrevocable. She had

no longer any earthly tie to detain her. Her son, moved by the

example of his mother and sisters, had received Christian

baptism, and was soon to marry a young Christian maiden, the

cousin of Marcella. Rufina was to remain during her mother's

absence with her sister Paulina and Pammachius, and also with

Marcella, her second mother.

Eustochium was to accompany her mother, as well as a large number

of the pious community of the Aventine. They left Rome in the

autumn of 385 A.D. Paula courageously bid farewell to her

children, and the friends who had followed in troops to see her

embark. Leaning on the arm of Eustochium, she was seen on the

deck of the vessel, her eyes averted, that her strength might not

fail her as she witnessed the sorrow of her loved ones whom she

was leaving. For St. Jerome tells us, "Paula loved her children

more than any other woman."

{513}

The voyage was favorable, the vessel touching at many places of

classic interest. When they finally reached Salamines in the

Island of Cyprus, what was her joy on finding her venerable

friend, St. Epiphanius, waiting on the shore to receive her,

happy in being able to return the hospitality he had enjoyed

under her roof in Rome three years before.

The Island of Cyprus was filled with monasteries and convents

founded and protected by Epiphanius, which were a great

attraction to Paula. Holy hymns were sung where Venus but lately

had reigned supreme; and the grave of the holy patriarch Hilarion

stood near the ruins of the ancient temple of the heathen

goddess.

After leaving Cyprus, Paula went to Antioch. There Jerome and the

priests and monks who had accompanied him from Rome were awaiting

her with Paulinus, the bishop. They wished to detain her; but

since her feet had touched land her ardor to reach Jerusalem had

so increased that nothing could stop her. To follow the footsteps

of Christ, to see where his precious blood was shed, then to

visit the anachorites of the desert, such was Paula's thought.

Eustochium and her companions shared this desire. No time was

lost. A caravan was organized, Jerome and his friends on

dromedaries, Paula and her suite on asses, and they began their

journey together. The road from Antioch to Jerusalem was long and

fatiguing for women so delicately bred. A journey in those days

was full of perils of which we now have no idea. But Paula was

indefatigable, deterred by no dangers and complaining of no

inconveniences, as she crossed the icy plains at this most trying

season of the year. St. Jerome tells of the cities that she saw,

and of the emotions that she felt as her knowledge of Scripture

and of holy books brought up recollections and associations

either of Jewish or of Christian history wherever she went.

Besides, Jerome was there, with his prodigious memory and

knowledge, to throw light on every step.

As Paula approached Jerusalem, her soul was more deeply moved,

than it had yet been. The view of the landscape around the city

was desolate, even as early as the fourth century. She entered by

the Gate of Jaffa, also called the Gate of David and the Gate of

the Pilgrims. The proconsul of Palestine had sent an escort to

meet her, to receive her with honor; but with that sentiment

which later made Godefroi de Bouillon refuse to wear a golden

crown where God had worn one of thorns, Paula refused to lodge in

the palace offered for her convenience, and she and her whole

suite staid at a modest dwelling not far from Calvary; then she

started at once to visit the Holy Places. Who can describe her

feelings as she entered the church of the Holy Sepulchre? In the

fourth century, the stone which closed the entrance to the tomb

of our Lord was still to be seen by the faithful pilgrims. To-day

it is covered by a monument of marble. As soon as Paula saw it,

with great emotion she embraced it; but when she entered into the

sepulchre itself, and went up to the rock on which had laid the

body of our Lord, she could no longer restrain her tears, and,

falling on her knees, sobbed and wept abundantly. All Jerusalem

saw these tears, and were edified at the great piety of this

noble Roman lady, the daughter of the Scipios.

St. Jerome tells us that, while she was in Jerusalem, "she would

see everything," and that "she was only dragged away from one

holy place that she might be taken to another."

{514}

After having visited Jerusalem, the pilgrims travelled all over

the Holy Land, commencing with Bethlehem and Judea, then visiting

Jericho and the Jordan, Samaria and Galilee as far as Nazareth,

and finally, reorganizing the caravan, they set out for Egypt;

not, however, before paying a visit to Melanie, in her convent on

the Mount of Olives, whence they returned to Jerusalem.

Paula would now have fixed herself at Bethlehem but for this

longing to visit the fathers of the desert. They started on this,

the longest and most fatiguing part of their journey, and were

sixteen days in going from Jerusalem to Alexandria. This city was

the Athens of the East. In such an atmosphere of learning, there

had been great intellectual development among the Christians, and

the school of Christian philosophers of Alexandria was renowned

throughout the world. This was what detained Paula and

Eustochium, and particularly Jerome, some time at Alexandria,

where they were received with great hospitality by the bishop,

Theophilus. But even the most interesting studies could not make

Paula forget the principal object of her voyage to Egypt, and her

desire to see and to know the ascetics, that wonderful class of

men, who voluntarily exiled themselves from the world and from

all human ties, and astonished mankind by incredible austerities,

and by consecrating their lives entirely to spiritual things and

to a future existence. At this time the number of these

anachorites had so multiplied, that it was said that in Egypt the

deserts had as many inhabitants as the cities. Monastic life was

then in all its glory. The great anachorites, Paul, Antony,

Hilarion, and Pacomius, were dead; but their disciples lived, as

celebrated as themselves. A great work of organization had been

accomplished among them. The first men who came to the desert

lived alone in caves or cells, each following his individual

inspiration. Paul had lived forty years in a grotto, at the

entrance of which was a spring and a palm-tree, drinking the

water of the spring and eating the fruit of the tree, being his

only nourishment. Antony's life had been more extraordinary

still. But when the number of the hermits increased, they felt

the necessity of community life being established, and the

cenobites began to take the place of the anachorites, though

there remained many of the latter, dividing, as it were, the

hermits into two kinds, the Anachorites and the Cenobites. Large

convents spread out along the banks of the Nile to the furthest

extremity of Egypt.

It was not easy to visit these establishments. In going there,

many years before, Melanie and her companions had been lost for

five days, and their provisions being exhausted they had nearly

died of hunger and thirst in the desert. Crocodiles, basking in

the sun, had awaited with open jaws to devour them, and

numberless other dangers had beset them.

But this did not discourage Paula, and her route being happily

chosen, she accomplished her journey safely to the mountain of

Nitria, where five thousand cenobites lived in fifty different

convents, under the rule of one abbot. The news of her coming had

preceded her, and the Bishop of Heliopolis had come to welcome

the noble lady. He was surrounded by a great crowd of cenobites

and anachorites. As soon as they perceived the caravan, they came

forward singing hymns. Paula was soon surrounded. She declared

herself most unworthy of the honors accorded her, and at the same

time glorified God, who worked such marvels in the desert. The

bishop first conducted the pious band to the church situated on

the summit of the mountain, and there, with that hospitality for

which the monks of the East were ever remarkable, the travellers

were given the best rooms attached to the convent and intended

for the use and convenience of strangers.

{515}

Fresh water was brought to them to wash their feet, and linen to

dry them, and the fruits of the desert to refresh their palates;

after which they were allowed to visit the convents and the

hermits, whose life was very simple and very free, at the same

time holy and austere. Ambitious of reducing the body to

servitude, and to penetrate the secrets of things divine, they

united action with contemplation. Their days were passed between

work and prayer. Some were to be seen digging the earth, cutting

trees, fishing in the Nile, or perhaps plaiting the mats on which

they were to die. Others were absorbed by the reading of, or

meditation on, the Holy Scriptures. The monasteries swarmed like

bee-hives.

After having witnessed the cenobitical life, Paula went to the

desert of cells to see the anachorite life, which there was

carried out in all its austerity and all its poetry. These monks

had no walls built by man, but had retired to the mountains as to

the most inaccessible asylums. Caverns and rocks were their

dwellings, the earth their table, their food roots and wild

plants, and water from the springs their refreshment. Their

prayers were continual, and all the mountain hollows rang with

God's praises. These grottoes did not communicate with each

other, and the isolation of the anachorites was complete. Once a

week, on Sunday only, they left their cells, and, dressed in

robes made of palm-leaves or of sheepskin, they went to the

church of Nitria, where they saw one another, and also met the

cenobites. Paula wished to know and listen to these pious men.

She therefore visited all the grottoes, one by one, talking

always of the things of God to their inmates.

Paula's next visit was through a still more savage country to see

those called by St. Jerome "the columns of the desert." She cared

not for dangers nor fatigue, so that she could contemplate such

men as _Macarius_--the disciple of Antony and Pacomius--a

man so austere that he had astonished Pacomius himself, who had

watched him during the whole of one Lent plaiting mats in his

cell, without speaking to any one, all absorbed in God, and only

eating once a week, on Sunday, a few raw vegetables. None could

surpass this great ascetic. He permitted the pilgrims to

penetrate into his grotto, and delighted Paula with his holy

conversation and instruction.

Jerome admired likewise the prodigies of this pure and austere

life; but more occupied than Paula with the doctrines he heard

discussed, he had perceived that some of the monks were less

enlightened than others. It seems, as it afterward was proved,

that the theories of Origen were already beginning to trouble the

inhabitants of the desert.

There remained now, to complete Paula's insight into the life of

the hermits, but to visit the convents founded by Pacomius, which

she hesitated not to do. There were six thousand monks living in

them, governed by the venerable Serapion. Their rule divided each

monastery into a certain number of families. Their frugal lives

enabled them to extend their charities far and wide. Their

fasting and abstinence lasted all the year round, becoming only

more strict in Lent. Paula enjoyed their hospitality greatly,

learning much from Serapion that delighted her about this

well-organized monastic life which realized her ideal.

{516}

She thought for a moment of establishing herself in the desert,

and of requesting Serapion to admit her colony under the rule of

Pacomius; but the love of the Holy Places prevented her from

carrying out this plan. She said "her resting-place was not in

these deserts, it was in Bethlehem." Already had she lingered too

long! She had now learned all that she wished to learn, enough

for her own guidance. She therefore embarked with her entire

caravan for Maioma, a sea-port of Gaza; and from there, without

stopping on her way, she returned to Jerusalem, and thence to

Bethlehem, with as much rapidity, says St. Jerome, as if she had

had wings.

Here the news awaited her of the death of her daughter Rufina.

The blow was terrible to Paula, but her mind was strengthened by

all she had seen, and the voice of God reached her heart and

comforted her, and gave her stronger hope than she had ever had

in reunion hereafter with her beloved children. She sought to

make herself worthy of immortality, and her faith and her good

works brought her consolation and peace. She resolved to found

two monasteries: one for herself, Eustochium, and her friends

from the Aventine; the other for Jerome and his followers. This

was done without delay, and they at once began the life which

they longed for--a life of labor, of study, and of prayer.

To Be Continued.

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

To The Count De Montalembert,

With A Copy Of "Inisfail." [Footnote 149]

[Footnote 149: From a forthcoming volume of Poems, by Aubrey

de Vere, now in press by the Catholic Publication Society.]

Your spirit walks in halls of light:

On earth you breathe its sunnier climes:

How can an Irish muse invite

Your fancy thus to sorrowing rhymes?

But you have fought the church's fight!

My country's cause and hers are one:

And every cause that rests on Right

Invokes Religion's bravest son.

----------

{517}

The Legend of Glastonbury.--A D. 62.

Down in the pleasant west of England a river--the copious

Brue--follows its course to Bridgewater Bay, between the

Sedgemoors and other rising grounds. Somersetshire farmers now

drive their ploughs and graze their cattle where I am going to

describe water: thanks to those Benedictine monks whom they have

so clean forgotten. But at Christmas-tide, some sixty years after

the first Christmas the world ever saw, there were no monks at

Glastonbury; for the simple reason, there were no Christians

there. No one had banked out the waters of the Bristol Channel,

and converted a brackish and unwholesome swamp into fine arable

or pasture land. The Brue had it all its own way, to make

islands, pools, and treacherous bogs with its unrestrained

waters; until it had got so far west as to struggle with the

advancing tide of the bay.

Glastonbury has the holiest memories of any place in England; and

they date from the first moment when the faith was planted there.

The sacred name of our Lord was brought to this marshy district

in a far-off heathen land by one of his own disciples, Saint

Joseph of Arimathea.

Who has not heard of the Glastonbury thorn? A history of Somerset

would be incomplete which did not mention its blossoming every

Christmas that comes round. It was fair and fragrant for fifteen

hundred winters, while all around was sapless and dead. People

try to account for this standing miracle by something peculiar in

the soil, as they would explain away the freedom of Ireland from

snakes and toads, or the healing virtues of St. Winifred's Well.

There were probably Sadducees in Jerusalem who thought the Pool

of Bethesda was all nonsense, or a mere chalybeate. Anything you

like about the powers of nature, but nothing of the marvels of

grace. Chemistry to any extent, but of miracle not one jot.

Thorns blooming at Christmas? It is all a question of earth,

soil, stratum, and the lay of the ground, with those who are "of

the earth, earthy."

But we are now on our way to Glastonbury as Christian pilgrims,

staff in hand. And it is very fit that we should regard the old

thorn (or such suckers and cuttings of it as may be found) with

reverence. For that thorn is a Christian tree, planted by

Christian hands. More than this: it was planted by the hands

whose unutterable privilege it was to unfasten and take down from

the cross, and bear with adoring reverence to the tomb, the body

of God, separated from his soul, united ever with his divinity.

We are accustomed, in our meditations on the passion, to

contemplate the emaciated, agonized form of our Lord stretched

and racked upon the cross; or, after the _Consummatum est_,

when eventide was come, laid stark and bloodless in the arms of

the Queen of martyrs, his most desolate Mother. Naturally we lose

out of sight, by comparison, other agents and events in what

followed his expiring cry. Yet look again. In the growing dusk of

that first Good Friday, at the foot of the cross, and in the

group of five or six persons to whom the eternal Father seems to

commit the lifeless body of his Son, there is the saint of

Glastonbury.

{518}

With the dolorous Mother, and the beloved disciple, and the

saintly, penitent Magdalene, and the other holy women, and

Nicodemus, St. Joseph of Arimathea also bears his part.

To come back to Glastonbury; we must pass over some thirty years

from that sacred paschal eve. Pentecost soon followed it, with

its fiery tongues on the apostles' brows. They were illuminated

and strengthened to preach the faith over the earth lying in

darkness. So they separated on this world-wide mission, each on

the path whereon the guidance of God's Spirit led him. "Their

sound went over all the earth, and their words unto the ends of

the whole world." St. Philip went into Phrygia, and, by some

accounts, was martyred there. Others make him to have preached

the gospel in what is now France, and that St. Joseph was one of

his companions. A better supported tradition has it that St.

Joseph, with St. Lazarus and his two holy sisters, Martha and

Mary, landed at Marseilles from Judea. Anyhow, here comes St.

Joseph of Arimathea to Britain, with a faithful band of eleven

disciples. He has reached the distant region of tin-mines which

the old Phoenicians had discovered and worked in Cornwall,

Scilly, and, perhaps, the Mendip Hills. He is come not for

precious metals, but to bring the priceless word of life.

So, rather more than sixty years after the Incarnation, and while

Saints Peter and Paul are still alive in Rome, though the day of

their martyrdom draws near, we find ourselves on the brow of

Weary-All Hill, a mile or so south-west of the spot where

Glastonbury Abbey will be built.

Weary-All Hill! the name it has been known by for generations

back. But not a likely name to be given it by St. Joseph and his

eleven companions, as they stood on it for the first time,

eighteen centuries ago; as they looked on the marshy plain,

dotted with islands, in and out of which the glassy stream is

winding. Weariness, at least lassitude of spirit, was unknown to

those apostolic men. Had they not come all this way to bring the

everlasting gospel? Had not their feet been "beautiful upon the

mountains" as they crossed them, bearing this message of heavenly

love?--mountains deep in snow, yawning with frightful clefts and

precipices, gloomy with impenetrable forests, to which this

Weary-All is scarcely a mole-hill?

"At length, then," said St. Joseph, when the twelve had paused on

the brow of it to recover breath; for few of them were young, and

it was rather a pull for a Somersetshire hill--"at length we have

reached the end of our pilgrimage."

As he spoke, he pointed with his long staff to the little group

of islands already noticed. A cheery December sun lingered on the

scene, and, though it was evening, still cast a gleam upon the

wide-spread water. The Brue was winding along, noiseless and

limpid, sprinkled with its dark islets, as the shining coils of a

snake are variegated with the spots upon its skin. There was no

ice yet, though it was already the Christmas season. Perhaps the

sea-water that mingled with the marsh from the Bristol Channel

prevented its formation. The leafless thickets that fringed the

slopes of West Sedgemoor, and clothed both islands and marshland

in irregular clumps, allowed a more distinct view of the mirror

of waters than when shaded with summer foliage. There was a kind

of grave and sober animation over the whole scene.

{519}

A short distance further off, to the east, rose a solitary peaked

hill, perhaps even _then_ called the Tor. It has several

scarped lines, or passes, drawn around it, denoting that the

Romans had fortified it as a stronghold, which they occupied from

time to time. Years after, a little chapel in honor of St.

Michael the archangel will be built on its summit. Years later,

again, that little chapel will be enlarged into a stately church,

the tower of which still remains. And nearly fifteen centuries

after St. Joseph first stood on Weary-All, the last abbot of the

stately Benedictine monastery, as Glastonbury had become, was

martyred there with two of his monks. His crime was, that he

rendered to Caesar _only_ those things that were Caesar's,

and refused to acknowledge the tyrant Henry VIII. as head of

God's church in England.

Northward of where we stand, at the distance of five miles and

more, the abrupt range of the Mendip Hills caught at that moment

almost the last beams of the declining sun, as it sank, fiery

red, toward the western ocean.

"The end of our pilgrimage," said St. Joseph again, slowly, and

gazed down on the peaceful spot. "These are the islands of which

the heathen king spoke:--how are we to name him?"

"Arviragus," answered one of his companions, nay, it was the

saint's own nephew, called Helaius.

"Permitting us to set up there a Christian altar, and to proclaim

the names and the praises of Jesus and Mary."

"May the kindness be returned a hundred-fold into his own bosom,"

ejaculated Theotimus.

"Amen," answered St. Joseph fervently. And Joseph his son, and

Simeon and Avitus, and the rest, responded.

Then all knelt there on the brow of the hill; all but Hoel, their

poor pagan guide to the spot. And with Christian psalms, and the

Gloria Patri, and invocations to the court of heaven to assist

them in their praises, they poured out thanksgivings to him who

had permitted their long wanderings to cease, and their

missionary life in this heathen land to begin.

Hoel stood near, leaning on his shepherd's crook. He guessed in

general what it was about; but he understood neither Hebrew nor

Greek.

He is a true Briton of that date, is Hoel; and he might literally

be called "true blue," for he is painted all over in blue

patterns with the juice of the woad, like his northern cousins,

the Picts. His scanty garments are dyed the same hue with the

same plant, which yields its juice plentifully in this part of

Britain.

He looks at the saint, and thinks he is inquiring the name of

that principal island in the group to which his staff points.

"Iniswytryn," cries Hoel, in explanation. "You're Latin scholars,

gentlemen; so I suppose you know what that means--_Glassy

Island_." [Footnote 150]

[Footnote 150: _Insula Vitrea_, the Roman and therefore

the British name (by a slight corruption) of what was

afterward called Glastonbury. _Glas_ is the Celtic word

for grayish blue, [Greek text] and enters into numerous local

names in Ireland, Wales, and the Highlands. Its affinity with

our word _glass_ is probably more than a coincidence of

sound, the ancient glass being mostly of the same neutral

tint. Others derive the name of the place from the

woad-plant, _glaisn_, which grows abundantly in this

watered district.]

Glass, in those days, imported by the Romans into Britain, sorry

stuff as the best of it would now be reckoned in the Birmingham

or St. Helen's foundries, was thought a wonder of rarity and

beauty. So Glassy Island was a name equivalent to our calling

_another_ island that we love very dearly the

"First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea."

{520}

Hoel now spoke again in the same strange jargon as before,

composed of British, or what we should call Welsh, and a little

Latin. It was the dialect of those parts of Britain where the

Romans had established their colonies and introduced their

tongue. Be it noted, we are at this moment near the Roman

colonies of Uxella, or Bridgewater, Ad Aquas, or Wells, and

Ischalis, or Ilchester.

"So you are going to settle down there," remarked Hoel. "Won't

you offer some sacrifice on first sighting the place?"

"We have no means of sacrificing this evening, friend," answered

St. Joseph calmly, "nor to-morrow morning, I fear, unless we

obtain materials, which at present we lack."

"Means!--materials!" said Hoel, musing with himself. "Well, every

nation, I take it, has its own customs. But I know those who

would not be long without providing the materials."

St. Joseph wished to ascertain what was passing in the man's

mind. The zeal which urged St. Paul to become all things to all

men, that he might save all, burned in the holy missionary's

bosom. It made him seek out all that might serve the purpose of

his coming. He had everything to learn: language, habits of

thought, customs of social life, and the very observances of

British heathenism.

"And how," he asked, "would you offer a sacrifice, good friend,

when you had nothing to offer it with?"

"I? Nay, _I_ could not. What good would a sacrifice be from

a peasant like me?"

"To pray is to make an offering, is it not?"

"Yes; but I don't mean that. You know I mean something more; why,

something really sacrificed--consumed, to make the gods

favorable. Have you no such sacrifice in your religion? Then it

can't be the true one, _I'm_ sure!"

"Certainly," said St. Joseph, "we have the one true and adorable

Sacrifice, of which all others are mere shadows, and some of them

very dark, distorted shadows. Every morning we offer to the true

and living God that spotless Lamb who alone can take away sin, or

be a worthy thank-offering to his majesty and his mercy."

"A lamb?" said Hoel, still musing; "why, that's not to be had at

this season. But would nothing else do instead? For example, now,

I've a nice--"

"Do not concern yourself," answered St. Joseph, and smiled again,

kindly. "We shall be able to provide ourselves in a few days,

when we have made acquaintance with the neighborhood. I suppose

they grow wine in these parts?"

"Wine?" repeated the peasant, opening his eyes. "Oh! yes, to be

sure." Then, after a pause: "You're fond of wine, then, after

all, like our own Druids? Well, I should hardly have thought--"

Helaius could hardly repress a smile at his mistake.

Hoel looked at him; then, as if he had hit on the cause of his

amusement, laughed his loud clownish laugh, too.

"Wine? Ah! the very best, if you can buy it of those gray-bearded

gentlemen; and old mead, and metheglin; or cider from our apples

hereabout. We grew a mortal sight of 'em." [Footnote 151]

[Footnote 151: Glastonbury was afterward called by the Saxons

_Avalon_, or the Island of Apples.]

Then he broke out into singing, and a kind of war-dance, to

please his companions, as he deemed:

"All under yon oaks, and the mistletoe sprouting.

When victims have bled in the circle of stones.

We drink down the sunset with sword-play and shouting,

And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones:

His bones!

And he that refuses, we'll raddle his bones!"

{521}

It was difficult not to smile at his extravagant tones and

gestures.

"Gently, gently," said St. Joseph to his companions, "or we shall

be misleading him, and doing harm."

"Oh! never mind, ancient sir," remarked Hoel encouragingly,

though he had not understood what was said. "All quite right--why

shouldn't one? Only, it strikes me, you've no place to lay in a

stock of it at present. Now, our Druids burrow out caves, 'tis

thought, somewhere under their cromlechs--"

"Listen!" interrupted St. Joseph, laying his hand on the other's

arm. He looked into Hoel's face, and gained his attention in a

moment. "Listen, while I say a thing to you. Bread and wine, the

ordinary food of man in our native land, have been appointed by

him whom we serve, as the materials of that true sacrifice which

he will accept. He requires, and will admit, no other. Animals

were sacrificed to him of old, before he appointed this new and

better way; but now--"

"You spoke of a lamb," interrupted the peasant, growing rather

sulky, "so I just took the liberty of informing you as we'd none

at your service."

It was not the moment to pursue such high and mysterious truths

with him any further. But Hoel himself would not be let off, nor

would he let off St. Joseph. Something seemed to be working in

his mind.

"A lamb is a lamb," persisted he doggedly, though he seemed to

mean no disrespect; "and a sacrifice is a sacrifice; and bread is

bread, I hope; and wine, I'm sure, is wine."

"All things are what they have been created by God," answered St.

Joseph very gently, "until it is his holy will and pleasure to

change them in any way, or even to change them into other

things."

Hoel looked at him, but said nothing. His look, though, meant

inquiry, and this St. Joseph perceived.

"Is not a tree changed into something very different from what it

was before," he went on, "when the warm air of spring breathes

upon it, and the sap rises into it, and it puts forth green buds,

and they swell, and burst, and afterward come leaves and fruit?"

"True," answered he; and then was silent, thinking.

"Did you ever see one of the trees down yonder blossom at this

season?"

For all answer, Hoel laughed, and pointed to the leafless boughs

on the island, and the shores around them.

"Could the gods whom you worship cause them to do so?"

"Not one of 'em all," answered he, with a somewhat scornful

gesture.

"Then, _who_ makes winter pass and spring return; the bud

burst forth, and the fruit ripen?"

A pause. The poor pagan was not prepared to answer.

"Now," continued St. Joseph, "my God, the one living and true,

not only has appointed the laws by which seasons come round with

their produce, and the sun rises and sets. He sometimes,

moreover, changes these things, according to his own all-perfect

will, so that the sun stays motionless in the heavens above, and

the tree blooms in mid-winter on the earth below."

Hoel mused, and mused again, while his eyes wandered from the

speaker to the rest, in whose looks he read confirmation of the

words. Then he turned to take a sweep over the wintry scene that

lay beneath and around. Woods and thickets skirting the slopes of

Sedgemoor, the osiers lining the banks of the Brue, the few

apple-trees that were even then on Iniswytryn--all without sign

of a leaf.

{522}

He bent his eyes to the ground, knit his brows, seemed determined

to hear no more, and to believe nothing of what he _had_

heard.

Still the gentle, persuasive voice of the saint sounded in his

ears:

"What is that, friend, you have in your hand?"

"My shepherd's crook," was the brief and surly answer.

"And see, my pilgrim-staff, that has aided my steps so far. Yours

was cut from a British sapling, out of your moist soil, I dare

say, no longer ago than last autumn. Mine, under a burning sky,

long years since, in Judea, a land you never heard of. It came

from a thorn-brake that had furnished thorns for a crown of which

you know nothing. Which of these two staves would bud the

quickest, if they were planted side by side?"

Hoel looked up, pleased to find something he understood. "Mine

would, of course," he grinned out. "'Tis a right slip of

mountain-ash, and would have leaves next spring, if I struck it

into the ground."

"And what if mine now budded before you could count ten?"

"You jest with me where I see no jest," exclaimed the countryman,

disposed now to be angry, "or you speak as one of the unwise."

"There is no jest here," answered St. Joseph with unruffled look.

You say truly. By no power of mine could the seasons alter, or

the effects of them. My Master has said: 'All the days of the

earth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter,

night and day, shall not cease!' But what if his power and his

will unite to make some wonderful change in all this?"

"His power is great in the summer," answered Hoel, casting a look

at the declining sun; "but in the winter time he seems further

off, or feebler. He cannot melt the ice, nor draw up the dew, nor

warm my fingers while I stand watching my sheep."

It was plain he was speaking of his deity, then sinking in the

west, lower every moment.

"Ah!" said Avitus, "is it even such darkness as this into which

the land is plunged? Would we had pushed on sooner from Gaul!"

"Courage, brother," whispered Simeon in answer. "There has been

no time lost, Man can do but little, except pray and obey. If he

does these well, he does good all around him. What says the holy

text? 'Well done, good and faithful servant; because thou hast

been _faithful in a little_.'"

Meanwhile St. Joseph had been in silent prayer. By some

inspiration he felt moved to ask for power to work the first

miracle ever wrought in Britain. Our Lord had promised: "These

signs shall follow them that believe. In my name they shall cast

out devils, they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up

serpents, and if they shall drink any deadly thing, it shall not

hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall

recover." "Amen, amen, I say to you, he that believeth in me, the

works that I do, he shall do also; and greater than these shall

he do, because I go to the Father. And whatsoever you shall ask

the Father in my name, that will I do; that the Father may be

glorified in the Son."

And even while St. Joseph prayed, it seemed as if witnesses of

the miracle, and disciples of the truth, were being given him;

for, stealing up the ascent from various directions, knots of the

wild Britons, in threes and fours, converged on the summit of

Weary-All Hill.

{523}

I do not suspect Hoel of treachery, or that he had meant to lead

the foreigners into a snare. It is likely the rude inhabitants

had perceived them from afar as they stood there, their forms

traced on the hill-top against the red sunset sky. But these

new-comers seemed to have no friendly intention. Most of them

held in their hands the rude weapons of ancient British warfare.

The bare arms of some were stained blue with the juice of the

woad; others were tattooed; they had the wild and savage look we

have seen in prints of the Sandwich Islanders. So, with

threatening aspect and gestures, on they came, brandishing their

lances and _celts_, or bronze hatchets, and beginning a sort

of war-cry.

Yes; the moment was come, and the sovereignty of the true Lord

both over nature and grace was to be manifested in one and the

same moment.

St. Joseph told his companions how strongly the thought had come

into his mind. It had, indeed, guided much that he had already

said to Hoel. As by one impulse, they all knelt again, and

besought our Lord to remember now his promise; so that the soul

that had remained impervious to his word might see his work.

St. Joseph then approached the peasant, who by this time was

surrounded by his countrymen. In a mild voice, yet with an

authority not to be resisted, he said:

"Plant your staff here, upright in the ground."

Hoel was startled, looked at him, then slowly obeyed.

The multitude still gathered, their gestures more threatening

every moment.

"Call now, if you will, on your gods, that the staff may bud and

blossom."

The peasant turned by a kind of instinct to the setting sun;

clouds were mantling round it; its form was veiled; nothing seen

but a dull and rusty stain of sunset fast paling into twilight.

Hoel shook his head.

"You will not call on it to hear, to help you?"

He was answered by a gesture which implied that the power of

Hoel's god was set for that night.

Then St. Joseph, with another ejaculation of prayer, struck his

thorny staff into the ground beside the other. He made over it

the sign of the cross, saying:

"By the grace of him who for us men hung on the tree on Calvary,

wearing the thorny crown, I bid thee be as thou wert wont to be

in the bloom of spring!"

There was still light enough to see how, here and there on the

length of the staff, the shrivelled rind began to swell and to

break, how the green buds shot forth and lengthened into twigs;

how these ramified out again, branch from branch, sucker after

sucker; how the old staff expanded into a shapely trunk of

thorn-tree, crowned with a pollard head of rustling leaves.

And then through the keen wintry air was wafted such a fragrance

as had never saluted the senses of shepherd, or of dreaming bard,

wandering through the brakes and thickets of leafy May. The

seasons had been reversed at the strong prayer of the just. He

who enabled Josue to command the greater and lesser light in the

firmament, "Move not, O sun, toward Gabaon, nor thou, O moon,

toward the valley of Ajalon," now honored the name of the true

Josue, the Captain of salvation, by the "things that spring up in

the earth," [Footnote 152] which obey their Lord as perfectly as

sun, and moon, and stars.

[Footnote 152: _Benedicite omnia germinantia in terrâ

Domino_.--Dan. iii. 76.]

{524}

What cries of astonishment broke from the rude men who crowded

round! How they came trembling to the feet of St. Joseph; how

they kissed the hem of his robe, and adored him as a god! They

thought he was Baal himself; they shrieked out that the sun had

set in clouds because Baal had come in person to take the place

of his representative. And though St. Joseph and his companions

testified by signs of abhorrence and earnest words how much the

rude impiety disturbed them, yet, "Speaking these things, they

scarce restrained the people from sacrificing to them." [Footnote

153]

[Footnote 153: Acts xiv. 17.]

But this reverence, misguided and idolatrous at first, soon found

its true channel, and was directed to the Giver of every best

gift. And so the gospel was preached in Glastonbury, and grew,

and flourished, and breathed out its fragrance like the thorn

itself.

Then, after nearly fifteen hundred years, came a winter more

killing than any Christmas during which the thorn had bloomed;

and "a famine, not of bread, nor a thirst of water, but of

hearing the word of the Lord." The decree of spoliation went

forth; the royal commissioners, with a warrant from Henry VIII.,

thundered at the gates. The choir of Glastonbury, as of numerous

other shrines in England, was desecrated; treasures of literature

in the library and scriptorium were torn in shreds and scattered

to the winds, with the relics of innumerable saints. The abbot,

and two of his brethren, were drawn on a hurdle to the Tor, and

martyred on its summit; the community dispersed, and the ruins,

covering many acres, were given over to strangers, as a stable

for their cattle.

But this was long after St. Joseph and his companions had been

gathered to the saints.

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

The Sun. [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: This lecture was delivered by M. Secchi to the

scholars of the school of Saint Genevieve, on the 28th of

July last, at a scientific _soirée_, presided over by

Mgr. Chigi. It occupied two hours in the delivery, during the

whole of which time the lecturer held captive the attention

of his distinguished audience, who testified their

appreciation of its scientific and literary merits by warm

applause. The lecture will speak for itself. But in

publishing it, there is one thing which cannot be reproduced;

that is, the deep interest which necessarily attaches to the

hearing a learned man himself explain his experiments and his

discoveries. A number of figures were necessary for the

illustration of certain parts of the lecture; and these,

prepared from M. Secchi's designs by M. Duboscq, optician,

were projected on a screen, by the aid of the electric light,

thus enabling the spectators to follow the learned astronomer

with greater ease. Of these designs, etc., only the most

essential have been given in the published lecture.]

Gentlemen: From the beginning of my stay in Paris, I was invited

by persons to whom I owe great deference to lecture to you on

some of the subjects which are studied at the Observatory of the

Roman College. This invitation I felt to be in the nature of a

command, which I would readily have obeyed long before, had I not

been prevented by numerous and incessant cares. I cannot,

however, leave France without discharging the debt; and it is for

this purpose that we have met together, on the present occasion.

I propose to speak to you of the sun, and to show you what

science teaches us of its physical constitution.

{525}

For eighteen years I have studied the sun, and observed all that

passes over its surface. I hope, also, to interest you in

acquainting you not only with the fruit of my own labors, but

also with the discoveries of my learned contemporaries.

What is the sun? Such is the question which has been frequently

asked me. I confess it has always perplexed me to reply to it. I

should not be pardoned, perhaps, if I should say I know nothing

of the matter; nevertheless, it is impossible for me to give a

complete and satisfactory answer. You yourselves have addressed

this question to me with an eagerness which I appreciate as a

particular honor; and, in responding to your desire, I am going

to place before you the very interesting results which we have

obtained in the study of this luminary, to which, after God, its

creator, we owe all the physical blessings we enjoy here below.

To deal with this vast subject in something like an orderly form,

let us speak first of the new means of observation with which

modern science has furnished us; after which we shall see what

advantage we have derived from them, and in what way they have

served to make us better acquainted with the sun.

Astronomers, gentlemen, are not privileged beings. Like simple

mortals, they are dazzled by the sun. Far from sharing the

penetrating sight which poets accord to the eagle, they cannot

fix their gaze on the bright orb of day without exposing their

eyes to the greatest danger; and this danger becomes more serious

if they employ their instruments for this purpose without taking

proper precautions. Until recently, two means have been employed

to protect the eyes of the observer: first, the reduction of the

objective aperture of the glasses; and second, providing

strongly-colored glasses. These two expedients present the most

serious inconveniences. The first deprives the observer of the

advantages which he would gain from the large apertures, and the

confusion of the image is greatly augmented by the diffraction

which the small diaphragms cause the light to undergo; while the

second will not permit of our distinguishing the different colors

which may meet in the sun; and on this account the observer is

liable to fall into very grievous errors. The means now in use

effectually obviate this double inconvenience, inasmuch as they

allow of the use of the entire aperture of the glasses, and leave

to the different parts of the sun their natural color. The first

means consists of the employment of the reflective glass. A

rectangular prism of crystal is disposed in such a manner as that

its hypothenuse has an inclination of 45 degrees on the axis of

the glass. The light, on reaching the surface, divides itself

into two very unequal parts. The reflected rays are rather

feeble, but of sufficient brightness to make them pass through a

glass faintly colored, falling perpendicularly on one of the

faces of the prism, without reaching the eye of the observer. The

colored glass, not having to sustain so high a temperature, is

not so liable to break, as often happened in the old method.

If the colored glass is completely done away with, we shall

succeed by adopting a method which rests on the properties of

polarized light. When the light is reflected by a glass mirror

under an angle of 35 degrees 25 minutes, it undergoes a

modification which is called polarization. If the rays thus

polarized are received on a second glass mirror under the same

inclination of 35 degrees 25 minutes, they will divide into two

parts, one part of which will traverse the glass, and the other

will undergo a second reflection.

{526}

The quantity of light reflected by the second mirror will depend

on the relative position of the two surfaces of reflection. It

will be at the maximum if these surfaces are parallel, but

otherwise if they are perpendicular; so that, by varying the

relative position of the two mirrors to each other, we may either

augment or diminish gradually the intensity of the reflected

rays. Such is the property of the polarized light, which is

utilized for making observations of the sun. To the eye-glass of

the instrument are fixed two smooth mirrors, so adjusted as to

make to the direction which the light follows an angle equal to

the angle of polarization. One of these mirrors can turn round to

the reflected rays. Then, by putting the surface of the second

almost perpendicular to that of the first, we can observe the sun

as easily as we can the moon, seeing it in its natural color, and

we can regulate at will the intensity of the light. It is to this

new arrangement of the eye-glasses that we owe the greater part

of the discoveries of which I am about to speak to you. I ought

to add, however, that in the astronomical glasses we employ not

only two, but three and even four, of these reflections.

But to come to the consideration of the sun. Everybody knows that

it has spots; that these spots, relatively very small, are of a

black color, and also, that they adhere to the body of the sun.

They move in a manner leading us to the conclusion that this

luminary turns on its own axis in the space of twenty-five and a

quarter days, and that its equator has an inclination of seven

degrees and a half on the ecliptic. These spots are far from

being constant. They undergo, on the contrary, the greatest

changes both of form and size. They show themselves particularly

in some zones, and appear and disappear at very irregular

periods. The maximum and the minimum are reproduced at intervals

of about eleven years. One of the most curious discoveries of our

times is, that this periodicity of the solar spots has some

correspondence with terrestrial magnetism. It is impossible to

discover the point at which the two classes of phenomena unite,

but the existence of the fact is incontestable. Thus, we have

just seen the spots pass through the minimum. From September,

1866, to March, 1867, there were scarcely any of them; and during

the same period the magnetic perturbations have been very feeble.

As soon as the existence of these spots had been fully

ascertained, the questions naturally arose, What is the cause of

them, and what their nature? On these points there have been

numerous opinions, all as diverse as possible. This is not to be

wondered at; for hitherto there has been no correct observation

from which could be learned the character and the particulars of

the phenomena we desire to explain. So, without stopping to

discuss ancient theories, I am about to bring before you the

latest observations, and the conclusions at which we have

arrived. The drawings of the first observers represent the spots

as formed with a black centre surrounded by a gray tint of a

uniform figure, which is called penumbra. It is not surprising

that, with such imperfect means of observation, the theory of the

spots should remain so long uncertain, and that these phenomena

should have been taken for simple clouds floating in the solar

atmosphere. This theory, which was put forth by Galileo, has been

revived in our day. The solar spots have an aspect completely

different from that which we see in the ancient cuts.

{527}

I am going to show the drawing of several of them as observed at

the Roman College. I designed them myself, by a very rapid

process, such a process being very important for objects

essentially variable, and which change their form with great

rapidity, and in a short space of time. Here is, first, one of

the most common forms. (Figure 1.) It is a round spot, consisting

of a black centre, around which is a penumbra all ragged. The

first thing you wall observe is, that the figure of the penumbra

is far from being uniform. It is composed of filaments, very long

and very thin, which converge toward the centre. These have been

called wisps of straw, willow-leaves, etc. I prefer to call them

currents, being aware, at the same time, that it is impossible to

compare them to any known thing. They are more scattered near the

outline of the penumbra, and they become condensed near the

centre, where the light is stronger and brighter. These luminous

threads start from the outline of the spot, traverse the

penumbra, and often run into the black space that forms the

centre, where we see them floating singly, gradually becoming

smaller, and disappearing after a while.

The penumbra is not always composed exclusively of threads like

those you see. The centre is often surrounded by a uniform pale

color, over which the currents are disseminated. These currents

are not always continuous, and their different parts present an

appearance which may be compared to elongated grains.

In spite of the increased power of the instruments we employ to

observe the sun, the detached parts of the spots often appear to

us as microscopic objects. In order to form an exact idea of

their real dimensions, we must always remember that, at this

distance, four fifths of a second is equal to 140 kilometres, and

consequently these apparent threads, whose seeming width is at

most not more than one or two seconds, are in reality immense

currents, being, about the middle, of 600 or 700 kilometres in

width, while their length is at least equal to the diameter of

the terrestrial globe.

The drawings which you have just seen represent some of these

spots in their complete form and exactly defined. But they

present themselves oftener under fantastic and irregular forms.

They are sometimes accompanied by a kind of tail, itself formed

of black spots, and which seems to follow the centre in its

motion.

{528}

We have here a curious example. The centre is not quite black; we

meet with shadows there--some gray, and others red; the filaments

on all sides fall toward the centre, and their edges are turned

back and bent, as if they had experienced some resistance, or as

if they had encountered a whirlwind. Here is a spot of this kind,

(Figure 2,) the details of which are most instructive, and most

important in a theoretical point of view. We find the centre

divided in several parts by the luminous threads. This appearance

was remarked by the ancient astronomers, who explained it by

supposing that on the surface of the sun solid crusts were

formed, which broke into shivers like glass under a blow from a

stone. Modern observations, however, do not admit of this

explanation. They show us clearly that these divisions are

produced by currents which, leaving opposite edges, meet in the

middle of the centre, and thus divide the spot into several

parts.

The formation of a spot is never instantaneous. It is ordinarily

announced by the appearance of several black points, and by a

kind of diminution in the thickness of the luminous bed. These

little cavities multiply themselves; one of them develops itself,

absorbing the others, and the process ends in the formation of a

black spot in the centre. In this first phase the movements of

the spots are very irregular, and their advance is always to the

front, by reason of the solar rotation.

The drawing which is now before you represents the first

appearance of a great spot which was formed almost suddenly on

the 30th of July, 1865. The day preceding that of its appearance,

in observing the sun as usual, we had remarked only three little

cavities, of which we noted the position. On the 30th of July, at

mid-day, we found in the place of these cavities an enormous

spot, the surface of which was equal to at least ten times the

size of our globe. It was so mobile, and its form changed so

constantly, that we could scarcely draw it. We could discover in

it four principal centres, where the movement of the matter was

visible in the form of a whirlwind. In an interval of 24 hours it

had undergone some considerable changes. On the 31st of July, the

four centres were completely distinct, and the matter which

separated them seemed as if it were stretched out.

{529}

During the days which followed, this form became more and more

marked. Soon there were four spots clearly defined, which

ultimately assumed the form of four independent craters or

cavities. In the interior of these craters we perceived some

light shadows, whose form reminded us of that of the clouds we

call cirrus. Their color was different from that of the other

part of the sun which presented itself to view. As the

polariscopic eye-glass does not change the color of objects, we

are enabled to see that these clouds are often of a very decided

red; and, as this tint is clear and well marked, it is impossible

to confound it with the effects due to the achromatism of the

instruments. You see here a great number of spots presenting this

appearance, and especially in Figure 2, where the red shadows

seem intertwined with the white shadows. I have more than once

seen these luminous tongues, so to speak, transform themselves

into red veils.

This hasty view is, however, so complete as to convince us that

the spots cannot be compared to clouds, their aspect not

warranting such a comparison. If any part of them may be compared

to clouds, it is more the luminous matter; for we see it

precipitate itself in the obscure space, and there dissolve in

much the same way as we see the vapor which forms the mist

dissolve into thin air. All that we are required to believe is,

that these apparently black masses are but rents made in the

luminous veil which covers the solar body, and to which we give

the name of photosphere. It is this bed which transmits light and

heat to us. It is suspended in the solar atmosphere, just as

clouds in the terrestrial atmosphere. What appear to us as spots

in the sun is simply the effect of the rents which take place in

it. We are confirmed in this view by the well-ascertained fact

that the spots are depressions in the solar body, and that they

have the form of a funnel. This form becomes very perceptible,

when the spots are drawn by the rotary movement toward the solar

disk. When we examine a spot situated toward the centre of the

sun, we find that the shape of the penumbra is more regular. But

when the spot moves toward the edge, we see the penumbra diminish

on the side of the centre, and increase on the opposite side, in

which case it presents the appearance of a cavity in the form of

a funnel looked at obliquely.

{530}

This effect is very clearly indicated in the drawing (Figure 3)

which you have now before you, and for which we are indebted to

M. Tacchini, the astronomer, of Palermo. We have observed this

same spot at Rome, and we have made a drawing of it similar to

that you now see; but I would rather exhibit that of M. Tacchini,

because it cannot be objected that it was made under the

influence of a preconceived idea. You see that in this spot the

edge of the aperture is raised much in the same way as in the

craters of the moon, and around these apertures are elevations,

clearer and more luminous, which we call faculas.

The conclusions which I have just presented to you are also those

to which M. Faye arrived, in studying the apparent perturbations

in the movements of the spots. In short, what settles the

question definitively is the study of the spots of exceptional

grandeur when they reach the edge of the solar disk. It is then

very easy to prove that the centre is lower than that part of the

outline from which radiates the facule. Both M. Tacchini and I

proved this at Rome, in studying the grand spot of July, 1865, at

the moment in which it disappeared behind the disk of the sun.

The spots, then, are apertures, rents made in the photosphere.

But how is it that these spaces do not fill up immediately? This

is a serious difficulty, and it leads us to study the structure

of the photosphere. If the photosphere was solid, all the

movements which take place in it would be impossible. It is,

then, fluid. But, on the other hand, a fluid would naturally

spread itself until all points of the surface were on the same

level, and it would require very little time to fill a gap having

the dimensions of even the largest of the spots. The celebrated

William Herschel saw this difficulty, and he met it by a solution

which we still adopt, because it has been confirmed by

observations and discoveries; so that what to Herschel was but a

conjecture has become to us a demonstrated truth. The

photospheric matter is like our clouds, gauze-like and

transparent as ours. We often see among the clouds differences of

level--disruptions which enable us to perceive the blue of the

sky in the space which separates them. The same thing happens in

the sun; and this hypothesis, which is so useful in explaining

the phenomena I have just set before you, accords perfectly with

all the particulars observed.

We have seen, in effect, the luminous matter remain suspended and

floating in the midst of the centre, and the photospheric

currents melt in obscure parts, just as our clouds dissolve,

apparently dispersing themselves in a space completely deprived

of vapor, when the temperature is sufficiently elevated. The

little white veil in Figure 1 is a cloud about to be dissolved.

Without this dissolving force, the matter which radiates from the

circumference to the centre would not be long in filling up this

gap. As I told you just now, we have been able to seize the fact

of this dissolution of the solar atmospheric matter, and to see

these cloud-like forms change into red veils occupying a large

surface in the centre.

One thing alone remains to be proved--the existence of a

transparent atmosphere. We have for a long time presumed its

presence and its action to explain a well-established fact,

namely, that the edges of the sun impart to us less of heat and

light than the centre. This fact, inexplicable by any known laws

of radiation, is easily explained by the action of an absorbing

atmosphere; for the rays part at the edge before passing through

a thicker atmospheric stratum, proving necessarily an absorption

more considerable than that which flows to the centre.

{531}

The existence of a solar atmosphere, which was formerly regarded

as probable, has been reduced to certainty by the observation of

eclipses, and it has been shown that veritable clouds float in

this gauze-like bed.

Everybody has heard of the magnificent aureola which surrounds

the moon during the total eclipse of the sun. It is a truly

solemn moment when, the last rays having just disappeared, we see

the shadow of the moon projected on a sky of leaden hue, with a

perfectly black disk surrounded by a magnificent luminous glory,

like that which we see represented around the heads of the

saints. This aureola, at least the part nearest the disk, is

owing to the atmosphere of the sun. This spectacle is

magnificent, but it becomes much more instructive when we examine

it through a good telescope. We then perceive around the disk of

the moon gigantic flames, of a lively red, the height of which is

incomparably greater than the diameter of the earth. Some are

suspended without any support, and others take a horizontal

direction, like the smoke that comes out of our chimneys. These

flames were designated protuberances; but we knew not how to

explain them. It was even doubted whether they were real; and we

were quite disposed to attribute them to an optical illusion.

These doubts have disappeared since the observations we made in

Spain during the eclipse of 1860. On that occasion we were

stationed at Desertio de las Palmas, on the coast of the

Mediterranean, while M. De la Rue took up his post at Riva

Bellosa, at a short distance from the ocean. We succeeded at both

these stations in photographing the sun at the period of the

total eclipse, and a comparison of the two photographs has proved

that the protuberances have a real existence, that they have a

form so fixed as to give identical images at two points distant

from each other by several hundreds of kilometres. The perfect

resemblance of the two photographs is the more remarkable, from

their not having been executed at the same moment. Between the

two operations an interval of ten minutes elapsed. These

protuberances, considering their distance and their bent forms,

can be nothing but clouds suspended in the solar atmosphere, and

it is these which form the red veils that we have seen in the

centre. The observation of eclipses proves to us conclusively

that the sun is really surrounded by a stratum of this red

matter, which we ordinarily see only on the most elevated

summits.

In the photograph taken at Desertio de las Palmas during the

total eclipse, the exterior form of the atmosphere is perfectly

visible. We see that it is more extended at the equator than at

the polar regions, which is a natural effect arising from the

movement of rotation which the sun possesses. We see, in short,

that this atmosphere is livelier in its action in the two zones

on each side of the equator, in which the spots ordinarily show

themselves. The existence of a solar atmosphere being perfectly

in accordance with all known principles and with all ascertained

facts, there is no longer any room for calling it in question. We

describe the sun, then, as surrounded by a dense atmosphere in

which floats the photospheric matter. The surface of the

photosphere is far from being uniform and regular. It is, on the

contrary, wrinkled all over, and again covered with granulations.

These granulations, first perceived by Herschel, have been

carefully studied in later times.

{532}

When our atmosphere is calm and the observation very precise, the

whole bottom of the solar disk appears covered with small

luminous grains, separated by a very fine and very dark net-work,

resembling in appearance partially desiccated milk, examined

through a microscope. These points, or white grains, are of

different sizes. Where there are openings, we see around each of

them some lines of grains in the form of leaves, more or less

oval. Their mean dimension is about the third of a second. These

grains are only the upper part of the flame which inclines toward

the openings, thus proving that there is a very sensible power of

attraction in the apertures. We may even say that these

granulations resemble the appearance which the clouds known as

cumuli present when, from the summit of a mountain, their upper

part is examined. The largest spots would be, then, but an

exaggeration of this net-work, ordinarily so fine, produced by

the force which caused the flame, or rather, the stratum of the

cumulus.

But what is it that produces these spots in the sun? Here the

difficulty is singularly complicated. To reply satisfactorily to

this question, it would be necessary to become acquainted with

what passes in the interior of the solar globe. But let us,

without hesitation, and without attempting to delude ourselves,

confess that our study of the sun is confined to its external

stratum, and to the most striking phenomena of which it is the

seat; whereas, with regard to the interior mass, it is only by

the process of induction that we are enabled to arrive at any

knowledge.

Observations which we have just made lead us to the conclusion

that the spots are owing to emanations issuing from the solar

body, almost similar to the way in which matter is ejected by our

volcanoes. This is proved both by the form of the craters, which

you have just seen, and by the columns of clouds, analogous to

those arising out of volcanoes, or out of chimneys, observed

during eclipses. Here, then, is how we explain the constitution

of the photosphere and the formation of the spots. The exterior

stratum cools itself constantly by radiation, passes into the

gauze-like state, or state of vapor, and ends by precipitating

itself in the liquid state, or even in the solid, remaining,

however, suspended in the solar atmosphere, as clouds do in ours.

It is this condensed matter that forms the photosphere, and it is

from that principally we receive light and heat. From some cause

or other, a movement from below takes place in the gauze-like

mass which is situated underneath. By this movement the

photospheric stratum, raised at first, spreads itself on all

sides, forming a sort of cushion, and ends by separating itself,

leaving a wide opening in the form of a crater. While the

volcanic emission lasts, the spot remains open, and it disappears

only at the moment when the equilibrium is reestablished, by the

luminous matter filling up the void which was formed. If this

theory is correct, the circumference of the spots ought to form

the mountains above the exterior surface. Now, we have just seen

that the outline of the spots is always surrounded by faculae,

which constitute prominent elevations. Supposing it is true that

the interior mass is the seat of violent action, this conclusion

has nothing surprising in it, and we are led to it by a certain

number of other phenomena equally remarkable.

{533}

Thus, every time that a spot is produced, we remark that it is

visibly projected with a quickness greater than that of the solar

rotation. The projecting mass is then animated with a quickness

greater than the surface of the photosphere; and, in order to

explain this fact, we must admit that the matter of the interior

stratum possesses a quickness greater than the superficial part.

This novel conclusion is supported by another fact. We know now

that the rotation of the spots has not the same angular quickness

under all the parallels. The quickness is sensibly greater in the

equatorial zone than in the higher latitudes. This circumstance

forces us to the conclusion that the sun is not a solid globe,

but that its structure admits of the different strata of which it

is formed having a movement of rotation independent of each other

as regards velocity. In fact, the only explanation we can give of

this difference of quickness is, that the interior mass is fluid,

and that it is moved by a rotary process, more rapid than that of

the external surface. We cannot, however, undertake the formal

demonstration of this point on the present occasion.

This fluidity of the sun is calculated to surprise you; but you

will cease to regard it as incredible when I remind you of

certain ascertained facts about this luminary. The gravity of its

surface is twenty-eight times greater than that of the surface of

our globe, from which results an enormous pressure capable of

condensing a large number of substances, or, at least, of

singularly diminishing their volume. Looking simply at this fact,

the mean density of the sun ought to be much greater than that of

the earth. It is nothing of the kind, however, but just the

contrary; for the specific gravity of the terrestrial globe is

four times greater than that of the solar mass. We must admit the

existence of a repulsive force capable of overcoming the

molecular attraction, and of rarefying the substances which the

weight tends to condense. This repulsive force is probably owing

to the heat, and, in fact, the temperature of the sun is

estimated at not less than five millions of degrees. At this

temperature no matter could remain solid, even in spite of the

enormous pressure of which we have already spoken. It is, then,

impossible for us to admit the existence of a solid mass, and

much more that of a cold centre in the interior of the sun.

And here an objection presents itself to which I ought to reply.

If the interior mass of the sun is at a temperature so very

elevated, how is it that, when the photosphere opens, a black

spot is presented to our eyes? In examining this opening, we

perceive a substance of which the temperature is extremely

elevated, and which ought, consequently, to be very luminous. How

is it, then, that, on the contrary, it presents to us the

appearance of a very deep black? My reply is, that the black

color of the spots is a purely relative matter; that it is owing

to the contrast of the brilliant light which comes to us from the

photosphere. If we could see those apparently dark parts away

from the glittering mass of the sun, they would appear not only

luminous, but dazzling with light.

But you will say to me, it still remains true that the interior

mass of the sun is less luminous than the photosphere; but since

the superficial part constantly cools by radiation, it follows

that there ought to be less heat, and, consequently, less

brilliancy in the photosphere than in the interior mass.

{534}

With your permission, I will make a reply to this which might, at

the first blush, appear paradoxical, but which is, nevertheless,

the expression of truth. It is precisely because it is of so very

high a temperature that the interior mass of the sun sends us a

less degree of light and heat; it is precisely because it is

cooled at the point of condensation, to precipitate itself in the

liquid or solid state, that the photospheric matter becomes

hotter and more luminous. To make this plain, we have only to

recall certain well-known principles of physics. Two bodies

equally hot may not emit the same quantity of heat. One of them

may cool itself rapidly in heating the bodies which surround it;

while the other may let its heat escape only very slowly, and

heat but feebly the neighboring bodies. In this case, we say that

the first has a more considerable radiating power. Now,

philosophers know that gas has a very feeble radiating power, and

that it may be consequently at a very high temperature without

emitting around it a great quantity of light and heat. You have

an illustration now before your eyes. This lamp, fed by lighted

gas, gives a very brilliant flame, because the carbon remains

there some time in suspension before burning. Let us throw into

the flame a little oxygen; immediately the flame pales, becomes

bluish, and ceases to be luminous. Its temperature,

notwithstanding, has greatly increased, and it is now the

celebrated gas by the aid of which M. Sainte-Claire Deville melts

his platina so rapidly. The change results from the very rapid

combustion of the carbon by the oxygen. As soon as this takes

place, the flame, no longer containing any solid body, loses

almost all power of emission, and ceases, in spite of its high

temperature, to have the brilliancy which it possessed at a lower

temperature. To convince you perfectly, let us put a solid body

in this flame, now so pale, and you will see it become more

brilliant than ever. We introduce, for example, a piece of lime,

and the apartment is at once illuminated by the Drummond light,

one of the most brilliant of our artificial lights.

But, leaving the earth, let us now return to the sun. The

interior mass is undoubtedly at a very high temperature--so high,

indeed, that all the substances composing it must be in the state

of gas, possessing only a feeble radiating power; while the

photosphere is composed of matter precipitated in a liquid or

solid state, of which the radiating power must be considerable.

Here is the explanation of what seemed paradoxical in my answer.

The hottest part of the sun is not the part which warms and

lights us most, because, being in the state of gas, it produces

only a feeble radiation.

Two questions now present themselves. How is it that the sun

preserves indefinitely so elevated a temperature in spite of the

enormous amount of heat which it loses daily? Of what kind of

matter is this luminary composed? And what the nature of the

radiation which sends to us daily the light and heat which we

need? It is undoubtedly impossible to give a complete and

satisfactory answer to these questions. We may yet be able,

however, to do so; and we are persuaded that science in its

progress will only confirm and develop the explanations which we

give to-day of first principles. In the first place, it is

impossible to admit that the sun is simply a luminous globe, not

possessing any means of renewing the heat which it loses at every

moment; for, in that case, at the end of a few years its

temperature would be lowered in a very appreciable manner; and it

would not require an age to effect a complete change in the

phenomena which are dependent on it. There must be, then, a

source of heat in the sun.

{535}

We are in the habit of comparing things we do not know with those

with which we are familiar. Thus we have been led to think of the

solar globe as the seat of a combustion similar to that we

witness on our hearths. This idea is deceptive.

We know the quantity of heat which each substance throws off in a

state of combustion; we know, too, what a vast body the sun is;

and we are able to calculate with a rough but sufficient

approximation the quantity of heat which the body of the sun

would produce in burning. The result of this calculation is,

that, at the elevated temperature which the sun possesses, the

combustion of the solar mass could not be kept up during many

ages. Since the historic period this temperature would have been

so lowered as to produce a change in the seasons that has not

taken place. We are compelled, then, to abandon the idea of a

mass in combustion, as well as that of a luminous globe, and to

acknowledge that there is a secret which has escaped us.

This secret, gentlemen, chemistry is charged to unveil to us.

Astronomers profit eagerly by all the discoveries which physical

science makes, and it is by this means alone that they arrive

first at conjecture, and afterward at a knowledge of what is

taking place at prodigious distances. It is thus that the

phenomenon of dissociation recently discovered by M.

Sainte-Claire Deville, puts us in the way of explaining the

permanence of the solar temperature. We know that no combination

can resist heat. Whatever may be the stability of the

combination, whatever energy the affinitive force may possess, if

the temperature is raised to the proper degree, the elements

separate, and remain together simply in a mixed state, wanting to

combine anew when the temperature is lowered. This is what we

call dissociation; and this is just the state, for example, in

which we find oxygen and hydrogen gas, exposed to a temperature

of 2500 degrees. At such a temperature they remain in a mixed

state, without being able to form water, which ought to result

from the combination of these two elements. But the phenomenon of

dissociation cannot take place without the intervention of an

enormous amount of heat. To illustrate this, let us suppose a

kilogram of ice at zero. In liquefying it would absorb 79 degrees

of heat; to make it warm, 100 degrees would be required; in

evaporation it would absorb 640; and to dissociate it, 3955, or

nearly 4000 degrees would be necessary. What we say of water is

equally true of all the combinations; all that is required being

to change the numerical degrees of the latent heat, for fusion,

for volatilization, and for dissociation. This being so, we

arrive at the conclusion that even the least considerable

quantity of matter in a state of dissociation may be regarded as

a magazine of latent heat continually tending toward sensible

development.

The temperature of dissociation of water is almost 2500 degrees.

The temperature of the sun being at least five millions of

degrees, the whole mass of which it is composed ought to be in a

state of dissociation, and to contain consequently an enormous

quantity of latent heat independent of the sensible heat; to

which is owing this prodigiously elevated temperature.

{536}

What, then, is the effect which the solar matter ought to produce

on the radiation of which it is the seat? Almost the same effect

that radiation produces on a liquid body which has reached a

temperature of solidification. The heat necessary to keep up the

radiation is borrowed from that part of the liquid which

solidifies, so that the temperature, instead of decreasing,

remains constantly at the point at which solidification ceases.

This is really what passes on the surface of the sun. This

brilliant mass, raised to a temperature of five millions of

degrees, has a tendency to cool itself rapidly. The radiation

produces, in fact, a coolness in the superficial stratum. By

reason of this coolness, part of the gas which composes the

atmosphere is lowered below the temperature of dissociation; it

yields then an enormous quantity of heat, which from latent

becomes sensible, and prevents also an ulterior lowering of

temperature. It is sufficient to repair the continual loss of

heat that a mass of several kilograms passes daily from a state

of dissociation to one of combination; and it is evident,

considering the enormous size of the solar globe, that things may

remain in this state during millions of ages without the

temperature of the sun changing in a manner which may be felt by

us. I say, by us, for our knowledge of this temperature is

obtained at no less a distance than several hundred thousands of

degrees.

It appears, then, from the very nature of the sun, that it does

not possess an inexhaustible quantity of latent heat. A day will

come when it will no more be able to lose heat without being

cooled in a sensible manner, but that cooling will not take place

before a very distant period, and long after we have disappeared

from this world.

By way of recapitulation of the several views we have set forth,

let us endeavor to give you a precise idea of the sun, as regards

both its interior and its surface. The reasonings which we have

just advanced, founded partly on astronomical observations and

partly on known principles of science, lead us to regard the sun

as composed of a fluid or gauze-like mass, surrounded with a

photospheric stratum, the matter of which has passed through the

first stage of condensation. According to the views held by

Laplace, the sun proceeded from the hands of its creator in a

nebulous state. We are led to believe that the interior mass is

still in this state. A change has taken place only on the

surface, because there only could the loss of heat owing to

radiation produce a partial cooling. The result of this cooling

is the condensation of a relatively small quantity of matter,

which, possessing a very considerable power of emission, forms

the photosphere. It is in the presence of this photosphere that

the only difference exists between the sun and a nebula, between

the myriads of stars which people the heavens, and the nebulae

with whose existence the telescope makes us acquainted.

We come, at length, to the last with which we proposed to deal:

What is the constituent matter of the sun? What are the elements

which enter into the composition of its atmosphere and of the

photospheric bed? Some years ago, to put a question like this

would have been regarded as rashness; to attempt to answer it,

the height of folly. We only knew, from the analysis of meteoric

stones, that cosmical matter did not contain any other elements

besides those of which our globe is composed. But to-day we can

go further, thanks to the discoveries of the German Kirchoff.

{537}

We all know the solar phantom, and the brilliant colors which

result from the decomposition of the white light. This phantom

seems continuous if we make the observations in a rough manner;

but if we employ delicate means, we see that it is formed of a

multitude of black streaks and of brilliant rays perfectly

distinct from each other. It is impossible to imitate this

appearance artificially. All that we are able to do is to project

on a screen the figure of a solar appearance taken from a

drawing. You see that it is furrowed over with a considerable

number of black streaks, of which the principal ones are,

according to Fraunhofer, who discovered them, indicated by the

letters of the alphabet, A, B, C, etc. These streaks are

extremely numerous: we have counted no fewer than 45,000 of them.

I have said that it is impossible for us to imitate this

appearance with our artificial lights, and it is precisely here

that we are able to discern the nature of the different sources

of light. In fact, each source has an appearance peculiar to

itself, and by which it is characterized. The brilliant line of

the Drummond light gives a continuous appearance, and it is the

same with all the simple incandescents. But when we analyze the

light of a body in combustion, we arrive at an entirely different

result. The appearance obtained in this case is crossed by rays

which, instead of being black, are, on the contrary, more

brilliant than the colors in the midst of which they are formed.

The same thing happens when we make the rays emanating from the

electric light pass through a prism, because in this case there

is combustion, that is to say, a combination of the oxygen in

charcoals, mixed with foreign matter, from which is produced the

voltaic bow. If we are content to restore these burning coals,

they will give a continuous appearance just as lime.

The brilliant spectral rays are not always the same. They depend

on the nature of the metal which is found in the flame, and which

takes part in the combustion. You see at this moment the

appearance which silver presents: it is characterized by a

magnificent green ray. Here is now the appearance of copper,

which, we know, has a yellow ray, accompanied by a fine group of

green rays, different from those which silver produces. We now

burn some zinc, which gives a magnificent group of blue rays, a

fine red ray, and another of violet. Finally, we shall close

these experiments with burning brass, which is, as you are aware,

a mixture of copper and zinc. You will recognize in the

appearance which is produced the characteristic rays of those

metals, each of them producing its proper effect, as if it were

alone.

We learn but little, however, from these experiments, of the

nature of the substances of which the sun is composed; for the

rays which we have produced are all brilliant, while those of the

solar appearance are black. Let us see, then, in pursuing this

subject, if it would not be possible for us to obtain these black

lines with our artificial lights. Let us produce, in analyzing

the Drummond light, a perfectly continuous appearance. Now, let

us make this appearance, before reaching the screen, pass through

a deep layer of hypoazotic acid. Immediately you see it

discontinued. It is like the solar appearance, crossed over by a

multitude of black lines. The hypoazotic acid is not the only gas

that produces this result. The vapor from brome, that of iodine,

will give equally the black lines in the same circumstances, only

these lines are different from those we have just seen in the

experiment made with the hypoazotic acid.

{538}

Thus, the gases, the vapors, possessing the property of absorbing

certain luminous rays, certain colors, these rays, found no

longer in the appearance, are necessarily replaced by the black

lines we have just observed. All the gases, all the vapors, could

not, I am convinced, produce this result; for it is clear that

their power of absorption, being less considerable, could not

make itself felt, unless by means of a stratum the thickness of

which should be greater than that which we are able to use in our

experiments. We find a proof of this in what passes in the

atmospheric air. Under a feeble thickness no sensible absorption

is produced; but it is certain that the atmospheric mass absorbs

a great number of rays, and consequently gives birth to many

black lines; for in the solar appearance we observe new and very

marked lines, when the sun being near the horizon, his rays pass

through a bed of air of very considerable thickness. These rays

are principally owing to the vapor of water. We can equally

affirm the absorbent power of the atmosphere which surrounds the

planets Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars. Their appearances contain

lines very different from the solar appearance. Yet, as the light

which they transmit to us comes to them from the sun, we are

forced to conclude that that light undergoes some modification in

travelling over its transparent path. It is the atmosphere of the

planets which produces this result.

The sun also possesses an atmosphere, as we have seen, and this

atmosphere ought necessarily to exercise an influence on the rays

which traverse it. Such is, in fact, the origin of the rays which

we notice in the solar appearance. They are owing to the

atmospheric absorption, and the bed of transparent but absorbent

vapor which surrounds the atmosphere, and which the rays pass

through before they spread themselves in space.

But how are we to ascertain the nature of the vapors which

produce the black lines we observe? Here physical science comes

again to our aid, and the question we have just put finds its

answer in a recent discovery. We have seen that a certain

substance in burning gives birth to certain luminous rays which

characterize it. We have also seen that this same substance, in a

state of vapor, absorbs, on the contrary, certain rays, and

produces in consequence certain black lines which are equally

characteristic. Now, by a singular coincidence, these two powers,

emissive and absorbent, are identically the same. Each substance,

in a state of vapor, absorbs precisely the rays which it is

capable of producing in combustion, so that the black streaks

produced in the first case occupy identically the same place as

the brilliant lines observed in the second. We may demonstrate

this interesting theory by the following experiment, due to M.

Toucault. We know that sodium produces in burning a beautiful

yellow light. Well, let us burn some sodium in the coals, and

between these two substances the electric light is produced. The

metal while it is burning volatilizes largely; the vapors which

are produced absorb precisely the rays which they should have

emitted in their combustion; and you see that in the yellow,

instead of a brilliant line, we have a very dark line. What we

have just seen take place with the sodium has been equally proved

by experiments on a great number of metals, and, by induction, we

may extend the application to all those on which it has been

impossible to make experiments.

{539}

Let us apply this principle to what concerns the light of the

sun. The photosphere is composed of condensed substances,

precipitated in a solid or a liquid state, floating in a

transparent and absorbent atmosphere. This matter, being simply

incandescent, ought to present to us a continuous appearance, and

this continuity can be disturbed only by the absorption of the

solar atmosphere. From this it follows, that to ascertain the

chemical nature of the substances which compose this atmosphere,

it will be sufficient to compare the black lines of the sun with

the bright lines of our artificial lights. This has been done. M.

Kirchoff first discovered that the sun contains sodium; for the

line D of Fraunhofer coincides perfectly with the brilliant lines

of this metal. It is equally well known that iron, copper, and

twenty other substances which exist upon the earth in a solid

state, would, at a temperature of five millions of degrees, be

necessarily in a state of vapor.

After having thus made a chemical analysis of the sun,

astronomers wish to go further; they have sought to know equally

the composition of the stars. We have been led by this to some

very remarkable consequences; we have been able to make a kind of

classification of these stars, and to determine the group to

which our sun belongs. It remains, then, for us now to apply the

spectral analysis to the myriads of stars which stud the heavens,

to those far distant suns, the greater part of which, perhaps,

surpass in grandeur and brightness that which is the centre of

our planetary system. It remains for us to interrogate these

scarcely perceptible bodies, sparkling at such an incalculable

distance, and to demand and draw from them the secret of their

chemical composition. This enterprise is daring, but it is not

rash. The difficulties are alarming; yet learned men are not

discouraged, for they are accustomed to see difficulties

disappear before strenuous and persevering labor.

We commenced our study of the stars with the complicated

instruments which we employ for the sun; but we soon found out

that this complication was useless. We have been able to reduce

our instruments to the number of two, a cylindrical glass and a

prism. And M. Wolff, of the Paris Observatory, has succeeded

recently in suppressing the cylinder, keeping only the essential

element, that is, the prism intended to produce the appearance.

We have examined a great number of stars, and I am going to

submit to you some of the results at which we have arrived. You

see at this moment the appearance which the star Orion presents.

This star is of a yellow color; the appearance which it produces

is deeply streaked; and it is one of the most beautiful in the

heavens. You will find there the line D of sodium, and the line b

of magnesium. These are two fundamental lines which have served

as marked points to compare this appearance with that of the sun.

Besides sodium and magnesium, _a_ of Orion contains iron,

copper, and several other known metals; but it is singular that

hydrogen is not found there in the free state, as in the sun.

There is, then, some essential difference between the stars, of

which you will be more convinced as we go further into the

subject. Here is the appearance of Sirius. You see it is not

nearly so fine. You will find two large bands in blue, in the

place of the streak F of the sun; two others in violet; and one,

very faint, in yellow. The two first are attributable to

hydrogen, and the last to sodium; but we know not to what

substance the violet is owing. In the green there are also some

very fine lines, but very difficult to seize.

{540}

What is most remarkable is, that all the white stars present the

same appearances, and half the stars that are visible belong to

this type. Thus the fine stars of the Lyre, of the Eagle, of the

Bear, Castor, etc., ought to be ranged by the side of Sirius.

There is, however, an exception in [zeta] of the Bear, which is a

yellow star. The magnificent stars of Arcturus, of the Goat, of

Procyon, belong, on the contrary, to the class of which our sun

is a type, except that the iron line E is much more marked. Their

color, of light yellow, led to the inference that they were

analogous to the sun, and the supposition has been confirmed by

spectral analysis. All know substances have an appearance which

is peculiar to them, and which characterizes them. Can we say as

much of the stars? Do they also present marked differences in

their appearance? This has been the subject of very interesting

researches. The task has been undertaken at the observatory of

the Roman College, and it has led to a result altogether

unforeseen, namely, that the stellar appearances appertain to

only a very limited number of types. We may classify them in

three groups. The first group is that of the white stars like

Sirius; the second, that of the yellow stars, of which Arcturus

and the second are members; and Orion may be regarded as a type

of the third, in which we ought to place _a_ of Hercules,

and [Beta] of Pegasus. These two last-named stars have very

remarkable appearances. They seem formed of a multitude of

channels, which are divided by large black bands. This form of

appearance shows us that the stars which belong to this type are

surrounded with atmospheres heavily charged with vapor. In this

group enters all the red stars, and in particular _Omicron_

of the Whale, that celebrated star which has been called _The

Wonderful_. Several small stars of a blood-red color have

appearances resembling each other. It is remarkable that in all

the appearances belonging to stars of this type, the black lines

occupy the same place, which proves that in general they are all

made alike.

I have observed further that certain types abound in certain

parts of the heavens, and that the stars of the same kind are

generally grouped together. Thus the white stars are found in the

Pleiades, the Bear, the Lyre, etc.; the yellow in the Whale,

Eridan, etc. The constellation of Orion deserves particular

attention; it abounds in stars of a green color, reminding us of

the nebula which is found in the same region of the sky. This

small number of types, and the grouping of which I have spoken,

constitute an unforeseen fact, the importance of which is

considerable from a cosmological point of view. We should not,

however, be hasty in drawing conclusions from it.

A curious fact has been established with regard to one of the

white stars in Cassiopeia. Its appearance is directly the

opposite of that which is presented by stars of the same color,

for, in place of black lines, it shows some brilliant lines. This

phenomenon has appeared to me so extraordinary, that I am anxious

whether it is an isolated fact. I have observed more than five

hundred stars, selecting some of the largest, and I have found

only one, [Beta] of the Lyre, which possesses the same

peculiarity. M. Wolff says that among the small stars of the Swan

he has found some examples of the same kind. A most remarkable

fact is, that these brilliant lines were found in a transient

star which glittered for a time in the Crown in May, 1866.

{541}

These observations upset the theories which had been prematurely

built upon facts formerly known. Still, there is nothing

inexplicable here. You have seen that sodium burning gives a line

of a very lively yellow, while the line becomes black if the

sodium is increased to a considerable quantity. Might not the

same thing happen with the hydrogen, which produces the brilliant

lines of which I have spoken to you? Might not a small quantity

act by radiation, while the action would be one of absorption

should the mass be greater?

After having examined the stars, it was impossible to resist the

temptation of observing the nebulae. You know that we designate

by this name the kind of white clouds which are found spread in

the heavens, and of which the nature is not perfectly known.

Herschel has assured us that many of them, by means of the

telescope, may be resolved into a multitude of small stars

approaching very closely to each other. We infer from this that

the greater part are composed in the same manner, and that the

feebleness of our instruments is the only thing that prevents us

from proving it. It is, however, admitted that many of these

nebulae are formed of cosmical matter in a state of vapor not

condensed. Everybody knows the nebulae which compose the Milky

Way. But besides those which are visible to the naked eye, there

is a vast number whose existence the telescope has revealed to

us. One, of the most celebrated is that which is found in the

magnificent constellation of Orion: we have carefully drawn it at

the Roman College, and you see at this moment a sketch of it on

the screen. The nebulae possess a very feeble light, and we had

our doubts of success in seeking to apply the spectral analysis

to them. We have, however, succeeded beyond our hopes. The

appearances obtained in these observations are very singular.

They reduce themselves constantly to luminous streaks, all the

other colors failing; it is, in another way, that which happens

when we burn an alcoholic solution with marine salt; the flame,

analyzed by the spectroscope, gives simply a yellow streak. In

the nebulae we find two green lines and a blue one. Such is the

result which we obtained in examining the large nebulae of Orion,

and that of the Milky Way in Sagittarius. Such is that, also,

which furnishes the little nebulae called planetaries, on account

of their form, which resembles that of the planets. These facts

have been established for the first time by M. Huggins.

As I have just told you, the nebulas present generally but three

lines; one belongs to azote, another to hydrogen, and the third

is unknown. This result, which was not known before, is of the

highest importance; for it teaches us that the nebulae are

composed of gas and of vapors far removed from their point of

saturation and condensation. These appearances, with luminous

lines, distinctly isolated and separated from one another,

appertain essentially to gas, and, we ought to add, to gas raised

to a very high temperature. Thus we have made a discovery by the

aid of the prism, for which the most powerful glasses had failed

us.

The nebulae, notwithstanding their shining points, are not in

general a collection of stars, but masses of cosmical matter in a

state of dissociation under the action of an extremely elevated

temperature. The collections of stars are perfectly

distinguishable by the continuity of their appearances, as we see

in the nebulae of Andromeda, and in some others which are well

known. The discovery opens a vast field of investigation, and

will be an epoch in science.

{542}

We have wandered far into the depths of space, very far from the

point from which we started. This is of no consequence, however,

for between the sun, the stars, and the nebulae there is a close

relation. The sun is simply a star approaching nearer to us than

others. According to a bold hypothesis, its entire mass was at

one period in a state of dissociation, which a great part of it

still actually preserves. The only thing that makes it differ

from the nebulae, and causes us to rank it among the stars, is

its superficial stratum of inconsiderable thickness.

What mysteries do we not discover in nature, when we investigate

it by the aid of those principles and instruments with which

modern science has furnished us! And in the presence of the

wonders, what an exalted idea ought we to form of the splendors

of the universe and the power of its Creator!

Permit me, gentlemen, in closing this lecture, to quote an

admirable thought of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus. The sun, says

that father, is the most perfect image of the Deity. You see the

effects which it produces; you enjoy its benefits; but you cannot

contemplate it directly, nor sound its depths. The loss of life,

the greatest of the earthly blessings we enjoy, would be the

punishment of the madman who would dare to invade its mysteries.

It is the same with the Deity; it is impossible for us to see in

himself; and we ought to content ourselves with admiring here

below those traces of his infinite perfections which shine in his

works.

We have succeeded, by the means with which science has furnished

us, in examining this dazzling star, and in doing so we have seen

some unexpected wonders; but how many other wonders have escaped

us, which will doubtless be discovered at some future time!

If we can thus speak of the material sun and its splendors, what

shall we not say of its prototype, when, freed from this material

covering of sense, and reduced to a state of pure intelligence,

we contemplate him with the eyes of our soul? Science and Faith

are two rays issuing from the same focus, the one direct, the

other reflected. As long as we are upon this earth we should be

content with the second, our vision not being strong enough to

support the brightness of the first. But a day will come when we

shall see the Divinity face to face; and, in the meantime, the

man who denies his unfathomable mysteries, under the pretence

that our feeble powers are not equal to their comprehension, is

as foolish as the rude peasant who should deny the wonders with

which I have entertained you, under the pretext that his eyes are

dazzled by the light of the sun. A day will come when the direct

rays of the Science of Divinity will no longer dazzle our

intelligence: the high destinies which awaits humanity will

permit of our contemplating the unclouded essence of the Deity,

as the reward of the persevering but not blind fidelity with

which we shall have here below, without pride as without

baseness, believed in his existence and admired his greatness.

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

{543}

Translated From The French.

An Italian Girl Of Our Day. [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: _Rosa Ferrucci: her Life, her Letters, and

her Death_. By the Abbé H. Perreyve.]

Continued From Page 372.

I here interrupt, for a moment, the order of these

_Letters_, to introduce a fragment from one of the writings

of Signorina Ferrucci, in which is found, eloquently developed,

the idea with which the last letter closes. Need we wonder that,

to so a pure a soul, Christianity was all mercy and all love?

Certainly not. The passions of men have so often disfigured the

sweet countenance of the gospel that those outside the household

of faith form a false idea of it, and, in their inability to

distinguish what is divine from what is human, they reject all.

But, if they would only learn to leave men and draw near to God,

to flee vain disputes and go to the centre where all is calm,

they would soon know that the genius of Christianity is indeed

love. Pure souls, whom anger and dispute have not marred, know

this well. The young author whom I am about to cite understood

it, and it is with a feeling of respect that I transcribe these

beautiful pages, which breathe so strong a perfume of the gospel:

The love of God, which inflames the heart of man and infuses

into it a holy zeal, has assuredly nothing in common with that

implacable fanaticism with which infidelity so unjustly charges

the religion of Jesus Christ. And yet it is but too true that

the sons of one Heavenly Father, the inhabitants of a world

watered by the Redeemer's blood, have more than once, while

waging cruel war upon each other, ranged themselves under the

standard of the cross. But because such horrors darken the page

of history, are we to conclude that the love of God banishes

all toleration from the human heart, or can we deny that the

Catholic religion is all love? And shall the blind fury of men

make the world forget the numberless benefits which, for

nineteen centuries, the gospel has bestowed upon all nations

and upon its most cruel enemies?

O church of the Redeemer! who dost pray for thine enemies, and

dost show thyself ever ready to succor them, even as our

Heavenly Father maketh his sun to shine upon the most

ungrateful of mankind, who was it that filled thy heart with

that holy and ever active love of all the virtues? Who gave

thee the strength to oppose at all times a tranquil front to

the masters of the world? Whence have thy martyrs derived that

courage which made them joyfully bend their heads under the axe

of the executioner? Who taught thee to confound the subtle

contradictions of the philosophers, and, with the same hands,

to break the chains of the slave? How is it that, ever firm and

immovable, thou alone hast survived the vicissitudes of all

things and the overthrow of so many thrones? Who has given thee

such power of persuasion that by its prodigies "from the very

stones are raised up children to Abraham"? In fine, whence hast

thou received that inviolable authority which resolves all

doubts, dissipates our errors, humbles the mighty, sustains the

weak, enlightens the world, pardons all faults, and consoles in

every affliction and in every distress?

{544}

Ah! who does not see that so many miracles have been wrought by

the sole power of that divine love kindled in thee by Jesus

Christ? For just as thou lovest Jesus in fatigue and in repose,

in tears and in joy, in persecution and in peace, in combat and

in victory, so also thou lovest in him and for him the humble

and the great, the faithful and the unbelieving, the poor and

the rich. There is not on this earth a human being for whom

thou dost not pray, and whom thou wouldst not, at any price,

bring back to the bosom of him who suffered for all men because

he loved all. Oh! may thy desires soon be fulfilled, holy

church of the living God!

How, then, can that man call himself the friend of God and the

true son of the church of Jesus Christ, who would oppose arms

to arms, violence to violence, forgetting these words of

Christ, "Love your enemies," "Father, forgive them, for they

know not what they do"? The blind apostles of intolerance show

well that they have never penetrated in its true sense the life

of the Redeemer, who, suffering every injury, and even the

death of the cross, drew the whole world to himself by the

irresistible power of pardon and of love. He who would be

willing to forget his prejudices, and, retiring into the

solitude of his own heart, would plant there the sweet image of

Jesus Christ, such a one would soon learn how far the power of

Christian meekness transcends that of the sword, and he would

shudder at the thought of pursuing with fire and steel them

whom the cross alone may vanquish. Ah! if Jesus crucified

entered truly into our hearts, how many things would he not

make them understand! [Footnote 156]

[Footnote 156: Della Carità Cristiani.]

Again, I find, in the same paper, this beautiful sentiment:

I believe that charity consists not solely in compassionating

the sufferings of the poor and relieving them. Its character is

more general: it must be the soul of all our sentiments. For my

part, I see charity in patience, in humility, in faith, in

docile submission to superiors, in justice, in courage, in

fortitude, in contempt of the world, in the desire of heaven.

Charity is, indeed, the light of God, infinite as himself.

Whoever has received into his heart a ray of this divine light

is bound, if I may so speak, to communicate its warmth to the

whole world.

We return to the letters.

July 15.

Sweet were the impressions, Gaetano, which our walk yesterday

in that beautiful garden left on my mind. Is it not true that

the flowers, the trees, the blue sky, the pure soft air, the

song of the birds, the hum of the insects--all conspired to

speak to our hearts of God? I feel, too, that all these

beautiful things seemed more joyous to me because you were

there, for to me they all seemed to reflect the feelings of

your heart. Then those beautiful verses of my mother's which

Uncle G---- read to us affected me powerfully. Earth and

heaven, flowers and songs, all borrowed a new charm from the

harmony of those beautiful stanzas.

{545}

July 22.

I do not know the places you speak of, unless you mean Romito

and Antignano. I went as far as La Torre on foot, one beautiful

August morning, without suffering much from the heat, which was

tempered by the sea-breeze. After having traversed that long,

steep road, which becomes at every step more solitary and more

closely shut in between the hills and the sea, I went up to the

top of the little fortress, and thence for a long time I gazed

on the neighboring islands and the vast horizon where sea and

sky seemed to unite, and I even discerned some of the lands of

the Maremma. Another time, with the Plezza, the Gabrini, and

other friends, we went as far as Romito. The sun had already

sunk below the horizon. Every moment the last glimmering of

twilight was becoming more faint, and soon the moon rose behind

the hills. Her pale rays were reflected in the sea, where

nothing was seen save a solitary fishing-boat; and the gentle

murmur of the waves, as they came slowly to die on the rocky

shore, was the only sound that broke the stillness of the

night. We crossed from time to time the dry bed of one of those

torrents which fall from the mountains into the sea; and thus,

now talking, now silent, gazing, admiring, we passed the two

little towers, and, arrived at the limits of the two communes,

we stopped and turned back, as if we had reached the Columns of

Hercules, There is a comparison that would please my good

friend Louisa V----. Would you believe it, in her last letter

she gravely compares me to a navigator steering toward a new

world. "Yet no," she says, "love is a world as old as the

earth." That may be, my good Louisa; but to me it is new, all

new, Gaetano, and I believe, even, that it will never grow old,

like everything that comes directly from God, who is endless

duration in eternal youth! On this is grounded my sure hope

that, after having united us here on earth, he will unite us

again in the life to come; and this thought alone raises me

from earth to heaven!

This was not the first time that Rosa had visited Antignano. That

calm and lovely shore had witnessed the sports of her childhood.

Three or four years before the date of the last letter we have

given, she wrote from that place to one of her young friends the

following pretty letter:

Antignano, July, 1853.

In spite of our joy at being here, believe me, my dear Maria,

we feel your absence sadly. It turns to melancholy the joyous

memories of last year. This is from my heart, Maria; how happy

I should be to have you at this moment by my side! Come back to

us then, dear friend, come back! The little wood where we spent

so many happy hours, the great shady trees, the smiling

country, and the sea--all call you back. Why, it is but two

days since I heard a wave which came bounding over the sea say

to you, "Come down, young girl, from the flowery bank into this

calm sea, and yield to the invitation of the sun, who with his

brilliant rays is brightening air and earth and water." But

this pretty song of the naiad was suddenly interrupted, for my

poor wave broke and expired on a rock. All its sister wavelets

murmured the same prayer to you, but all, like the first, soon

broke upon the shore; and I grew pensive at the sight, for

those poor waves, vanishing so quickly, seemed to me a true

image of our shattered hopes, which cause us so many tears.

Meanwhile a little interior voice remained with me, and

murmured sweetly in my ear, "Courage, courage! Why are you sad?

Cannot Maria come back? I am your good friend Hope, listen to

me and believe me: I promise you that next year Maria shall be

here." This consoled me a little, for I always believe what my

good friend Hope tells me. Courage, then, and patience, and I

am sure of having you yet at Antignano. Dear Maria, pardon this

letter, which is as long as it is foolish, and, if you do not

understand it, seek in it only a new proof of my tender

affection for you. Meanwhile, let us leave the world of dreams

and enter that of news. ...

{546}

To Gaetano.

July 28.

This day brings to us a mournful anniversary. Poor Charles

Albert! on this day, and at the very hour in which I write, he

yielded up to God his soul, oppressed with grief, but still

full of an unshaken confidence in the justice of his cause and

the imprescriptibility of his rights. Doubtless the saints have

welcomed into heaven him who on earth loved God and suffered

for justice' sake. It is with feelings of compassion that I

think of the king, his son, surviving all his family, who have,

one after the other, gone before him to the grave.

This enthusiastic remembrance of the house of Savoy is not the

only one to be found in the letters of Rosa Ferrucci. The

misfortunes of the king, Charles Albert; the death of the Duke of

Genoa, his son; the ruin of so many hopes, for a moment

triumphant--all these often call forth in her correspondence

plaints and regrets. I like to see this love of national

independence in so pure a soul. She says somewhere:

"In considering the history of nations, we discover at every

step new and infallible proofs of the wisdom and omnipotence of

him who directs the affairs of the world; of that mysterious

justice which surpasses all human understanding as the heavens

surpass the earth. Hope, then, in the Lord, ye victims of

oppression! Acknowledge the hand which alone can give you

deliverance! And you, usurpers of the rights of the vanquished,

triumph not without trembling at the tears which you have

caused to flow. He lives, he will live for ever, who will never

remain deaf to the lamentations of his people Israel. If he

defers his justice, are you to cease to believe in him? Because

he can wait, will your presumption know no bounds? Do you

forget that God is patient because he is eternal?" [Footnote

157]

[Footnote 157: Della Carità Cristiani]

Patriotism was, however, a family tradition with Rosa Ferrucci.

At the time of the memorable events which, in 1848, threatened

the speedy overthrow of Austrian rule in Italy, Signer Ferrucci,

with his colleagues in the University of Pisa, quitted his chair,

and, at the head of the students, who had formed themselves into

a body, set out for the army, accompanied by his young son. They

took part in all the battles of that unfortunate campaign--at

first in its victories, then in its reverses--and returned to

Pisa only after the ruin of the last hope. These are facts too

little known in the contemporary history of that unhappy Italy

whose faults are the theme of every tongue, while few know how

many noble hearts she can still produce.

We resume the correspondence:

August 4.

May I tell you, Gaetano, what I have been thinking about our

future life? We must first, as we have so often said, have

continually present to our minds the will of God, endeavor to

accomplish it in all things, and be ever submissive to it from

our inmost hearts. Then we must have but one heart and one soul

in serving God, and I hope that we shall have but one heart

also in loving our dear parents. What ingratitude would be ours

if in our happiness we forgot them to whom we owe so much, and

who loved us before we knew what love was! [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: "Prima che noi potessimo sapere che fosse

amore."]

{547}