We might linger equally upon many poems which equally deserve it,

but pass on to those written since the author was a Catholic.

Among these are not to be reckoned the translations from the

Latin Hymns of the Breviary, which were made "in 1836-8." There

are a few which bear the date "Littlemore," a date full of

touching recollections to the friends of the author. It is a

hamlet locally separated from the parish of St. Mary's, of which

he was vicar, but belonging to it. He had built a church there

for the use of his parishioners, and retired there from time to

time for his own as well as their benefit. When he gave up his

connection with the Oxford movement, (as the _Apologia_

shows,) he retired there altogether, and staid there till he

became a Catholic in 1845. Of those written since the author

became a Catholic the best known, probably, are "The Pilgrim

Queen," and "The Queen of the Seasons." It is indeed cheering to

find a great genius, who had so long been more or less crippled

by the chill, stiff system of Anglicanism, opening out, like a

flower beneath the spring sun--beneath the genial teaching of the

Catholic Church:

{615}

"But I know one work of his infinite hand.

Which special and singular ever must stand;

So perfect, so pure, and of gifts such a store,

That even Omnipotence ne'er shall do more.

"The freshness of May, and the sweetness of June,

And the fire of July in its passionate noon.

Munificent August, September serene,

Are together no match for my glorious Queen.

"O Mary! all months and all days are thine own.

In thee lasts their joyousness, when they are gone;

And we give to thee May, not because it is best.

But because it comes first, and is pledge of the rest."

Apart from the freedom of thought which the author has gained

from the Church, ("Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall

make you free,") there seems to us an ease and flow about the

very language and metre of these Catholic hymns which we do not

find equalled in the author's earlier poems, sublime as are their

conceptions. But it is remarkable that the poem which unites both

these qualities in the highest measure, is that which was

composed last, "The Dream of Gerontius." Like the others it seems

to have been written for the author alone, and to have been

published merely as an act of friendship to the editor of _The

Month_. Is it too much to hope that the high sense of its

exceeding depth and beauty which has been shown by the whole

English world may not only encourage the author, as he tells us

it did, to publish his collected poems in the volume before us,

but to compose more? For it is plain that as yet at least his

arms are not dimmed or his force abated.

"The Dream of Gerontius" begins with the thoughts of one who

feels himself at the gate of death and the prayers of the

assistants by his bedside. Then Gerontius says:

"Novissima hora est; and I fain would sleep.

The pain has wearied me. ... Into thy hands,

Lord, into thy hands. ..."

And the priest says the commendation. Then follows:

Soul Of Gerontius.

"I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed--

A strange refreshment: for I feel in me

An inexpressive lightness, and a sense

Of freedom, as I were at length myself.

And ne'er had been before. How still it is!

I hear no more the busy beat of time,

No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;

Nor does one moment differ from the next.

I had a dream; yes, some one softly said,

'He's gone;' and then a sigh went round the room.

And then I surely heard a priestly voice

Say, 'Subvenite;' and they knelt in prayer.

I seem to hear him still; but thin and low."

......

He does not yet know whether he is living or dead. Then he finds

himself held,

"Not by a grasp

Such as they use on earth, but all around

Over the surface of my subtle being.

As though I were a sphere, and capable

To be accosted thus, a uniform

And gentle pressure tells me I am not

Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.

And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth

I cannot of that music rightly say.

Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones.

Oh! what a heart-subduing melody."

Then follow the songs of the guardian angel over the soul which

he was set to tend. After a long while Gerontius takes courage

and says:

Soul.

"I will address him. Mighty one, my Lord,

My guardian spirit, all hail!

Angel.

"All hail, my child!

My child and brother, hail! what wouldest thou?

......

Soul.

"I ever had believed

That on the moment when the struggling soul

Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell

Under the awful presence of its God,

There to be judged and sent to its own place.

What lets me now from going to my Lord?

Angel.

"Thou art not let; but with extremest speed

Art hurrying to the just and holy Judge;

For scarcely art thou disembodied yet.

Divide a moment, as men measure time.

Into its million-million-millionth part.

Yet even less than that the interval

Since thou didst leave the body; and the priest

Cried 'Subvenite,' and they fell to prayer;

Nor scarcely yet have they begun to pray."

We must not linger on the converse between the soul and its

guardian angel, nor at the marvellous description of the demons

in "the middle region," their impotent rage--impotent against

one who has now no traitor within.

{616}

Then he comes within the reach of the heavenly choirs. We have

the hymns of the successive choirs. At length, as they approach

"the veiled presence" of God, the soul hears again the voices it

left on earth, for in that presence the voices of prayer are

heard:

Soul.

"I go before my Judge. Ah! ....

Angel.

.... "Praise to his name!

The eager spirit has darted from my hold.

And, with the intemperate energy of love,

Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel;

But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity

Which with its effluence, like a glory, clothes

And circles round the Crucified, has seized.

And scorch'd, and shrivell'd it; and now it lies

Passive and still before the awful throne.

O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe,

Consumed, yet quickened by the glance of God.

Soul.

"Take me away, and in the lowest deep

There let me be.

And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,

Told out for me.

There, motionless and happy in my pain,

Lone, not forlorn,

There will I sing my sad, perpetual strain.

Until the morn.

There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,

Which ne'er can cease

To throb, and pine, and languish, till possest

Of its sole peace.

There will I sing my absent Lord and love;--

Take me away.

That sooner I may rise, and go above,

And see him in the truth of everlasting day."

Then follow the words of the angel, and those of the souls in

purgatory. At length the angel concludes:

"Angels, to whom the willing task is given,

Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest;

And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven,

Shall aid thee at the throne of the Most Highest.

"Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear.

Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow;

Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,

And I will come and wake thee on the morrow."

Any one who has read this wonderful poem will complain that we

have omitted this, and this, and this, which especially deserved

to be quoted. It is most true. It would be impossible to give any

idea of its matchless weight and beauty, except by transcribing

the whole of it; and we have wished only to give a sample which

may direct to it the attention of any reader to whom it may yet

be unknown.

The preface contains a dedication of the volume of Mr. Badeley,

one of Dr. Newman's Oxford friends and followers, who before this

time knows far more of that world of spirits than even the gifted

eye of the most illustrious seer has ever pierced; for he had

hardly received this dedication when he received his summons to

it. He was the son of a Protestant physician at Colchester, who,

many years ago, was the medical adviser of a convent in that

neighborhood, and created a good deal of suspicion among his

fellow religionists, by bearing testimony to the supernatural

nature of a cure of one of the nuns who was his patient. Mr.

Badeley himself graduated with high honors at Oxford in 1823, and

afterward studied the law, in which he attained a high reputation

and great success. He directed his special attention to

ecclesiastical questions, and hardly any case connected with them

came before the courts in which he was not retained. In this

preface Dr. Newman bears testimony to the fidelity with which he

followed the religious movement in which the volume originated

from first to last. He was counsel to the Bishop of Exeter in the

celebrated Gorham case, and his argument upon it was published in

a pamphlet which attracted much notice. He also published a book

against the alteration of the law of marriage. At last a new

light shone upon his path; he followed it faithfully, and it led

him into the Catholic Church. He was, perhaps, the only lawyer

from whom was actually accepted, on his conversion to the church,

a sacrifice of his worldly interests, nearly equal to that made

by many Protestant clergymen.

{617}

The loss of practice has no doubt been risked by all who have

become Catholics; by him, owing to the nature of his principal

business, it was in a great measure incurred, nor did he ever

recover what he had lost. But the time is short. It is but a few

weeks since he was cheered by Dr. Newman's words, "We are now

both of us in the decline of life; may that warm attachment which

has lasted between us inviolate for so many years, be continued,

by the mercy of God, to the end of our earthly course, and beyond

it;"--and his earthly course is already over; the sacrifice is

gone by. He is now able to estimate its real value.

--------

Sonnet.

Sharp lightnings flash, tempestuous thunders roll:

I shudder--and yet wherefore? For the dead

Sleep undisturbed in consecrated bed.

And thou, who didst yield up thy sweet, young soul

So mildly to thy Maker, and console.

By dying acts, the hearts which love thee best,

Must, even on this first night, sublimely rest

In thy still sepulchre, by yon green knoll.

Yet one, I know, will tremble as she hears

The storm above her darling; and each dart

Of the forked lightning will to anguish start

A legion of dread shapes and tender fears;

For who can sound the fountains of her tears,

Choice instincts, lodged in her maternal heart?

--------

{618}

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore. [Footnote 181]

[Footnote 181: _Concilii Plenarii Secundi Baltimorensis,

Acta et Decreta_. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co.]

The good city of Baltimore witnessed, in October, 1866, the most

numerous and imposing ecclesiastical assemblage ever gathered in

the United States. Forty-seven archbishops and bishops, with two

mitred abbots, convened in Plenary Council, under the presidency

of the Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, delegate of the

Apostolic See. For two weeks they met daily in consultation,

their labors being interrupted only by the solemn sessions

prescribed by the Pontifical. After a free but harmonious

interchange of ideas, they adopted practical resolutions, which

they embodied partly in decrees, partly in petitions to the Holy

See. Their work done, it was not published to the world, but sent

to the mother and mistress of all churches for revision,

correction if necessary, and final recognition or approval. And

now, almost two years after the celebration of the Council, the

ACTS and DECREES, as revised and approved by the Holy See, are

published under the authority of the same most reverend prelate

that as delegate apostolic had presided over the deliberations of

the council. The work is thus complete: the new legislation takes

its appropriate place in our canon law; an epoch is marked in the

history of the American church.

From the beginning of the church, the celebration of councils has

been looked on as a most efficient means, under God, of

preserving discipline, arriving at proper conclusions on

practical matters, and promoting the common good. The very first

question that arose in the infant Christian community was decided

in the Council of Jerusalem, where the apostles and the ancients

consulted together. Every succeeding age saw councils meet to

decide ecclesiastical questions. Indeed, the history of the

church may be said to be a history of councils. Gradually, as

ecclesiastical discipline assumed regular outlines, and was

settled according to fixed rules, proper arrangements were made

for the regular meeting of prelates for consultation and mutual

consolation and enlightenment. It would be foreign to the

purposes of this paper to dwell on the ancient discipline in this

regard; but a short exposition of the actual law and practice of

the church will enable the reader properly to appreciate the

importance of the work of the late Plenary Council.

The Council of Trent (Sess. xxiv. _De Reform_, c. 2) decreed

that the ancient practice of holding councils should be renewed,

and fixed a regular period for their celebration. Each archbishop

was to call his suffragans together every three years, and these

were strictly obliged to obey the summons. The object of these

meetings was "to regulate morals, correct excesses, settle

controversies and do all other things permitted by the sacred

canons." St. Charles Borromeo celebrated several such councils,

which were not only productive of immense good to the church of

Milan, but have remained as a pattern on which the proceedings of

all subsequent councils have been modelled. But councils of

bishops were not in favor with the civil rulers, whose aim it was

to fetter, and, if possible, to enslave the church.

{619}

They prevented the execution of the salutary decree of Trent,

which, with a few exceptions, remained almost a dead letter from

the time of St. Charles to the present century. To the church of

the United States belongs the credit of having revived the custom

of holding councils. Not long after the establishment of the

hierarchy, the first Provincial Council of Baltimore was

convened, and was followed in regular succession by others, held

every three years, according to the prescriptions of the fathers

of Trent. When new archiepiscopal sees were erected, Rome,

anxious that the American church should retain as far as possible

a uniform discipline, suggested the holding every ten years of a

plenary council, to be composed of all the bishops of the various

ecclesiastical provinces of the country, under the presidency of

a delegate to be nominated by the Holy See. Accordingly, the Most

Rev. Francis Patrick Kenrick, of illustrious memory, then

Archbishop of Baltimore, was appointed delegate apostolic, and

convened the first plenary council in his metropolitan church, in

May, 1852. The second should have been held in 1862, but the

civil war then raging made it necessary to defer it. As soon as

peace was restored, measures were taken to convene the prelates,

and, as we have seen, the council was actually held in 1866.

The title "plenary" sounds odd to some ears, and has, if we

remember aright, provoked some little discussion in the public

prints. The term national is frequently given to the council in

common parlance, and would probably have been its official title

also but for the caution of the Holy See. Rome, enlightened by

wisdom from above and rich with the experience of ages, looks on

a tendency to nationalism in the church as one of the greatest

dangers that can arise, almost, indeed, as the forerunner of

schism. When she was about to propose to the American prelates

the decennial convening of a council of all the bishops of the

various provinces of the country, the question of the official

title at once arose. _National_ was not liked,

_general_ was too ample, _provincial_ too restricted. A

learned ecclesiastical historian suggested _plenary_, the

title given to the general councils of the African church in the

fifth century--councils rendered famous by the genius of St.

Augustine, and their explicit condemnation of Pelagianism. The

title was adopted. It avoids the narrowness of nationalism, while

it fully expresses the idea of a _full_ council of

_all_ the prelates of the American church.

The object of a plenary council is plainly indicated by the Holy

See. Strictly speaking, provincial councils could provide all the

necessary legislation. But there would be danger of a loss of

uniformity. Even among the best persons, the old adage, that

where there are many men there are many minds, is verified. To

prevent this divergence of views from manifesting itself too much

in practice, it has been deemed advisable to call occasionally

all the bishops together, that their united counsels may adopt

such measures as will keep the American church one not only in

faith and in the essential points of discipline, but even in the

principal among the secondary matters of the latter branch. It is

not necessary to descant on the advantages of such uniformity.

The faithful, if they do not expect it, are at least edified and

consoled by it; and, for the great purposes which the church is

called on to carry out in this country, it brings into practical

effect, as far as is possible, the great motto, _Viribus

unitis_. To gain it were well worth the sacrifice even of fond

predilections and of cherished usages.

{620}

The plenary council, then, is to look to the wants of the whole

American church, and to do for it what a provincial council does

for an ecclesiastical province. Canon law is necessarily couched

in general terms, and cannot be applied in the same way

everywhere. A great portion of it, in fact, consists of decisions

given for particular localities under peculiar circumstances, of

which the principle only is or can be of general application. It

thus happens not infrequently that the general regulations have

to be modified to meet other wants, other times, other

circumstances. This is one of the first duties of local councils.

They propose, and, with the approval of the supreme pastor, enact

those regulations to which their wisdom and experience may point

as necessary to carry out the real spirit of the general law. In

these they do not contradict, much less abrogate; on the

contrary, they enforce the observance of the canons. We know

there is an impression abroad that "canon law does not oblige in

this country;" but a more erroneous or more mischievous idea

could scarcely have been propagated. If it be said that all the

circumstances contemplated by the canons do not exist here, and

that such laws as presuppose these circumstances are not, on that

account, applicable here, the proposition is correct; but, if it

be said that the law itself does not oblige, the proposition is

simply monstrous. We do not know whom it would affect worse, the

higher or the lower orders of the clergy, the religious or the

seculars. All would be very much in the same position; all would

soon be glad to return to the reign of law. If "canon law does

not oblige in this country," what becomes of the impediments of

matrimony? Where do the religious orders find the charter of

their privileges? On what does an aggrieved clergyman rely for

the right of appeal? Where is the proof that every Christian of

either sex, that has come to the years of discretion, is obliged

to approach worthily, at least once a year at Easter, the holy

sacrament of the blessed eucharist? The origin of the erroneous

idea appears to be, that, the organization of the church in this

missionary country not being yet completed, certain privileges,

generally granted by the Holy See, have been withheld; and, as

one case may easily occur to the clerical reader, we shall take

the liberty of using it to exemplify our meaning. The nomination,

institution, and consecration of bishops are inherently and

radically the exclusive right of the Holy See. No matter by whom

it may have been exercised at any time, if it was not in virtue

of a permission expressly or tacitly granted by the successor of

St. Peter, the exercise was a schismatical act. This no Catholic

can deny. By canon law the right of presentation of three names

to the pope has been granted, not to all the clergy of the

diocese, but to the cathedral chapter, a body in the composition

of which the diocesan clergy, by the same law, exercised but

little influence. In this country there are no cathedral

chapters; in fact, it is impossible thus far to erect them

according to the canons. The right of presentation of the three

names has been accorded by Rome to the bishops of the province

instead. This is an instance in which a privilege granted by the

canons to a body which has no existence among us has been

transferred by the supreme authority to another body that can

exercise it.

{621}

We are not now either blaming or praising the arrangement; that

would be beyond our province. We are merely stating what the law

is, and endeavoring to help to dispel an error which may be, if

it has not been, productive of evil. As canon law, then, does

oblige in this country, numerous questions must necessarily arise

in the application of its ordinances to our circumstances and

wants. The whole social fabric here is very different from that

of Europe when the decretals were issued. It thus becomes

necessary to adopt such measures as may save the principle of the

law, and, at the same time, avoid the inconvenience of a too

literal understanding. This is one of the first and most

important works of a council. It involves a patient and careful

study of the law; a thorough knowledge of the circumstances of

the country; a prudent foresight, which may be able to discern

what measure is most likely to be practically successful. We may

instance the question of the tenure of church property. If there

were in practice real religious freedom among us, if the church

were allowed to hold her property according to her own laws,

there would be no difficulty. The actual canon law would provide

for the security of the tenure, for the good use of any revenues

that might accrue, and for any rights or legitimate influence the

donors might reasonably expect to be allowed. But, at least in

most of the states, the wisdom of the legislature has interfered,

simply to prevent the Catholic Church from executing her own

long-tried, satisfactory laws on the subject. To save the vital

principle, the security and the independence of church property,

it has been necessary to adopt various expedients, which may be,

we do not doubt are, the best that could be devised under the

circumstances, but, considered in themselves, are far from

satisfactory. They, of course, are only temporary; and it is

ardently to be desired that the time will soon come when wiser

civil legislation will permit the execution of the mild and

equitable provisions of the canons.

It is easy to see that a wide field is thus opened for the wisdom

and industry of the fathers of a plenary council. But "the

correction of abuses" is also expressly assigned by the decree of

Trent as one of the objects of their labors. To err is human, and

it is only too easy to fall away from the strict observance of

the canons. Such has ever been the experience of the church. In

this country, thank God, positive abuses are rare, if they exist

at all. There is a general desire to become acquainted with the

law of the church and to observe it as closely as circumstances

will allow. But necessity has, in the past, introduced many

customs which no longer have its sanction or excuse. Yet it is

found hard sometimes to leave the old paths and take the broad

highways of the canons or the rubrics. Sometimes doubts arise as

to whether the exceptions formerly allowed are still permitted.

Thus, there is ample matter for wise and cautious legislation,

neither so lax as to allow abuses to grow up, nor so strict as,

by substituting the letter for the spirit, to make the law kill

rather than give life.

There must of necessity arise in the course of time many most

important practical questions, which can be nowhere better

decided than in council. Mutual advice, comparing of ideas, and

discussion naturally lead to wise conclusions. In a country like

ours, where so many cases arise which are without precedent, the

necessity of frequent counsel among the prelates is obvious.

{622}

And doubtless the regular celebration of councils has contributed

greatly to that success which has especially marked the external

government of the church in America. Fewer mistakes have been

made here, perhaps, than anywhere else in the same time, while

the successes have been great, nay, brilliant. The wisdom of the

old has been handed down to the young; the experience of one

generation has been used for the benefit of that succeeding; and

there has been an uninterrupted unity of practical views from the

days of Carroll to the present. Thus, England, Dubois, Bruté,

Kenrick, Hughes, though dead, still live. Not merely their works

remain behind them, but their spirit still speaks in the halls of

the archiepiscopal residence, and in the sanctuary of the

metropolitan church of Baltimore.

Another special duty has been assigned by the Holy See to our

American councils--that of proposing the erection of new

episcopal sees, and the names of candidates to fill either them

or the older ones that may be canonically vacant. The erection of

new sees is a special feature of the church in new countries.

Every council of Baltimore has proposed the creation of new

bishoprics, and, in most cases, the propositions have been

favorably considered by the Holy See. The growth of the church

can thus be traced through the acts of the various councils, and

the steps can be counted, one by one, by which, from one bishop

at Baltimore, the American hierarchy has progressed to its

present development. Its growth has been more rapid than even the

material progress of the country; and as we look at the far West,

sure to become the happy home of millions of Catholics,

imagination is scarcely bold enough to call up the numbers by

which the bishops will be counted in future councils. We have

already alluded to the duty of selecting candidates to fill

episcopal sees. It is an important and a difficult task,

requiring the exercise of some of the highest qualities that

should be possessed by those who are, in the highest sense,

"rulers of men." The Holy See has been so impressed with its

importance and difficulty that it has earnestly urged that the

bishops of the province should meet every time that there is a

see to be filled. When, however, the vacancy occurs about the

time of a council, or when the fathers ask for the erection of

new sees, the question of candidates to be recommended must be

considered in its sessions.

From this cursory glance at the work of a plenary council, it

will be seen that the two weeks given to the celebration of the

one lately held could have been by no means a time of rest. On

the contrary, the conscientious performance of this work required

the employment of every available moment. Every preceding council

of Baltimore had devoted itself to the attainment of the

different objects which we have indicated. The measures adopted

were timely and wise, and the legislation forms the groundwork of

our particular church law. Nor will we wonder at the success

attained when we think of the great names that adorned those

councils, of the illustrious prelates whose learning, prudence,

foresight, zeal, and piety instructed and edified the past

generation, and laid the broad and solid foundations on which the

grand structure of the American church is rising. All honor to

these great men! They were "men of great power, and endued with

their wisdom, ... ruling over the present people, and by the

strength of wisdom instructing the people in most holy words. Let

the people show forth their wisdom, and the church declare their

praise."

{623}

But the American church had grown out of its infancy, and it was

time to commence to build on the foundations so deeply and so

skilfully laid. It would have been impossible, even had any one

desired it, merely to re-enact in the second plenary council what

had been done before--merely to pass a few general decrees,

recommend the erection of new sees, provide for the filling of

them and of those already existing and vacant by apostolic

authority, and then separate. Had the council confined itself to

this, it would have failed of performing its allotted work. These

considerations had their due weight with the most reverend

prelate, who most fitly was chosen for the high and important

office of delegate apostolic. He determined upon a comprehensive

plan, the execution of which by the council should, by meeting

one of the chief present wants, impress its celebration and its

work in indelible characters on the history of the American

church. As early as April, 1866, this plan had been distributed

to the archbishops and bishops, the heads of religious orders,

and all others who of right were to be present at the council. He

next convoked a body of theologians to initiate the preparatory

studies. They were taken from the religious orders as well as

from the secular clergy; many of them were or had been professors

of theology or canon law; some were favorably known for high

offices they had already held or for well-deserved reputation for

learning. The _coetus_ met daily as long as the greater part

of its members could remain in Baltimore, and in that time the

main points were gone over carefully and thoroughly, and the

recommendations of the theologians thereon submitted to the most

reverend archbishop. Some divines who could not be present sent

their contributions in writing, so that we do not say too much

when we assert that the best talent of the country was employed

in these initial steps. The many occupations, however, in which

the greater part of the _coetus_ were engaged at home

rendered a protracted stay of all impossible, and the remainder

of the work was necessarily confided to a fewer number. The most

reverend delegate apostolic, himself a most indefatigable worker,

watched over all the proceedings. Every paper was submitted to

his final revision before it went to the printer. Indeed, as he

was the promoter, so he was in reality the principal of the

laborers in the great work, to which he brought learning,

improved by conference; judgment, matured not only by age, but by

long practice in every branch of the ministry; a ready pen, whose

labors, in other departments, for the cause of our holy religion,

had already procured for him a high and well-deserved reputation.

And we are sure his colleagues will not blame us if we say that,

under and after the archbishop, Very Rev. James A. Corcoran,

D.D., of the diocese of Charleston, deserves to be especially

remembered for his industry, his erudition, his talents. The

graceful style in which so many of the decrees are couched is so

peculiarly his own that it can never be mistaken; and it will

make the second plenary council remarkable for what, perhaps,

would scarcely be expected in this remote country--a Latinity

that would grace even the most finished documents that come from

Rome herself. The work thus went on until the drafts of the

decrees formed a large volume, which, for greater convenience,

was printed.

{624}

The inspection and the examination of it by the fathers and the

theologians of the council were thus rendered more easy; indeed,

it would be difficult to conceive how, without this preparation,

the work could have been done at all.

As each bishop was entitled to bring two theologians, there was a

very large attendance of the clergy of the second order. To these

must be added many vicars-general, the heads of religious orders,

and the superiors of the greater seminaries. All these clergymen

were divided into congregations, after the pattern of the Milan

councils of St. Charles Borromeo. Each congregation was presided

over by a bishop, with a vice-president and a notary. This last

officer kept a minute of the proceedings of the congregation, and

drew up its final report. The whole matter of the proposed

decrees was distributed among these congregations, and thus the

preparatory work was subjected to a searching, minute

investigation. It may be here interesting to the general reader

to give a short account of the mode in which the business of a

council is managed. We learn from the acts that there were four

different meetings at the Second Plenary Council:

1. Private congregations.

2. Public congregations.

3. Private sessions.

4. Public sessions.

The "private congregations" were the meetings of the committees

or congregations of theologians, each in a separate room. The

"public congregations" were held in the cathedral, and there

assisted at them all the "_synodales_" that is, all who had

a right to be present at the synod, from the Most Reverend

President to the youngest theologian. At these congregations the

theologians "had the floor," the bishops confining themselves to

asking questions, or proposing difficulties. The "private

sessions" were meetings of the prelates alone. The officers of

the council were also present, but merely to record the acts. The

work of the council was really done in these private sessions. In

them the decrees were passed, and the acts show that there were a

close scrutiny and a thorough investigation of the measures

proposed. The "public sessions" were solemn ceremonies in the

cathedral. After pontifical high Mass, the decrees already passed

were solemnly read and promulgated. They thus became a law as far

as the action of the council could make them such. All that they

needed was the approval of the Holy See.

In this manner the decrees of the Second Plenary Council of

Baltimore were prepared, examined, discussed, matured, until now

they are published as the law of the American church. In looking

over them one is astonished at the variety of matter on which

they treat. Faith, and the errors opposed to it now so prevalent,

the church and her government, the primacy of the Roman pontiff,

the powers, rights, and duties of archbishops and bishops, the

rights and duties of the clergy, church property, the sacraments,

the sacrifice of the Mass, and all the proper conducting of

divine worship, uniformity in the celebration of festivals, and

other points of discipline, the _status_ of religious, the

education of youth, good books, the Catholic press, zeal for the

salvation of souls, the spiritual welfare of the blacks, secret

societies--these are some of the subjects which, as even a

cursory examination shows us, are treated in these decrees. These

are, indeed, what the original plan intended them to be. They

give a clear and lucid exposition of canon law as adapted _by

authority_ to the circumstances of this country.

{625}

They supply a want long felt, and they will remain for all time

to come the guide and the rule of action of all ecclesiastics,

from the hoary missionary bowed down with age and labors to the

young priest whose elastic step leads him joyously from the

seminary walls to his first appointment, from the mitred prelate

to the humblest of the great army of missionaries that are

bringing to our countrymen the good tidings of peace. They are

clear and comprehensive; they were carefully prepared, every

quotation, even though it were of a few words, was verified; and

they are in every sense authoritative. Prescinding altogether

from their binding force, they were carefully prepared

originally; next, they were literally sifted by the theologians

of the council; afterward they were discussed, and sometimes

modified by the fathers; lastly, they were subjected to the

scrutiny of Roman theologians, and were finally approved with

very few emendations. They have thus undergone the trial of a

threefold criticism, and deserve proportionate attention and

respect. But, what is far more important, they are binding as

laws, and the S. Congregation _de Propaganda Fide_ has

expressed its wish that they be faithfully observed by all whom

it may concern. They have been, moreover, made by authority the

text of a course of canon law in our ecclesiastical seminaries.

The future clergy of the country are thus to be formed on them.

To the volume that contains them they are afterward to look for

enlightenment and instruction in the performance of the duties of

the ministry. Nothing more need be, indeed little more could be,

said in their praise.

The Acts and Decrees have been published in a goodly volume, in

imperial octavo, by the well-known firm of John Murphy & Co.,

Baltimore. We need not say that the material part of the book is

highly creditable to the publishers. The good quality of the

paper, letter-press, and binding is commensurate with the

importance of the work and the magnitude of the occasion which

brought it forth. The volume contains all the official documents,

from the first letter of Rome appointing Archbishop Spalding

delegate apostolic, to the last communication of the Cardinal

Prefect of Propaganda in regard to the decisions of the Holy See.

A copious and well-arranged index gives access to the mass of

matter scattered through the work, thus rendering as easy as

possible a reference to any given point. We congratulate Mr.

Murphy on the honor done him by the privilege of placing his

imprint on the title-page of so great and important a

publication. It is a fitting reward for many services rendered to

Catholic literature through a long and useful business career.

We hail this volume as the beginning of a new period in our

American church, the period--_detur venia verbo_--of the

reign of law. It marks an improvement, a step in advance, a

progress. But the progress is legitimate, because it commenced

where all such movements must commence, if they be Catholic, with

the proper authority. A work begun, carried on, and brought to

completion as this has been, is--we need not say--a _safe_

guide; and one for which, we may be permitted to add, every lover

of our holy religion should feel deeply grateful to those through

whose zeal and labors it has been accomplished. By it this young

church now takes her place with the most ancient and best

regulated churches of the Old World: a light is given to our

feet, lest inadvertently we stumble in the darkness: a sure guide

is afforded, alike to young and old, to prelate and subject, to

cowled monk and surpliced priest.

--------

{626}

Translated From The French.

An Italian Girl Of Our Day.

Concluded.

To any one who has read this sweet and pious correspondence I

need not point out how strongly toward the end it inclines to

heaven. Was it a presentiment of death? It may have been. We

cannot deny to certain souls the grace of having heard from afar

the call of God. For me, I think I see in this case the natural

movement of a very pure love in a lofty soul. There are souls

that see God everywhere. She of whom I speak was one of these,

and, from her infancy, all that was beautiful on earth had been

for her but a veil designed to temper the brightness of the

Eternal Beauty. Thus in the new and unknown regions of earthly

love, through the first wonder and the first dreams, she soon

found again the divine countenance; but this time more radiant

than ever, more vivid, more irresistible; and that chaste flight

which had carried her to the hopes of earth passed beyond and

bore her away to heaven.

That a person has not had the happiness to feel this heavenly

attraction, is no reason that he should either wonder at it or

attempt to deny it. It is in the logic of our heart, and I

believe there are few souls that in various degrees have not felt

its power. It was known to ancient philosophy, whose greatest

glory it is to have expressed by the mouth of Plato, its king,

the progression of love from bodies and from souls to ideas and

to God; and St. Augustine, who bore in his heart the gospel of

Jesus Christ, has not rejected this part of the ancient heritage.

Who has not read that conversation at Ostia, in which two holy

souls, beginning with the love that united them on earth, came at

last to touch heaven? "We were speaking sweetly together, ... and

whilst we converse and look up to heaven, we reach it with the

whole aspiration of our heart." [Footnote 182] It is this

soaring, this upward flight that I speak of; this it is, I

believe, which carried the soul of the saintly young bride to the

desire of that eternal region where all desires are satisfied.

[Footnote 182: St. Augustine's _Confessions_.]

The heavenly instinct had not deceived her. Two days after that

on which she wrote the last letter we have given, a death-bearing

blast was breathed upon her, and she was seized with a slight

fever which at first gave no uneasiness except to the

ever-anxious heart of a mother. Yet on the very first day she had

said to her, "Take my little desk and keep it in memory of me."

These words were startling, coming from a person so

clear-sighted. The illness suddenly assumed an alarming

character, and the physicians recognized it as the miliary fever,

a terrible epidemic which was then desolating Tuscany, and which

seemed to pick out only choice victims. The young patient had

divined her danger; she at once asked for the sacraments, and

received with a humble and tender love the last visit of that

Saviour whose blood never fails us, from our cradle, which it

sanctifies, to our death-bed, where it

strengthens and consoles us.

{627}

The patient now felt herself better. "Great and happy day!" she

said; "if I am restored to health, never shall I forget it. What

strength there is in the holy viaticum! My dear mother, how sweet

and consoling is our religion! Ah! believe me, if any one feared

death, he could do so no longer after having received the blessed

Eucharist." Then she called her betrothed. "Gaetano," she said,

"if it is the good pleasure of God to unite us on earth, he will

restore me; but if he has other designs in our regard, then, my

Gaetano, we must be resigned and adore his holy will, must we

not?" The young man could not answer.

She continued: "In my English prayer-book there is an act of

thanksgiving for the reception of the holy viaticum: take the

book and read it to me." And a voice, tremulous with sorrow,

began to read the following admirable prayer:

"Glory and thanksgiving be to thee, O Lord! who in thy

sweetness hast been pleased to visit my poor soul. Now let thy

servant depart in peace according to thy word.

"Now thou art come to me, I will not let thee go; I willingly

bid farewell to the world, and with joy I go to thee, my God.

"Nothing more, O dear Jesus! nothing more shall separate me

from thee: in thee I will live, in thee I will die, and in thee

I hope to abide for ever.

"I desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ; for Christ is

my life, and to die will be my gain.

"Now I will fear no evils, though I walk in the shadow of

death, because thou art with me, O Lord! As the hart pants

after the fountains of water, so does my soul after thee: my

soul thirsts after the fountain of living water. Oh! when shall

I come and appear before the face of my God?

"Give me thy blessing, O divine Jesus! and establish my soul in

everlasting peace; such peace as only thou canst give; such

peace as it may not be in the power of my enemy to destroy.

"Oh! that my soul were at rest in thy happiness, and in the

enjoyment of thee, my God, for ever!

"What more have I to do with the world? And in heaven what have

I to desire but thee, my God?

"Into thy hands I commend my spirit. Receive me, sweet Jesus!

In thee may I rest; and in thy happiness rejoice without end.

Amen."

When the reader's voice had ceased, the young patient wished to

take some repose. But she still seemed collected, and continued

to pray.

Her brother was expected to arrive from Florence. "Settle the

room," she said to her mother, "and put back upon my table the

things that were taken off it when it was prepared for an altar.

I do not wish that poor Antonio should perceive, on entering,

that I have received the last sacraments; but remember, dear

mother, always look upon that little table as a sacred thing, for

it has borne the body of Jesus Christ." All that day she held her

mother's hand, and spoke of nothing but the happiness of having

received the holy communion. Toward evening she remembered that

she was to have visited such and such poor persons that day. This

thought troubled her, and she could be calmed only by the

assurance that before night some one should carry to those poor

persons their accustomed succor. From this time she began to

converse with Jesus Christ, speaking to him with an ardor which

the violence of her sufferings rendered more intense. "O Jesus!

this bed seems to me of fire--but no, I will not complain.

{628}

Thou willest that I should serve thee in suffering, and in

suffering I will serve thee. Thou knowest that I should not

grieve to die if my death did not cause such great affliction to

those who love me. If thou seest that I should make a good

Christian wife, I would say, 'O Lord! heal me!' But what is it

that I am asking? No, not my will, but thine be done!" In the

middle of the night, seeing her mother's shadow still bending

over her pillow, she exclaimed, "O the heroic love of mothers!"

She thought so much of the least things that were done for her.

"My poor father," she said, "how good he is; what care he takes

of me; for my sake he deprives himself entirely of sleep. He has

called in three physicians, and he wishes one of them to remain

night and day near my room. It is too much, my God! Mother, what

say you of my Gaetano? Ah! now indeed I feel how happy I should

have been with him; for the more I know him, the more I feel that

he loves me, as you love me." She asked to have prayers recited

by her bedside, and began herself in a low tone the prayers for

the agonizing. Her mother interrupted her. "Rosa, my child, why

these sorrowful prayers? You will recover, my child; do not

always be thinking of death." She answered, "Ah! but if all day I

have not been able to think of anything but death; if Jesus

wishes to take me, must I not be ready?" She suffered terribly;

one moment nature prevailed, and she uttered a complaint. Her

betrothed said to her, "Rosa, think of what our Lord suffered."

"Thanks, Gaetano; ah! how that thought consoles me!"

The dawn of the following morning only brought an accession of

the malady. Three skilful physicians saw all their efforts

powerless against its violence. One of them, who loved Rosa as

his own child, wept. The patient became delirious. "Let us go!

let us go!" she cried; "dear mother, adieu! my home is not here,

my home is above! Let us go! let us go! adieu!" She repeated

these words, sometimes in French, sometimes in Italian. She

called her father, when he was absent, talking to him as if she

saw him beside her; when he was present, looking for him and

calling him still. She wept over the misfortunes of a poor widow

whom in her dreams she saw left destitute; the next moment it was

a little orphan that she cradled in her arms, and that drew tears

from her eyes. Nothing could calm her delirium, which was still

full of these charitable memories and images. At one time she

seemed to see the ladder of Jacob, and she exclaimed: "But I--am

I pure enough to go up with these angels? may I go forward? may I

join their choirs, I who was preparing for earthly espousals?"

She then recovered her consciousness, and asked for a chapter of

the _Flowerets_ of St. Francis on holy perseverance, during

the reading of which she cried out suddenly, as if struck with

horror, "O the evil spirits! the evil spirits!" Her mother

hastened to her, threw her arms round her, and pressed her to her

heart, saying, "Listen to your mother, Rosa, my dear child. Why

these cries? why these terrors? You need not fear the evil

spirits, my child; and they are not devils that surround your

bed, but the angels of heaven. Have you not always loved God?

have you not loved the poor? have you not been a good and

obedient child?" But her countenance grew stern. "Hush," she

said, "tempt me not to pride." And her face was overspread with

the shadow of a profound and austere humility.

{629}

Her delirium returned, and now with a violence that neither words

nor remedies could calm. As a last resource, her mother said to

her, "Rosa, my child, I am quite exhausted. If you could calm

yourself a little, I might lean my head on your hands and sleep.

Calm yourself, my child, for my sake." And saying this, she

affected to fall asleep. From that moment the poor child was

silent; love was stronger than delirium.

A long stupor followed; an ivory paleness overspread her

features; the veil of death was upon her brow. The victim was

ready. But there is no victim without sacrifice, and no sacrifice

without pain. Jesus trembled and wept, and was sorrowful even

unto death in the Garden of Gethsemane. The hour of cruel

sacrifice was come for this young Christian. She felt the cold

iron of the sword, but again divine love remained victorious.

Suddenly she wakes, opens her large, terrified eyes, while the

blood rushing from her heart in an impetuous tide, crimsons her

face and lights up her eye. She seems to come out of a dream, and

now for the first time to understand all. "It must be, then!" she

cried, "it must be! I must die! I must leave my father's house! I

must leave my betrothed! No, no! I am to live with him, I am to

make him happy!" A flood of tears bathed her countenance; a cry

of anguish burst from her soul. "Adieu, Gaetano, adieu! we shall

see each other no more!" It was a terrible struggle in that poor

heart. The joyous preparations for her wedding had suddenly given

place to the dismal preparations for the grave. The bride seemed

to entwine her dying fingers in her nuptial wreath and to clasp

it convulsively--but, if it be God's will?

Her mother put to her lips a picture of our Lady of Good Counsel,

which the young girl had near her bed. Instantly she became calm,

joined her hands, bowed her head, and remained perfectly silent.

What was passing at that moment in the superior part of that

beautiful soul? The eye of God alone, infinitely holy, can read

such secrets. What we know is that, after this long silence, the

dying girl pronounced in a clear, firm voice, the words, "Thy

will be done." And from that moment the name of Gaetano was never

upon her lips.

She recited the Litany of the Blessed Virgin. At the invocation,

"Gate of heaven, pray for us," she pressed her mother's hand and

smiled. Did she then see the eternal gates opening?

The Prior of San Sisto, her confessor, was by her bedside. She

asked for extreme unction, and answered distinctly to all the

prayers. An extraordinary grace of peace and resignation seemed

from that moment to have entered her soul. She needed consolation

no longer; it was she who now consoled and encouraged all around

her. Her poor mother, wild with grief, threw herself upon her

bosom. "I still hope," she said, sobbing; "yes, my Rosa, I still

hope that you will recover; but if this be not God's will, oh!

pray to him, supplicate him to call me also to himself. I will

not, I cannot live without you!" But Rosa said, "No, mother, you

must not wish for death. You have too many duties to accomplish

upon earth; remember the mother of the Machabees." Then

stretching out her hand and laying it on the head of the

sorrow-stricken woman, she said, "I bless her who has so often

blessed me! O Blessed Virgin! change the sorrow of this poor

mother into the consolation of the poor, the afflicted, and the

sick; and do thou, O my God! grant that we may all adore unto the

end thy holy decrees." She drew from her finger a little ring,

and said to her mother, "Keep that in remembrance of me;" and

placing in her hands the ring of her betrothal, she said, "Give

that to--you know whom--it is a noble soul." But she spoke not

his name.

{630}

The end drew near; her family and friends surrounded her bed;

every one was weeping. She said smiling, "You are all around me,

I am very happy; thanks." Then suddenly, "Who wishes to have my

hair?" No one ventured to answer. A long, half-reproachful look

was cast on the weeping faces around. A voice cried, "_I_

do." Rosa recognized it and said, "My mother shall have it."

She motioned to the Prior of San Sisto to come to her, and said

to him in a whisper, "I beg of you to return this evening to my

poor mother and do all you can to console her." From this time

she seemed to retire to the feet of God, henceforth to speak to

him alone. She said, "I suffer, my Jesus, but all for thy love! I

do not fear hell, because I love thee too much. I am on fire, I

am in flames! O Jesus! burn me, consume me in the flames of thy

love!" It was now with difficulty that these holy ejaculations

came from her oppressed bosom. Again, however, and for the last

time, she rallied. Death had a hard struggle with her vigorous

and innocent youth. This time the dying girl spoke the very

language of the saints, and her farewell to earth was worthy of a

St. Catharine of Sienna. "O Lord!" she said, "bless all men!

bless this city of Pisa! bless her people! bless her bishop and

her pastors! bless the Catholic Church! bless her sovereign

Pontiff! bless her ministers and her children! Have pity on poor

sinners; enlighten heretics; be merciful toward those who believe

in thee, merciful also to those who believe not. Pardon all; be a

loving Father to the good and to the wicked. Have pity on my

soul, O Immaculate Virgin! Give to all thy peace, O Jesus!--that

peace--" She was silent. A film gathered over her eyes; they saw

no longer the things of earth, but a better light began to dawn

on them. "Yes, yes," she murmured, "I see now; I begin to see--O

the heavenly Jerusalem! O the angels! oh! how many angels! How

beautiful! Yes, certainly, willingly, my God! Where am I? who

calls me? where then? Let us go! let us go, my God! Let us go

forward! _Andiamo! andiamo! avanti!_--" The words died on

her lips; she made the sign of the cross, kissed the crucifix,

and while mortal eyes still sought her upon earth, she was

following the Lamb in the eternal choirs of the virgins.

Such is this beautiful death, every detail of which we have

learned from her who, after having assisted at the sacrifice, did

not die, but, like Mary, had to come down living from Calvary.

Will I be pardoned if I add some reflections on these letters and

this narration? I said when commencing them that, as it seemed to

me, they glorified Christianity in the two-fold transfiguration

of love and of death. It seems to me yet clearer, now that I have

finished them, that this is indeed their characteristic and their

merit.

Yes, it is the glory of Christianity to have rendered possible,

nay frequent, this sanctity of love which ancient philosophy

pursued in its dreams, but which it had never either contemplated

or exemplified. It is the glory of Christianity to have so well

schooled, so well regulated the heart of man, to have made that

heart at once so virginal and so strong, as to be capable of

loving more, and better than ever, all that is lovable on earth,

and at the same time capable of always loving it less than God.

{631}

It is the glory of Christianity to have made a young girl--not a

philosopher, not a poet, but a simple and pious girl--to realize

unconsciously in her heart that sublimest conception of human

wisdom; the continual, incessant passage of love from the shadows

of being and of beauty, to the infinite being and the infinite

beauty, from "divine phantoms," to use the expression of Plato,

to the eternal reality. It is the glory of Christianity to have

in all things opened to man a road toward God; to have taught him

to make all his affections serve as so many steps whereby he may

ascend to the absolute love: "In his heart he hath disposed to

ascend by steps." [Footnote 183] In fine, it is the glory of

Christianity to have worked this prodigy, that a holiness so

extraordinary, a perfection so superhuman, neither destroys nor

fetters the pure affections of earth; so that the saints did not

attain to the loving God alone by stifling in their hearts all

love for their fellow-beings; but, on the contrary, they learned

to love all mankind more than themselves, by first loving God

above all.

[Footnote 183: Psalm lxxxiii. 6.]

Whoever, after seeing this, will meditate on the nature of the

human heart, and on its history when abandoned to itself, will be

forced to admit that here is indeed a transfiguration.

And as regards death, I find this transfiguration to be, if

possible, more striking still. Death learned upon the cross that

its highest office is to be the auxiliary of love. There an

indissoluble fraternity was established between these two great

forces; and _there_ love received its mission to transform

death into sacrifice. The ideal statue of the dying Christian is

not then the ancient gladiator, falling, resigned but passive,

his head bowed, his dim eye fixed on the earth which is fast

escaping from him, impatient for the approach of nothingness,

plunging willingly into eternal night. No; his ideal is the

Crucified, dying erect, above the earth, "_exaltatus a

terra_" in the attitude of the priest at the altar, pardoning

all men, loving them to his latest breath, acquiescing in his

death, nay, willing it, making himself the solemn deposit of his

soul into the hands of his Father, at once the subject and the

king of death, at once priest and victim.

Such is the Christian fraternity of Love and Death.

Hence it is, that through the differences of ages, of conditions,

of minds, all holy deaths resemble one another; it is still love

ruling death and transforming it into sacrifice. We have just

portrayed the last hours of a betrothed bride who died in

sacrificing to Jesus Christ her nuptial crown; ere while we

followed through tears of admiration the account of another

death, grander, more celebrated, more striking. [Footnote 184]

[Footnote 184: These lines were written a few days after the

death of the Rev. Father de Ravignan. We give them to-day

just as the first emotion dictated them, persuaded that time

cannot take from the virtues of the saints their eternal

actuality.]

Now, what similitude could we expect to find between the last

hours of a holy religious, an illustrious orator, a great and

heroic soul, and those of a simple young girl, strong only in her

innocence? And yet I venture to compare these two deaths, and the

longer I consider them the more do I find that they resemble each

other, that they are blended together in one ruling sentiment;

they are both a sacrifice, and a sacrifice conducted by love.

Sacrifices very different, victims very unequal, I admit. What

peace in the death of the holy Father de Ravignan; or rather,

what triumph of the Christian will over death! How he rules it!

{632}

He speaks of "this last affair which is to be conducted, like all

others, with decision and energy;" he gives the directions for

the sacrifice; he offers it himself! When did he more truly live

than on that bed of death? when was he more wakeful than in that

seeming sleep! Then was he so strong and vigorous that he seemed

to dominate death itself; in this resembling, as far as is

possible to man, Christ upon the cross, whom, say the doctors,

death could not approach except by his express order. What love,

in fine, in his every word and in those desires of heaven, for

the impatience and the ardor of which he reproaches himself! For

my part, I fancy I see him welcoming death, for which he had been

preparing himself for more than thirty years, with that grave,

sweet smile whose charm was so extraordinary.

The young bride of Pisa is far from this severe grandeur. There

are tears, there are regrets in her last farewell. There is one

earthly name that lingers on her lips even to the confines of

heaven. She does not command death--she obeys it; and yet here,

too, I see an altar, a victim a sacrifice. Here, too, I see the

will, more tremulous, more surprised, indeed, than in the great

religious, but still armed by love, ending by _conducting

itself the last affair_, and by absorbing death in its

victory. Once again, what becomes of death in such deaths? where

is it? It seems to disappear: "Death, where is thy victory? Where

is thy sting? It is swallowed up!"

Let our souls become inebriated with hope at the recital of holy

deaths; let us yield ourselves without fear to the attraction

which they give us for the life to come. Undoubtedly, the true

secret of dying well is to live well; and our imperfection does

not allow us to treat death as may the saints. But surely the

love which transfigured their death, is at least begun in our

souls; it may increase, and, the hour come, may transform for us

also the supreme defiles into regions of light and peace.

Among the paintings which have been found in the catacombs of

Rome, there is one that has always struck me as having a profound

meaning: it is a jewelled cross, from all sides of which spring

stems of roses, which bloom around it, and cover its severe

nudity. [Footnote 185]

[Footnote 185: Two of these crosses, adorned with gems and

flowers, have been discovered among the frescoes of the

cemetery of St. Pontianus, whose origin seems to have been

anterior to the third century. One of them surmounted an

altar; the other, which decorated a baptistery, is one of the

most valued monuments of Christian archaeology. Throughout

its entire height, and on both arms, it is covered with

precious stones, richly figured, alternately square and oval.

The two arms support flambeaux, with the flame clearly

outlined; from them also depend two little chains, at the

extremity of which are suspended the traditional Alpha and

Omega. From the foot of the cross to the arms spring on both

sides stems of roses covered with leaves and flowers.

Directly under this painting was the baptismal font, formed

from a stream whose waters, ever smooth and limpid, seem even

now, after the lapse of fourteen centuries, to await the

immersion of the catechumens.

The discovery in a baptistery of this cross enveloped in

splendor, light, and love, authorizes our conjectures as to

the signification it must have had in relation to the

neophytes. This precious fresco is carefully reproduced in

the great work of M. Perret on the Roman catacombs.]

It is very rarely that the cross is found in the catacombs.

Perhaps for the tender faith of the neophytes it was dreaded-the

sight of that instrument of torture which was yet odious to

the whole world, and was dragged daily through the streets for

the punishment of slaves. It was, doubtless, to assist the

transition from horror to love that the Christian instinct had

covered that cross with precious stones and blooming roses, red

still with a blood shed by Divine love for the salvation of

mankind. Be that as it may, this symbol seems to me to express

gloriously the transfiguration of death by Christianity. Ah!

neophytes that we are, neophytes of death and a life to come, let

us regard the dying moment as a cross which Jesus and his saints

have covered for us with encouragement and hope.

{633}

When the children of the first Christians wondered to see a

gibbet on the altar, their fathers pointed to the jewels and

roses, and told them of the Redeemer's love. If death terrifies

us in its austere nakedness, let us look at the love which can

transfigure it, and can make our last hour the happiest, and

above all, the most precious in our life.

Rosa Ferrucci was mourned. The whole public press of Tuscany told

of her death; poets chanted it; inscriptions were composed in her

honor,--the Italian scholars excel in this art so little

cultivated among us;--I transcribe one which I think touching:

CHASTE YOUTHS, TENDER VIRGINS,

DECORATE WITH TEARS

THE TOMB OF ROSA FERRUCCI,

SWEETEST GIRL,

IN THE POLITE ARTS

VERSED BEYOND THE CUSTOM OF WOMEN;

WHO,

ON THE VERY EVE OF MARRIAGE,

WHILST UNACCUSTOMED JOYS FILLED HER SILENT BREAST,

COMPLETED HER YOUTHFUL LIFE

SECURE.

_Secura!_ beautiful word--word full of peace! and yet less

eloquent than one single word which I once read on a fragment of

marble taken from the Roman catacombs, [Footnote 186] and which I

now bring to the tomb of her who has passed from earthly

espousals to the nuptials of the Lamb. The case here also was

that of a young Christian maiden. Was she affianced like Rosa

Ferrucci? Was it the hand of a betrothed spouse that closed her

tomb? The word we speak of, does it indicate her virginal glory,

or was it her name? The little stone saith not. All that we know

is, that the hand which carried into the consecrated galleries

the mortal remains of the young Christian, after having marked

the place of her repose, took a fragment of marble, laid it

against the opening, fastened it by a little clay, and choosing a

word among those which the Gospel had just given or explained to

the world, engraved these six letters:

"Chaste,"

[Footnote 186: This fragment is now preserved among the

_monumenta vetera Christianorum_ in the Belvedere gallery

of the Vatican.]

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

Memoirs Of Count Segur.

To record the actions and opinions of one who labored efficiently

in the attainment of American independence is an agreeable task.

The deeds of soldiers are always interesting to the historian and

attractive to the reader. The philosophical principles that led

gay young men from the brilliant capital of France to the distant

regions of a new world, in order to practically assist in the

assertion of human liberty, cannot be ignored, much less

neglected, in our all-investigating age. Count Segur participated

in the stirring scenes over which the genius of Washington

presided, and he has transmitted to us the treasure of his

experience in the first volume of his memoirs. As he lived in the

times preceding the great Revolution which overthrew so many old

forms of power and honor throughout Christendom, and as his

facilities for obtaining a correct knowledge of the state of

society and of systems in his day were extensive, his

introductory pages are very instructive.

{634}

This will appear from one comprehensive sentence of his own: "My

position, my birth, the ties of friendship and consanguinity,

which connected me with all the remarkable personages of the

courts of Louis XV. and Louis XVI.; my father's administration,

my travels in America, my negotiations in Russia and in Prussia;

the advantage of having been engaged in intercourse of affairs

and society with Catharine II., Frederick the Great, Potemkin,

Joseph II., Gustavus III., Washington, Kosciusko, Lafayette,

Nassau, Mirabeau, Napoleon, as well as with the chiefs of the

aristocratic and democratic parties, and the most illustrious

writers of my times;--all that I have seen, done, experienced,

and suffered during the Revolution; those strange alternations of

prosperity and misfortune, of credit and disgrace, of enjoyments

and proscriptions, of opulence and poverty; all the different

occupations which I have been forced to occupy, and the various

conditions of life in which fate has placed me--having induced me

to believe that this sketch of my life would prove entertaining

and interesting; chance having made me successively a colonel, a

general officer, a traveller, a navigator, a courtier, the son of

a minister of war, an ambassador, a negotiator, a prisoner, an

agriculturist, a soldier, an elector, a poet, a dramatic author,

a contributor to newspapers, an essayist, a historian, a deputy,

a counsellor of state, a senator, an academician, and a peer of

France:"--Certainly a catalogue of sufficiently varied offices,

winding up rather prosperously!

The family of Segur was ancient and honorable. In the field and

in the cabinet his forefathers had distinguished themselves, and

our author helped to extend his ancestral reputation. Highly

gifted by nature, his ample opportunities of cultivation and

acquirement made him familiar with the various branches of

science then taught. He became deeply imbued with those

philosophical notions that had begun to spread themselves abroad

under the reign of Louis XV., and continued to gather might until

they brought his successor to the block, and even still keep

Europe in a state of unrest. From 1753 to 1774, when Louis XV.

died, young Segur had occasion to learn as much as his youthful

judgment would enable him, concerning the wretched state of

society around the court of that weak and degraded prince. It was

under his reign, or rather that of his mistresses--for their

influence had more to do with the government than the

king's--that the storm was brewed which swept away with terrible

force so many corrupt systems of legislation and social life. The

philosophers began to point their weapons against ancient

customs. Parliamentary decrees came to the assistance of the

latter, but "their acts of rigor against philosophical writings

produced no other effect than to cause them to be sought after

and read with a greater avidity. Public opinion became a power of

opposition which triumphed over every obstacle; the condemnation

was a title of consideration for its author; and under the reign

of an absolute monarch, liberty having become a fashion in the

capital, exercised a greater sway in it than the monarch

himself." Who can fail to see that such results will always

inevitably follow similar proceedings! Human nature has something

imperatively logical in it, and it will act according to its

laws, which are nothing else than the laws of Providence.

{635}

There is a deep philosophy in what he says: "Power was still

arbitrary, and yet authority lost its influence; public opinion

escaped despotism by railing at it; we did not possess liberty,

but license." (P.17.) The lethargy of one weak mind produced all

this confusion. The parliament, clergy, philosophers, and

courtiers, all joined for different purposes in the same common

cry against the shameful indolence of the court. The revolution

which was silently moving through public opinion was scarcely

dreamed of by anybody. Rash measures of resentment, always the

resort of weak and tyrannic minds, only served to irritate what

had been provoked, and the folly of the king was shown in small

acts of petty tyranny. But death came to remove him and his

turpitude from the French throne. Segur narrates it: "In the

month of April, 1774, as Louis XV. was going to hunt, he met a

funeral, and, being fond of asking questions, he approached the

coffin and inquired who it was they were going to bury? He was

told it was a young girl who had died of the small-pox. Seized

with a sudden fear, he returned to his palace, and was two days

afterward attacked with that cruel malady, the very name of which

had alarmed him. The hand of death was upon him; his flesh became

corrupted; mortification ensued, and carried him off. His corpse

was covered with lime, and conveyed to St. Denis without any kind

of ceremony." (P. 32.)

He proceeds to philosophize upon the desertion of the royal

fallen shadow by his most subservient flatterers, and observes

that in proportion as they had been slavish to his whims and

their own interests during his life, so did they evince their

indifference to him when departed. They turned immediately to the

rising sun, and offered him their adulatory worship. Still, the

principles which had been set to work in former years continued

to advance even under the benignant reign of Louis XVI., who

finally atoned for the faults of his predecessors.

The author sums up succinctly the condition of the tottering

society, daily becoming weaker: "The object of every one was to

repair the old edifice; and, in this simultaneous attempt of all,

it was levelled with the ground. Too much light was brought to

the work by many, and a conflagration ensued. The consequence of

this has been, that, for the last fifty years, our harassed lives

have been to each of us a dream, alternately monarchical,

republican, warlike, and philosophical." (P. 63.) The misfortune

is, that this dreaming has not yet ended in France, or, indeed,

in any part of Europe except Switzerland.

But we must hasten to the events which drew him into connection

with the American war. He became a soldier, and, after fighting

several duels, found himself carried away by the enthusiasm which

filled his countrymen at the sound of the first cannon-shot fired

in defence of the standard of liberty. "I recollect," he says,

"that the Americans were then styled insurgents and Bostonians;

their daring courage electrified every mind, and excited

universal admiration, more particularly among young people. The

American insurrection was everywhere applauded, and became, as it

were, a fashion; and I was very far from being the only one whose

heart beat at the sound of liberty just waking from its slumbers,

and struggling to throw off the yoke of arbitrary power. On my

arrival at Paris, I found the same agitation prevailing also

there in the public

mind.

{636}

Nobody seemed favorable to the cause of England; all openly

expressed their wishes for the success of the Bostonians."

Eager as were these young enthusiasts to fight in America for the

cause of liberty, many obstacles interposed to prevent or defer

the carrying out of their intentions. The French government was

not in a very prosperous financial state at the time, as the

country had scarcely recovered from the mad speculations of the

Scotchman Law during the preceding reign. Besides, England was

then powerful: her fleets swept the sea, and she had just

conveyed across the Atlantic 40,000 mercenaries, to cut the

throats of American freemen and stifle the rising spirit of

liberty. Private aid was, indeed, freely afforded to the

colonists; arms and ammunition were conveyed across the ocean in

spite of embarrassing neutrality laws, and many enterprising

officers were allowed to resign their positions in the French

service and serve under Washington. When the American deputies,

Silas Deane, Arthur Lee, and Benjamin Franklin, arrived in Paris,

and were received with such cordiality at the French court, a new

stimulus was given to the general desire of assisting the

revolutionists. The appearance of those republican delegates

produced a sensation in that brilliant capital. "Nothing could be

more striking than the contrast between the luxury of our

capitol, the elegance of our fashions, the magnificence of

Versailles, the still brilliant remains of the monarchical pride

of Louis XIV., and the polished and superb dignity of our

nobility, on the one hand; and, on the other hand, the almost

rustic apparel, the plain but firm demeanor, the free and direct

language of the envoys, whose antique simplicity of dress and

appearance seemed to have produced within our walls, in the midst

of the effeminate and servile refinement of the eighteenth

century, some sages contemporary with Plato, or republicans of

the age of Cato and Fabius." (P. 101.)

No less impressive than their unpretending exterior, the honesty

and artless sincerity of the American deputies gained the hearts

of the French people, and enlisted in their cause the generous

enthusiasm of the warlike portion of the nation. Numerous offers

of service were made, and among the most distinguished were

Lafayette, then a young man, the Count de Noailles, and Count

Segur. The two latter were obliged by their parents to desist

from the enterprise, which they had already arranged to carry out

by crossing the ocean; but Lafayette succeeded in purchasing a

vessel, which he armed and manned at his own expense, and, taking

with him some experienced officers, sailed from a port in Spain

and reached America, where he met with a reception due to his

merits and noble purpose. A brave and experienced soldier, M. de

Valfort, afterward chief instructor of Napoleon Buonaparte,

accompanied the Marquis and rendered efficient service during his

stay in the New World.

Some time was now spent by young Segur in attending to the events

which Voltaire and his colaborers were bringing about in the

world of literature. He was a visitor at the family residence of

Segur, whose mother was a woman of note in the metropolis. The

count himself narrates several interesting incidents respecting

the arch-infidel, with whom he appears to have been on intimate

terms. With regard to his death there is one thing worth

recording. Immediately after his triumphal entry into Paris,

death came upon him. Segur says that he recanted his former

errors.

{637}

"The clergy, no longer venturing to oppose him, now hoped to

convert him. At first Voltaire yielded; he received the Abbé

Gauthier, confessed himself, and wrote a profession of faith,

which, without fully satisfying the priests, greatly displeased

the philosophers. After escaping the danger, he forgot his fears

and his prudence. A few weeks after, upon being taken extremely

ill, he refused to see a priest, and terminated, with apparent

indifference, a long life." There is a different version of the

latter half of the story. It is related that he cried most

piteously for a priest; but his philosophical friends refused to

accord him his request, and he died with imprecations most

horrible upon their heads for denying his dying wish.

Political changes at length enabled the count to embark for

America, and become an actor in the great drama of freedom, of

which he had been long an earnest spectator at a distance. War

was declared between France and England. The French, under Arthur

Dillon and Count Noailles, directed by D'Estaing, captured the

town of Grenada; after which the latter sailed for Savannah,

designing to seize that important position. Notwithstanding the

valor of the French and Americans in the successive assaults upon

the works, they were obliged to retire with loss, rendered still

more lamentable by the fall of the brave Pulaski, who fought in

America for the liberty which had been crushed in his own land. A

concise and accurate narrative of the principal events that

preceded the surrender of Cornwallis to the united arms of

America and France, occupies a considerable space in the memoirs

before us. The bravery of the French, very naturally, obtains a

prominent notice until the moment of capitulation arrives. "The

English troops then defiled between the two allied armies, drums

beating, and carrying their arms, which they afterward deposited

with their flags. As Lord Cornwallis was ill, General O'Hara

defiled at the head of the English troops, and presented his

sword to the Count de Rochambeau; but the French general,

pointing to Washington at the head of the American army, told him

that, the French being only auxiliaries, it was for the American

general to receive his sword and give him his orders." (P. 237.)

Strange incidents happen in all wars. About this time, the French

general, De Bouillé, made an attack on the Dutch islands of the

West Indies, lately captured by the British. "Having during the

night landed his troops in the island of St. Eustatia, he

advanced at break of day to attack the principal fortress of the

island, whose garrison was then engaged in manoeuvring on the

plain. The vanguard of M. de Bouillé was composed of an Irish

regiment in the service of France: deceived by the sight of their

red coats, the English thought they saw a part of their own

countrymen, and suffered themselves to be approached without

suspicion. Undeceived too late, they vainly fought with courage;

they were routed on all sides, and pursued with so much ardor

that French and English entered pell-mell into the fortress,

which remained in our possession." How many foreign battle-fields

have found the Irish in the vanguard of armies, yet what avails

their valor to their own country!

In 1782, Count Segur got permission to set out for America, and a

frigate, La Gloire, of thirty-two guns, was placed at his

disposal to carry important despatches to Count Rochambeau from

his government.

{638}

He had as fellow-passengers the Duke de Lauzun, the Prince de

Broglie, the Baron Montesquieu, Count de Loménie, an Irish

officer named Sheldon, Polawski, a Polish gentleman, and others

eager to assist the inhabitants of a new world fighting for

liberty, of which men were allowed to dream in the Old World.

Enthusiastic as he had previously felt upon the subject, he could

hardly restrain himself, now that he was on his way to accomplish

his most cherished hopes.

A letter dated from "Brest Roads, onboard La Gloire, May 19th,

1782," contains some remarkably philosophical passages; and when

writing his memoirs, forty-two years afterward, he could find no

fitter language to convey the sentiments which then agitated his

mind. "In the midst of an absolute government, everything is

sacrificed to vanity, to the love of fame, or what is called

glory, but which hardly deserves the name of patriotism in a

country where a select number of persons, raised to the first

employments of the state by the will of a master, and on the

precarious tenure of that will, engross the whole legislative and

executive power; in a country where public rights are only

considered as private property, where the court is all in all,

and the nation nothing. A love of true glory cannot exist without

philosophy and public manners. With us, the desire of celebrity,

which may be directed to good or evil, is the prevailing motive,

while promotion depends not upon talents, but upon favor." A most

pernicious course, and certain to produce disastrous consequences

in any organization! He proceeds to expose the facility with

which men adapt themselves to any absolute system in which the

ambitious and selfish portion of the community find adulation and

sycophancy the readiest ladders to power and eminence, while the

truly meritorious find their virtue an obstacle to favor, if not

an occasion of suspicion and fear. If the French nation continued

without change under the system of government such as Count Segur

represents that of his day, it would be more difficult to account

for the phenomenon than the revolution which destroyed it.

The intelligent appreciation of right and freedom that incited

those Frenchmen to dare the perils of the ocean preparatory to

the more serious dangers of the battle-field for the sake of

liberty, we should not too easily forget in the present age. It

was no whimsical adventure that led them over the waves to engage

in the pursuit of chimerical gratification. "In separating at

this time from all I hold dear, I do not make so painful a

sacrifice to prejudice, _but to duty_. ... Being a soldier,

I leave my family, my native place, and all the charms of life,

in order strictly to fulfil the duties of a profession, perhaps

the noblest of any, when engaged in a just cause."

An interesting narrative of the voyage, in company with the

frigate L'Aigle, of forty guns, and bearing a treasure of two

million and a half livres for the aid of the Americans, is given

in a few pages of the memoirs. They fell in with an English

frigate of seventy-four guns, and a memorable engagement ensued.

This vessel was the Hector, formerly a Frenchman, taken by the

English at the defeat of De Grasse. In the midst of the

engagement, Vallongue, the French commander, cried out to the

English captain to strike his colors. "Yes, yes," said the latter

ironically, "I am going to do it;" and completed his answer by a

terrible broadside. So near were the vessels that the men used

pistols; and even the rammers of the guns were wielded as clubs.

{639}

For three quarters of an hour La Gloire bore the brunt of the

unequal conflict; but, at length, aided by L'Aigle, they so

disabled the English vessel that they expected soon to capture

her. Next day, however, other sails appearing in sight, they

abandoned the Hector, which afterward sank, and the crew was

rescued by an American ship. An incident of the battle may be

related, as showing the coolness and gayety of the French

character, even amidst the most appalling scenes:

"The Baron de Montesquieu was standing near us, (on the deck;) we

had of late been amusing ourselves with rallying him in regard to

the words _liaisons dangereuses_, which he had heard us

pronounce, and, in spite of all his inquiries, we had still

evaded explaining to him that such was the title of a new novel,

then much read in France. While we were thus conversing together,

our ship received the fire of the Hector, and a bar-shot--a

murderous junction of two balls united by an iron bar--struck a

part of the quarter-deck, from which we had just before

descended. The Count de Loménie, standing at the side of

Montesquieu, and pointing to the shot, said very coolly, 'You

were wishing to know what those _liaisons dangereuses_ were?

There, look, you have them.'"

Soon after this event they approached Delaware Bay, where they

captured an English corvette. Being ignorant of the channel,

however, they were necessarily delayed, and they were placed in a

most critical position by the appearance of an English fleet,

whose superior force seemed to leave them no chance of escape.

This they effected, nevertheless, with the greatest difficulty,

carrying with them the gold which they had been obliged to throw

into the river when pursued by the English, but which they

afterward fished up and secured. They then proceeded on the way

to Philadelphia, and the Count gives amusing incidents that

occurred on the route. Sometimes well treated by the inhabitants

favorable to the cause of freedom, they were also subjected to

much annoyance by the tories and the timid or vacillating between

both sides. A certain Mr. Pedikies is particularly mentioned as

having received them coolly and suspiciously, while promises,

bribes, and threats were necessary to oblige him to afford them

any aid. The contrast evident between the Americans and his own

countrymen, is noticed by the writer in an aspect very favorable

to the former. What especially attracted his attention was, the

absence of different classes in society and of all poverty. "All

the Americans whom we met were dressed in well-made clothes, of

excellent stuff, with boots well cleaned; their deportment was

free, frank, and kind, equally removed from rudeness of manner

and from studied politeness; exhibiting an independent character,

subject only to the laws, proud of its own rights, and respecting

those of others. Their aspect seemed to declare that we were in a

land of reason, of order, and of liberty." (P. 320.) He describes

the face of the country, its boundless resources of agricultural

wealth, and stores of future happiness and power. Philadelphia,

then the capital of the country, attracted his admiration, and he

enters upon a disquisition concerning the Quakers, who inspired

him with a very high esteem for their principles of peace and

rectitude. He says that "most of them were tories," and cannot

blame them, because their religion forbade its members to engage

in war. "Friend," said one of them to General Rochambeau, "thou

dost practise a vile trade; but we are told that thou dost

conduct thyself with all the humanity and justice it will admit

of.

{640}

I am very glad of this; I feel indebted to thee for it; and I am

come hither to see thee, and to assure thee of my esteem."

Another discovered a very ingenious mode of avoiding

participation in the deeds of war, even by paying taxes to

support it, and at the same time of complying with the law of

Congress imposing taxation. The day upon which the collectors

called, he placed a certain sum of money apart where they might

find it, and thus he would not _give_, but allowed it _to

be taken_. At Newport, he became acquainted with a venerable

member of the same sect; and the Frenchman became an ardent

admirer of Polly Leiton, the beautiful and modest daughter of his

host. She made no pretence to conceal her abhorrence of war, and

candidly addressed the Count in terms not at all complimentary to

his military notions. "Thou hast, then," she said, "neither wife

nor children in Europe, since thou leavest thy country, and

comest so far to engage in that cruel occupation, war?" "But it

is for your welfare," he replied, "that I quit all I hold dear,

and it is to defend your liberty that I come to fight the

English." "The English," she rejoined, "have done thee no harm,

and wherefore shouldst thou care about our liberty? We ought

never to interfere in other people's business, unless it be to

reconcile them together and prevent the effusion of blood." "But

my king has ordered me to come here and engage his enemies and

your own," said Segur. To this she replied that no king has a

right to order what is unjust and contrary to what God ordereth.

Having transacted important business with M. de Luzerne, at

Philadelphia, and fully acquainted himself with the state of

affairs and eminent men of the times, he set out for the camp of

Washington and Rochambeau, on the banks of the Hudson. In the

narrative of his journey thither, he shows himself a keen

observer, and highly appreciates the character of the

inhabitants, as well as the magnificent aspect of the country

through which he passed. Schools, churches, and universities met

him at every town; while kindness, comfort, happiness, were

everywhere displayed. The modest tranquillity of independent men,

knowing no power above them but the influence of law, and that

law the expression of their own will; the vanity, servility, and

prejudices of European society unknown; the general spirit of

industry and the honorable occupation of labor common to all;

such phases of life, so strange to the traveller, attracted his

deepest attention.

The inns at which he stopped on his way were generally kept by

captains, majors, colonels, generals, who conversed with equal

facility upon military tactics and agricultural projects, and

were no less entertaining in their stories of campaigns against

the English than in their success in clearing forests and raising

crops on the sites of Indian wigwams. This very naturally

surprised the inquisitive Frenchman; but, while it presented to

him a new phase of human society, it approved itself very highly

to his judgment. Two things, however, he found to condemn; or, as

he himself says, shocked him more than he could express. One was

"a vile custom, the moment a toast was given, of circulating an

immense bowl of punch round the table, out of which each guest

was successively compelled to drink; and the other was, that,

after being in bed, it was not unusual to see a fresh traveller

walk into your room, and without ceremony stretch himself by your

side, and appropriate a part of your couch."

{641}

Trenton and Princeton recalled to him the memory of brilliant

exploits performed in the cause of liberty by Washington and

Lafayette; but at Pompton he would have fallen into the hands of

the Britishers, had he not been warned of his danger by an old

woman sitting at her door, engaged by a spinning-wheel. Having at

length crossed the majestic Hudson, which he eloquently

describes, he was cheered by the sight of the American tents, and

soon reached the headquarters of Rochambeau, at Peekskill. He

took command of a veteran regiment of Soissonnais, which had been

awaiting him, and he was received with the greatest enthusiasm.

It had been formerly named Segur, from his father, who had

commanded it at the famous battles of Lawfeld and Rocoux. In both

these battles the old warrior was wounded at the head of his

regiment, once by a musket-ball through his breast, and again by

another shot that shattered his arm. Although he felt annoyed at

the absence of active operations in the field, still he found

amusement enough among his numerous countrymen, with whom he was

now associated. One young officer of artillery particularly

attracted his attention. This was Duplessis-Mauduit, who had most

signally distinguished himself in several engagements, and who

carried his attachment to liberty and equality so far as to be

highly displeased if any one called him _Sir_ or

_Mister_. He would be called simply Thomas

Duplessis-Mauduit.

His appreciation of the character of Washington is in accordance

with the estimation in which that great man was and is held by

all. "Too often," he says, "reality disappoints the expectations

our imagination had raised, and admiration diminishes by a too

close view of the object upon which it had been bestowed; but, on

seeing General Washington, I found a perfect similarity between

the impression produced upon me by his aspect and the idea I had

formed of him. His exterior disclosed, as it were, the history of

his life; simplicity, grandeur, dignity, calmness, goodness,

firmness, the attributes of his character, were also stamped upon

his features and in all his person. His stature was noble and

elevated; the expression of his features mild and benevolent; his

smile graceful and pleasing; his manners simple, without

familiarity. He did not display the luxury of a monarchical

general; everything announced in him the hero of a republic."

Expecting to find an army without organization, and officers

without suitable military knowledge, he was surprised to find

well-drilled battalions, and officers fully competent in all

departments of their service. He dined frequently with

Washington, and gives instructive descriptions of the habits of

those Revolutionary heroes. The toasts most frequently given

after dinner at headquarters were, "The Independence of the

United States;" "The King and Queen of France;" "Success to the

allied armies." The generous spirit of brotherhood that united

the two nations in those days seems to have become unknown in our

times; while she that was then the cruel enemy has now become the

flattered friend. Who will deny that nations sometimes act the

life of individuals? Washington's opinions on this point are

worth recording: "He spoke to me of the gratitude which his

country would ever retain for the King of France, and for his

generous assistance; highly extolled the wisdom and skill of

General de Rochambeau, expressing himself honored by having

observed and obtained his friendship; warmly commended the

discipline and bravery of our army; and concluded by speaking to

me, in very handsome terms, of my father, whose long services and

numerous wounds were becoming ornaments, he said, to a minister

of war." (P. 253.)

{642}

The Americans and French were closely besieging the British at

this time in New York, and although the prudence of the generals

restrained the impetuosity of the allies, who eagerly sought to

attack the enemy in their defences, it was not possible to

prevent the execution of some daring exploits. But the armies

soon separated, the French marching toward Newport and

Providence, thence to Boston. They were ordered to the West

Indies, where the decisive blow was to be struck at the English,

and, as it eventually turned out, the independence of the States

soon after followed.

We cannot but admire the wisdom displayed in this book of

memoirs, written eighty-five years ago, amidst scenes and times

that could afford material from which the future greatness of the

country could be predicted only by a very sagacious mind. He

clearly foresaw, in the rising colonies then about to emerge into

a powerful nationality, all the resources which, by judicious and

liberal legislation, led to the wonderful prosperity with which

our country is blessed. The religious toleration and equality

which reigned everywhere he highly eulogized, and accounts very

philosophically for the necessity of such a state of things. It

must be borne in mind that Count Segur was a follower of

Voltaire, although of a Protestant family. For this reason the

ingenuousness with which he testifies to the origin of this

religious toleration is more deserving of notice. At page 371, he

says: "The multiplicity of religions rendered toleration

indispensable among them, and, what will, perhaps, appear

singular, _the example of this toleration was set by the

Catholics_. No church, therefore, was privileged or considered

the established church; the ministers of each religion were paid

by those who professed it, and there existed between them not a

fatal spirit of jealousy, a source of discord, but a laudable

emulation of charity, benevolence, and virtue." It is pleasing to

record this generous tribute of respect to the liberal spirit

which influenced the religious denominations of those

Revolutionary times. It is true that in all religious sects there

are some members who are ever ready to clamor for persecution,

and eager to adopt forcible measures to compel their unwilling

neighbors to believe according to their own special measure of

belief. And it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to name one

religious party that has not, when sufficiently strong to do so,

been led into the commission of acts which succeeding generations

would willingly have effaced from the record of their

predecessors. For instance, what intelligent Presbyterian of the

present day would not willingly blot from the page of her history

the deeds that stain the Scotch Church in the days of her

influence? Buckle, one of the deepest non-Catholic writers of the

present age, says that her real character was "one of the most

detestable tyrannies ever seen on the earth." "When the Scotch

Kirk was at the height of its power, we may search history in

vain for any institution which can compete with it, except the

Spanish inquisition. Between these two there is a close and

intimate analogy. Both were intolerant, both were cruel, both

made war upon the finest parts of human nature, and both

destroyed every vestige of religious freedom." (Vol. ii. p. 322.)

{643}

It is more truthful to admit the opinion of Mr. Buckle than to

attempt to controvert his facts of proof by which he establishes

his position. We only advert to this as elucidating the principle

that, although there may be individual Presbyterians and

individual Catholics who feel a disposition to recur to the

unchristian acts of some of their predecessors, yet it cannot be

denied that they are exceptional. The general spirit of

toleration which Count Segur so justly appreciates, is too deeply

implanted in the institutions of the Republic to be blown away by

any foul blast of weak bigotry.

Another subject upon which he wisely commented is equally

important to show his great foresight. After aptly describing the

reasons from which he presaged the future greatness of the

nation, he observes that "the only danger to be apprehended

hereafter for this happy Republic, (which then consisted of three

millions of inhabitants,) is the state of excessive opulence of

which its exclusive commerce seems to hold out the promise, and

which may bring luxury and corruption in its train." (P. 374.)

Has not this already come to pass? Again he asks: "Is not that

difference which is observable between the manners and situation

of the North and South calculated, in fact, to create an

apprehension for the future of a political separation, which

would weaken and perhaps even dissolve this happy union, which

can only retain its strength while it remains firm and intimate?"

The past few years have proven the justness of his views.

We cannot better conclude than by transcribing his relation of an

incident which evinced the bravery of his friend Lynch, an

officer of the staff of Count d'Estaing, at the storming of

Savannah: "M. d'Estaing, at the most critical moment of that

sanguinary affair, being at the head of the right column,

directed Lynch to carry an urgent order to the third column,

which was on the left. These columns were then within grape-shot

of the enemy's entrenchments; and on both sides a tremendous

firing was kept up. Lynch, instead of passing through the centre

or in the rear of the columns, proceeded coolly through the

shower of balls and grape-shot, which the French and English were

discharging at each other. It was in vain that M. d'Estaing, and

those who surrounded him, cried to Lynch to take another

direction; he went on, executed his order, and returned by the

same way; that is to say, under a vault of flying shot, and where

every one expected to witness his instant destruction. 'What!'

cried the general, on seeing him return unhurt, 'The devil must

be in you, surely. Why did you choose such a road as that, in

which you might have perished a thousand times over?' 'Because it

was the shortest,' answered Lynch. Having uttered these words, he

went with equal coolness and joined the party that most ardently

engaged in storming the place."

It has been a pleasure, as well as an instruction, to accompany

in his thoughts and actions one of those many noble and brave

foreigners who aided, by their services, in the establishment of

our independence, and forced a powerful foe to relinquish her

grasp upon a nation struggling for liberty.

--------

{644}

Notre Dame De Garaison.

In the province of Aquitaine, a short distance from the village

of Monléon, among the hills of _Les Hautes Pyrénées_, is a

valley bearing the name of Garaison, where stands a votive chapel

in honor of the Blessed Virgin. It is a favorite place of

pilgrimage for all the country around, which has been approved of

by Popes Urban VIII, and Gregory XVI., who have enriched it with

indulgences. It was erected in consequence of the apparition of

our Blessed Lady on the spot, about the year 1500, to a young

shepherdess who was guarding her flock in the valley. The legend

is as follows, somewhat abridged. It is supported by most

unobjectionable witnesses at the time of the event, by tradition,

and the unanimous voice of the country around; by public

documents, and by the effects which followed and which still

exist. As for me, however, this is of little moment, these

legends not being matters of faith. It is sufficient for me to

know that the spot in question is one dear to Mary and peculiarly

favored by Heaven. It has been sanctified by the sighs of

contrition, by the pure confessions, the fervent communions, and

the sudden and miraculous conversions of those who have gone

thither in honor of the Mother of our Lord.--But the legend:

A young girl of twelve years of age, Anglèse de Sagazan, was

guarding her flock near a large hawthorn which shaded a fountain

of living water. The deep shade and the soft murmur of the

fountain invited repose, and, opening her basket of provisions,

the young shepherdess seated herself by the spring to dip her dry

brown bread in the clear, cold water. Suddenly a lady of majestic

mien, with a serene countenance and gracious regard, clothed in a

long, white robe, which fell in graceful folds to her feet, stood

before the astonished maiden, who, dazzled by her appearance,

remained immovable and speechless. Then our gracious Lady, who

loveth the poor and the humble, declared to her that she had

chosen this spot as a place of benediction, whereon she wished a

shrine erected in her honor, around which her children might

gather with more than ordinary assurance. This apparition

occurring three days in succession, the maiden related to her

father what had happened. He, in turn, reported the occurrence

among his neighbors, who were quite incredulous, but yet, through

curiosity or inspired by God, flocked to the fountain, where was

still to be heard the voice of the Virgin, though no one saw her

but the pure eyes of the shepherdess. The people went to seek the

curé, and returned to the fountain with banners, chanting hymns

in honor of Mary. They erected a large cross on the spot. After

that the water of the fountain seemed miraculously changed, and

the sick went thither to be healed. The sudden restoration of

many to health made the spot celebrated in a short time. The

number of miracles increasing, the present elegant vaulted chapel

was erected by the voluntary offerings of grateful pilgrims, and

there the benediction of Heaven descended upon the votaries of

Mary.

{645}

At this day wonderful are the prodigies wrought on soul and body

at the shrine of our Lady of Garaison. Ages ago God healed many

who, at the troubling of the waters, descended to the

angel-guarded Pool of Siloam. His ways are not as our ways. ...

I made a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Garaison in June, 18--. The

evening before, I went to shrift, by way of preparation, and the

next morning left at an early hour with a party of friends, who

completely filled our private diligence. There were five of us,

and two servants, besides the driver and his more efficient wife.

I might call her the driver and him the postilion. Quite a

procession we should have made in honor of our Lady of Garaison!

We ought to have gone plodding along the highway in sandal shoon

and penitential garb, with pilgrim staff and scallop-shell,

knocking our breasts as we went, as did the votaries of the

middle ages. But in these days, when stout old Christian flies

along the celestial railroad with his burden of sin carefully

stowed away in the baggage-car, I, a feeble pilgrim, may be

excused for seeking as comfortable a seat as could be found in

our rickety old diligence. As I got in, I caught a satisfactory

glimpse of a large basket, in which were light, crispy

_pistolets_, heaps of deep-red cherries, flasks of water,

and bottles of mild _vin rouge_, which our servant had

thoughtfully provided for our outer man. And they were not

disdained in our drive of thirty miles. Such due attention having

been paid to our bodily wants, we were quite at leisure to

abandon ourselves to our spiritual musings or our devotions! Who

could wish to have his soul constantly disturbed and pestered by

a jaded and craving body? It is quite contrary to the religious

as well as philosophic spirit of this enlightened nineteenth

century, and though I was somewhat ascetic, and rather inclined

to the sterner rules of medieval times, the thought almost

reconciled me to my corner, where I braced my weary back, and to

the aforesaid basket, whence I fortified my body.

"_Ciel!_" I exclaimed, as I found myself _en diligence_

and the stone cross of St. Oren's Priory fast disappearing, "have

I returned to the middle ages, or am I dreaming?" I could not

help rubbing my eyes, and wondering what some of my more

enlightened American friends would think, if they could see me

seriously, deliberately setting off on a pilgrimage (even in a

carriage!) of thirty miles, to pay my devotions at a shrine of

the Virgin Mary! But yes--my head was quite sound, though filled

with the vows I wished to offer in a spot peculiarly dear to our

Lady. This was the first visit I ever made to one of these places

of popular devotion, and so, apart from my religious motives, I

felt some curiosity to see this mountain chapel, away almost upon

the confines of Spain.

The roads are fine in that part of France, and bordered by

magnificent shade-trees. Owing to recent rains, we had no dust.

We passed waving wheat-fields, luxuriant vineyards hedged with

hawthorn, and away on the neighboring hills was many an old

château with its venerable towers, and hard by an antique church.

I found everything novel, and consequently interesting. Going and

returning we stopped at most of the villages.

{646}

In every one we found an old vaulted stone church, with thick

walls and doors, ever open to the passer-by. In each were several

chapels, adorned with oil paintings, bas-reliefs, and statues of

the saints, and in every church were the stations of _Via

Crucis_ well painted, and the little undying lamp of olive oil

burning near the gilded tabernacle--announcing the presence of

the Divinity--the Shekinah of the new Israel--and recalling the

beautiful lines of Lamartine:

"Pâle lampe du sanctuaire,

Pourquoi dans l'ombre du saint lieu,

Inaperçue et solitaire,

Te consumes-tu devant Dieu?

"Ce n'est pas pour diriger l'aile

De la prière ou de l'amour,

Pour éclairer, faible étincelle,

L'oeil de celui qui fit le jour.

......

"Mon oeil aime à se suspendre

A ce foyer aérien;

Et je leur dis, sans les comprendre.

Flambeaux pieux, vous faites bien.

"Peutêtre, brillantes parcelles

De l'immense création,

Devant son trône imitent-elles

L'éternelle adoration.

"C'est ainsi, dis-je à mon âme,

Que de l'ombre de ce bas lieu

Tu brûles, invisible flamme,

En la présence de ton Dieu.

"Et jamais tu n'oublies

De diriger vers lui mon coeur,

Pas plus que ces lampes remplies

De flotter devant le Seigneur." [Footnote 187]

[Footnote 187: In the absence of a suitable poetic version

of the above, we subjoin--for such of our readers as are

not familiar with the language of the original--the

following prose translation of it, from Digby's _Ages of

Faith_:

"Pale lamp of the Sanctuary, why, in the obscurity of the

Holy Place, unperceived and solitary, consumest thou

thyself before God? It is not, feeble spark! to give light

to the eye of him who made the day: it is not to dispel

darkness from the steps of his adorers. The vast nave is

only more obscure before thy distant glimmering. And yet,

symbolic lamp, thou guardest thy immortal fire, thou dost

flicker before every altar, and mine eyes love to rest

suspended on this aerial hearth. I say to them, I

comprehend not; ye pious flames, ye do well. Perhaps these

bright particles of the immense creation imitate before

his throne the eternal adoration! It is thus, say I to my

soul, that, in the shade of this lower place, thou

burnest, a flame invisible, a fire which remains

unextinguished, unconsumed, by which incense can be at all

times rekindled to ascend in fragrance to heaven!"]

In these churches there was always an altar to the Virgin, too,

adorned with lace and flowers, and streaming with gay ribbons and

pennons, after the taste of the country. In one we found a

wedding party, and were in season to hear the _Ego conjungo

vos_ of the curé over a very modest and subdued-looking pair.

We often passed huge crosses of wood or stone erected by the

wayside, to which were attached the instruments of the Passion. I

noticed among the passers-by that the women made the sign of the

cross and the men raised their hats. I did not find the villages

very agreeable. The houses were of stone, with tiled roofs, and

had a cold, forbidding look. The paved streets were narrow, with

no sidewalks, and anything but cleanly. I thought of our fresh

New England villages, their white cottages and green blinds, and

front yards filled with flowers and shrubbery. But those of

France were more antique and more picturesque--at a distance.

Flocks of sheep dotted the country, each guarded by a

shepherdess, who wore a bright scarlet _capuchon_, which

covers the head and falls below the waist. It is picturesque, if

not graceful, and at a distance the wearer looks like one of her

native but overgrown _coquelicots_. They were generally

spinning, after the manner of the country, with the distaff under

one arm and twirling the spindle in the hand, thus laying their

hands to the spindle and their hands hold of the distaff after

the manner of Old Testament times. How they contrive to spin with

these two instruments is past my comprehension, but they do

succeed admirably.

Every now and then we met a donkey groaning under the weight of

his ears and of a huge cage, or _panier_, as large as

himself on each side, filled with live poultry or fruit and

vegetables. Perched on the top between these queer saddle-bags

was a bright-eyed, sunburnt _paysanne_, most patiently

thwacking Old Dapple marketward. The oxen looked as if they fared

better; they were sleek and clean, that is, what I could see of

them, for they were almost entirely encased in great coverings,

as if they were elephants.

{647}

Their drivers wore a blouse of blue cotton, and wooden shoes with

most impertinently turned-up toes. They are worn (the shoes) both

by men and women. They make a terrible clatter; you would think

the Philistines upon you; but they are very durable.

The country reminded me of the interior of New England. The hills

were finely wooded, more so than I had expected in that old

country. On leaving Monléon, we entered a valley, narrow at

first, but which gradually opened, forming a basin of

considerable extent, with green meadows and shady thickets. It is

bounded and crowned by hills, and a few hours distant are the

Pyrenees. This valley is solitary--secluded, but not wild or

uncultivated. Perhaps there is a score of houses in it. From

about the centre rise the turrets of Notre Dame de Garaison. The

whole country was once covered with magnificent oaks which had

been planted by the old chaplains, but the vandals of a later day

had cut away whole forests.

The rain poured down in torrents when we entered the valley of

Garaison, but that did not prevent us from admiring the locality

so favorable to devotion. Far from any city, free from noise, the

chapel is buried among the hills and forests of Aquitaine, a spot

chosen by God in which to reveal his presence and power! What a

delicious solitude! We drove to a little _auberge_--Hotel de

la Paix!--erected for the accommodation of pilgrims. In the

olden time they were sheltered in a monastery, which was

devastated during the Revolution, and now, when great festivals

draw crowds of people, the women often remain in the house all

night. Leaving our carriage at the hotel, we immediately went to

the church in spite of the rain, passing through a long avenue of

majestic oaks.

The principal entrance to this sacred retreat is quite imposing.

The front is decorated with a statue of the Virgin, holding the

dead Christ in her arms--the bodies of natural size, and the work

of a skilful hand.

The buildings form a vast enclosure, in the centre of which is

the chapel, having on the north and south two courts which

separate it from the rest of the edifice. I was surprised to find

so fine an establishment so far away from any city. We passed

through a cloister shaded by cypresses to the chapel. Over the

door and at the sides are niches, in which are statues. The

vestibule, as in all these old churches, is very low. Here my

attention was attracted by a great number of small paintings

which cover the walls and vault, forming a complete mosaic. These

_ex-voto_ are not remarkable as works of art, but precious

on account of the miraculous events which they retrace. They

represent the persons who have been cured of their infirmities by

the intercession of Mary; to each is attached a label bearing the

name of the person and the date of the cure. These paintings were

left untouched at the Revolution, though the venerable guardians

of this sanctuary were driven from their cherished solitude; and

the sacred vestments, the holy vessels, the silver lamps, the

jewels, and other _ex-voto_ of all kinds, which had been

offered the Virgin in gratitude for grace received, were carried

away; the fine statues of the twelve Apostles were destined to

the flames, but were rescued by the people of Monléon, whose

church they now adorn.

From the vestibule we passed into the nave. One feels an

inexpressible emotion of piety and devotion on entering this

beautiful church.

{648}

I went immediately to the grand altar to pay my devotions to our

Lady of Garaison, while the servant took my letter of

introduction to M. le Supérieur, who was fortunately at liberty.

I found him a tall, fine-looking gentleman, instead of a hoary

old hermit, and as polite as a Parisian. He wore a flowing

_soutane_, confined at the waist by a fringed girdle, and on

his head was a sort of skull-cap, such as the priests wear in

that country--I imagine, to protect their tonsured heads from the

cold. He conducted me over the whole establishment. In his room I

saw the skull of the shepherdess to whom the Virgin appeared. She

died a nun, and more than a century old. After her death, her

body was given to the chapel, which had been erected during her

life, and to which she had been permitted to resort from time to

time. The fountain is under the grand altar; but the water is

conducted into a basin in a vault to the east of the chapel.

Every one says the waters still perform wonderful cures. The

superior said it was not owing to any mineral qualities; and as I

was not able to analyze them, I contented myself with drinking

quite freely of them, bathing therein my forehead, and inwardly

praying God to heal every infirmity of body and soul. On the

basin is a bas-relief representing the Virgin's appearing to the

shepherdess.

The arches and walls of the sacristy are covered with the

frescoes of a by-gone age, but which have not lost their

brilliancy of color. They represent the descent of the Holy Ghost

upon the Apostles; angels bearing to our Saviour the instruments

of the Passion, etc.

Over the grand altar of the church, in a niche, is a statue of

Notre Dame de Garaison, the mother of sorrows, holding in her

arms the inanimate body of her divine Son. There are four small

chapels, two on each side, separated by walls which advance to

the principal nave, and are there converted into pilasters to

support the vault. In them are some oil paintings, two of which

are very fine, the angel guardian and a Madonna. The niches,

which were robbed in 1789, have been newly furnished with gilded

statues of the twelve Apostles, large as life, and bearing the

instruments of their martyrdom; and one of our Saviour in the

midst. On the vault are painted the patriarchs and prophets of

the old law. These gilded statues and altars give a most

brilliant appearance to the lightly vaulted Gothic chapel.

In the south court is a fountain. Mary stands with her divine

babe in her arms, sculptured in white marble. The water spouts

out at her feet through four small masks, and falls into a basin

of pure white marble, whence it flows into another still larger.

The statue has been a little injured by exposure to the weather;

but still it reminds one that Mary is the channel through which

the grace of God comes to us--that through her flow the waters of

benediction and of grace upon man!

The refectory is vaulted and paved. In it is a whispering

gallery, common in the monasteries of the middle ages, so one

could communicate from one corner to the other opposite in the

lowest tone. I am sure the knight of the couchant leopard was no

more surprised or awed by the midnight procession he witnessed in

the little chapel of Engaddi, than was I at a late hour in the

evening, when, while I was still rapt in prayer, and quite

unconscious of what was going on around me in this still mountain

chapel, I found the altar suddenly illuminated, and a door opened

to a long procession of white-robed priests and about a hundred

young men:

"Taper and Host and Book they bare,

And holy banner flourished fair

With the Redeemer's name.

{649}

They passed around the chapel, chanting _Tantum Ergo_, and

then returned to the altar to give the benediction of the Blessed

Sacrament. The richly gilded chapel was radiant with reflected

light, and the strains of _O salutaris Hostia!_ seemed to

float upward in celestial tones, as they issued from lips

purified by solitude and prayer. I never felt more devotion at

this solemn rite than there, in the shadow of the Pyrenees. I

forgot my fatigue, and yielded to heartfelt emotion. Exiled from

my native land, to which I might never return, and among those

who were almost entire strangers to me, I felt myself folded to

the bosom of divine Providence, and that the All-Father would

have me consider every part of his world as my home, and all

those souls, which he has breathed into human forms, as my

brethren and sisters.

It was a late hour when I fell asleep on my hard bed at the Hotel

de la Paix. Coldly looking down upon me from a rude frame was,

for my guardian saint, a picture of _Napoleon le Grand;_

but, though he had routed many a formidable host, he did not put

to flight a single sweet fancy or holy thought that thronged my

brains, waking or sleeping.

At an early hour I was again before the altar of Our Lady.

Priests were celebrating the holy mysteries at every altar when I

entered the chapel. At seven o'clock, M. le Supérieur offered the

Holy Sacrifice for my intentions, at which I communicated. ...

My devotions ended, I rambled around the garden and through the

cloisters, drank again from the fountain, and then prepared for

my departure. I had gone to Garaison with a deeper intent, more

serious purpose, than is my intention to unveil here. I bore in

my heart a burden--a burden common to humanity--which I laid down

at the feet of Mary, thinking, as I did so:

"Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,

Forth from those lips of beauty flow!

Couldst thou but speak of all the tears,

The conflicts, and the pangs of years,

Which at thy secret shrine revealed

Have gushed from human hearts unsealed!"

I left that chapel in the strong embrace of the everlasting

hills, and with sunlight flooding its walls like a glory. Turning

to give it a last look, at the last turn in the valley, it seemed

like a lily rising up in the green meadows--fit type of her to

whom it is dedicated.

Since that time I have visited many a shrine of _la belle

France_, but I turn to none with a more grateful heart than

NOTRE DAME DE GARAISON.

-----------

{650}

Count Ladislas Zamoyski.

Translated From The French

Of Ch. De Montalembert.

The nineteenth century, which is already drawing to a close, will

in the course of its history present nothing more grand, more

touching, more deeply impressed with the stamp of moral beauty,

than Poland--vanquished, proscribed, abandoned by the world.

This nation in mourning and in blood, which yet will not

die--this race of indomitable men and women, which survives all

tortures, all treasons, and all catastrophes, what a spectacle

and a lesson does it present! Its existence is at once a defiance

and an appeal: a defiance to adverse fortune, and an appeal to

what seems the too tardy justice of an avenging God. Abandoned

and calumniated by successful iniquity, by selfish opulence, by

the ever-ready worshippers of success, a sight intolerable to

their conquerors, and a reproach to the powerful of the world--there

they abide, like Mardochai before Aman, firmly resolved

to forget not, to despair not, nor to capitulate; incomparable

types of suffering, of sacrifice, of unwearying patience, of

lofty patriotism; invincible martyrs and confessors, not only of

faith, but of right, of country, and of liberty!

In the centre of this group of proscribed and oppressed, like

some great oak struck by lightning in the midst of a burning

forest, stands out in bold relief the noble figure of Count

Ladislas Zamoyski.

Ere yet the waves of forgetfulness and indifference have effaced

his noble memory, let us endeavor to recall and rescue from

oblivion some traits of an existence which, by every title,

belonged to ourselves; for in France he was born, (during a

journey of his parents there,) and in France he died, [Footnote

188] having passed here the greater part of the thirty-seven

years which he spent in exile, without having at any time

returned to his true country.

[Footnote 188: January 11th, 1868.]