Here it would seem appropriate to speak of the ancestors of the

illustrious dead. But how can we fitly portray to this generation

the splendor and power of those ancient houses of Poland and

Lithuania, whose immense possessions, countless adherents, and

extent of influence find no parallel in our own country, even at

the most aristocratic periods of its history? It was a Zamoyski

who headed the embassy which came to offer the crown of Poland to

a brother of Charles IX.; [Footnote 189] and some one of this

race is ever to be found dominant in their country's annals. They

may have had equals, but I know that in their native land none

ever assumed to be their superiors.

[Footnote 189: For an account of this embassy, see the

excellent work of the Marquis de Noailles, _Henri de Valois

et la Pologne in 1572_.]

Nothing is more _a propos_ to our immediate subject than the

legend of their device and bearings. A King of Poland, whose

people had some cause for discontent, being engaged in a conflict

with the Teutonic chevaliers, saw on the field of battle a

Zamoyski dying, his breast pierced with three lances. The king

approached to aid and comfort him. "_To mnicy [Transcriber's

note: blurred.] boli!_" exclaimed the dying hero. "_It is

not that which pains me!_" or in other words, "_A wound does

less harm than a bad prince or a bad neighbor_."

{651}

These three words and three lances have ever since been the

armorial bearings of the Zamoyski family. Reflecting upon them,

we find in them a singular appropriateness to that one of the

line whom we have best known; that illustrious and wounded hero

whom we have had so long before our eyes with the deadly steel in

his heart, and on his lips a word of proud resignation or

intrepid disdain.

Fortunate are those great races who, before they are submerged by

the rising tide of equality and modern uniformity, can give forth

one last flash of glory, and furnish to the historian some great

heart enthusiastic for a good cause and a noble faith; some

vigorous lover of right and duty, capable of signalizing himself

by a generous death, like our own Duke de Luynes, or by an entire

life of devotion and sacrifice, like Count Ladislas Zamoyski. For

reason as we will, so long as men are men, they will be always

and everywhere moved by a something--I know not what--a kind of

realization of completeness, which nobility of birth imparts to

great virtues or great misfortunes.

Ladislas Zamoyski, in his 28th year, was an officer of the

lancers in the Polish army, and aide-de-camp to the Grand Duke

Constantine; he was desirous above all things to serve his

country as a soldier and a citizen, when the military

insurrection of Warsaw broke out, at the end of November, 1830.

It was, as has often been repeated, the advance-guard of the

Russian army, directed against the France of July, which turned

back against the main body. Although the count had taken no part

in the insurrection, the high rank of his family and the

precocious maturity of his mind enabled him to profit by the

particular position which he held near the prince, whose

arbitrary and unwise acts had contributed more than anything else

to provoke the revolt. He obtained from the brother of the

emperor the order which separated the Polish troops from the

Russian, and gave a sort of method to the military movement,

which soon expanded into a national revolution. Believing himself

freed now from all allegiance to the grand duke, the young count

took part in all the exploits of the campaign of 1831--a campaign

which has left imperishable recollections in the minds of all who

were living at that time.

For ten months all Europe stood breathless, gazing with deep and

varied emotions on those fearful turns of fortune. Every incident

produced vehement agitations at the French tribune, in the

streets of Paris, and even in the reviews held by the French

king. There was something both of heroic and legendary interest

in this conflict, so disproportioned yet so prolonged, between a

handful of brave men on the one side, and the colossal resources

of Russia on the other--a conflict where the veteran comrades of

Dombrowski and Poniatowski were led on by youths inflamed with

holy zeal for their country's liberty, where the first place was

so long held by the Generalissimo Skrzynecki, true paladin of the

middle ages, who always put in the orders of the day for his army

prayers to the Holy Virgin as Queen of Poland, and who, brave in

the field and devout at the altar, was so pre-eminently hero,

Christian, and Catholic. I know not how upon this point the young

Poles of our own day stand; but I know they would be faithless to

the most noble examples of the heroes of 1831 if they should

suffer themselves to be enervated by religious indifference, or,

sadder still, should they ever trail through the depths of

atheism and modern materialism that banner which their ancestors

never separated from the cross of Jesus Christ.

{652}

When, finally, the countless masses which Russia threw upon

Poland had dislodged the insurgents from all their positions;

when the attempts at intervention made by the French government

were rendered nugatory by the icy and cynical indifference of

Lord Palmerston; [Footnote 190] when Europe resigned herself to

be a tranquil spectator at the sacrifice of a nation, Ladislas

Zamoyski, firm to the end, in the front rank of combatants,

holding then the grade of colonel, laid down his arms with the

last division of the Polish army, that of Ramorino, defeated in

Gallicia. He crossed then the frontiers of that country which he

was destined never more to see, and came, wounded and suffering,

but not less resolute than in the first days of his manhood, to

put himself at the disposal of his uncle, Prince Adam

Czartoryski, the venerable chief of the Polish emigration, as he

had been president of their national government.

[Footnote 190: See the correspondence between Prince

Talleyrand and Lord Palmerston on the Polish question, July,

1831, in the documents submitted to the English parliament by

order of the Queen, in 1861.]

It was then that we saw him for the first time among us. Young,

tall, commanding, active, and untiring, he carried in his

deportment and in those glorious wounds the credentials of his

mission. Always occupied with the cause of his country, but with

a serenity and stability far beyond his years, he attracted to

himself all attention. A solitary and embarrassed wanderer in a

world which was so soon to grow heartlessly indifferent to

Poland, he entered calmly and resolutely upon that obscure,

laborious, and uncongenial path which honor and duty had traced

for him.

I must be permitted here a just homage to that first Polish

emigration of 1831, which, preceded by the members of the

national government, by the Count Platen and General Kniacewicz,

and grouped about Prince Czartoryski, the Generals Dembinski,

Dwernicki, Rybinski, and the former ministers, Malachowski and

Morawski, have given us, for nearly forty years, such noble

examples of fortitude and devotedness, of modest dignity and

magnanimous resignation. How many of these yet remain to whom I

can address this last testimony of an admiration which I shall

always account among the most salutary and most lasting emotions

of my life? I owe to them a great good--the power to know and to

comprehend the grandeur and beauty of a vanquished cause!

Forced by circumstances to immolate everything in the worship of

their assassinated country, not one hesitated before this stern

requisition. Rich and poor, old and young, citizens and soldiers,

all were called on for sacrifices painful and unexpected, and

none shrank back; indeed, to many the privations they were

obliged to endure formed a strange contrast to their previous

habits of prodigality and almost oriental luxury. Ladislas

Zamoyski was conspicuous in this career, so new to himself and

his comrades. The subsidies which his friends forced him to

accept were invariably reserved for some general object, or

divided among his less fortunate companions, saying: "_I learn

every day to do without something._" One thing only did he

guard carefully--his _beloved sword_, as, with juvenile

_naïveté_, he was accustomed to call it, in the warm hope

and belief that it might yet serve his country.

{653}

The French refugees, whom the Edict of Nantes expelled from their

homes, represented liberty of conscience odiously persecuted, and

by this title they won the active sympathies of all the

Protestant nations. The Irish emigrants, who, about the same

time, were the victims of an intolerance as bitter and

inconsistent in Protestant England, found in France and Spain

places freely opened to them, and which they honorably filled.

The French emigration of 1792 represented not only loyalty to a

monarchy, but an entire social order, whose end no one believed

so near--an order which still reigned in nearly the whole of

Europe; to this they owed, at least during the first years of

their exile, the aid and support of all the powers affected or

threatened by the Revolution. It was quite otherwise with the

Polish emigration of 1831, which, nevertheless, personified, at

one and the same time, liberty both political and religious, and,

more than all, a grand people, erased, by injustice, by a crime

without a parallel, from the list of nations, and unanimous in

protesting against that decree. They received from perplexed and

divided Europe not one of those consolations and encouragements

which it was their right to expect.

France and England had generous alms to solace needs purely

material, but nothing more. Ruled by a double fear--that of the

Muscovite preponderance from without, and that of dangers from

demagogues within--no statesman, even the most liberal, was able

or willing to espouse the Polish cause. It was a sadder thing

still that a misapprehension prevented their receiving a sympathy

which otherwise would have been first offered. Beyond the little

circle of liberal, free-hearted Catholics--a circle then very

limited--the Polish refugees, victims of the most bitter

persecutor of the church in the nineteenth century, met no

response from the religious world. It was a time when Catholic

Europe, monarchical and aristocratic, was miserably prostrate

before the Austria of Prince Metternich and the Russia of the

Emperor Nicholas. Consequently, at Paris, and, above all, at

Rome, there was to be caught not one glimpse of salvation. There

existed among the defenders of the throne and the altar an

animosity to the Poles truly revolting, unjustifiable traces of

which even yet remain. It was the heaviest cross, for a multitude

of Christian souls, which the Polish emigration hid in its bosom.

I have the right to speak of it, for no one, perhaps, on this

subject, has received more mournful confidences, and no one, I

venture to believe, has done more to induce among Catholics a

happy change--a change commencing with the good and fatherly Pope

Gregory XVI., and precisely on occasion of Count Ladislas

Zamoyski, whom he was pleased, at my request, to encourage to

visit him in Rome. [Footnote 191]

[Footnote 191: Until 1837, no Pole was allowed to enter Rome,

without a passport visé by Austria, Prussia, or Russia;

consequently, this excluded the exiles of 1830.]

But how time and efforts must fail in making reparation for this

strange misunderstanding! and how much it must have aggravated

the sorrows inseparable from prolonged exile--those sorrows

which every noble heart must comprehend, even without having

experienced them, and which inspired, in a sad, gifted soul, the

last ray of its genius!

"He passed, a wanderer on earth. May God guide the poor exile! I

move among the crowd; they gaze at me, and I at them, yet each to

each is unknown. The exile is alone everywhere," [Footnote 192]

[Footnote 192: _Paroles d'un Croyant_. 1833.]

{654}

Count Zamoyski, always sincerely attached to the faith of his

fathers, even before the death of a beloved mother had developed

in him a fervent piety, lived long enough to witness this happy

change in Catholic opinion. He had the consolation of seeing the

entire church moved, at the voice of its chief, by the

incomparable sufferings of Poland. In France, at least, every

Catholic worthy the name addressed prayers without ceasing to the

divine mercy, that the country of St. Hedwige and Sobieski might

one day resume her place, free among the nations. This harmony

between the irrepressible aspirations of his patriotism and the

daily increasing fervor of his religious sentiments threw over

the last years of his life a warm and consoling light.

But before arriving in port, how stormy the voyage! Bound by soul

yet more than by the ties of blood to his uncle, Prince Adam

Czartoryski, he had been twenty-five years his lieutenant, his

coadjutor, and the sharer of his fortunes; like him, too,

encountering continually repulse, deception, and injustice,

without being embittered or discouraged.

Belgium, always hospitable, took full possession of her

nationality in the same year, 1831, when Poland seemed to have

lost hers. She immediately opened the ranks of her army to Count

Ladislas, with the grade of colonel, a position he had won on the

bloody banks of the Vistula.

For fifteen years [Footnote 193] he watched in vain for an

opportunity to once more draw his sword in behalf of his own

land, or for some cause which might even indirectly serve her

interests.

[Footnote 193: From 1832 to 1847.]

He was obliged to content himself with employing his intercourse

with the political men of the two great constitutional countries,

to secure to the Polish question, in the order of the day, some

parliamentary discussion or some diplomatic bias, and to obtain

from the French chambers and the English parliament those

periodical demonstrations which seemed to him so many

protestations of right against the most odious of political

crimes; so many guarantees against a proscription which the sad

destinies of men too often drew down on them, to the profit and

encouragement of injustice.

At length, in 1846, he thought he saw the dawn of better days. In

the short counterfeit alliance between Pius IX. and Italian

liberty, he hastened, with sixty other Polish officers, to offer

their devotedness and military experience to the new pontiff,

whom all believed menaced by Austria even more than by the

Revolution. From thence he passed as a volunteer into the army of

Charles Albert, and shared, by the side of that noble and

unfortunate sovereign, in all the vicissitudes of the struggle

between Piedmont and Austria. Austria, we must remember, at the

time we speak of, was not the liberal Austria of the present day;

and no Pole could look on this empire as aught save the author

and accomplice of the calamities of his country. Piedmont being

defeated and restricted to its ancient limits, it was to Hungary

that Count Zamoyski next turned his steps. Hungary was then in a

state of insurrection against Austria, but was also a victim

herself to an insurrection of her Sclavic population, unwisely

irritated. To gain from Hungary a recognition of the rights of

these people--rights so misunderstood or ignored by the rest of

Europe--was the mission of Count Zamoyski, and for which he was

willing to confront new perils. The Russians, however, soon

arrived, and, combining their armies with those of Austria and

with the revolted Croats, Hungary was soon crushed.

{655}

After the decisive defeat of Teneswar, the remnants of the Polish

legion passed into Servia, and from thence to Turkey.

For two years he occupied himself here in disciplining those

indomitable spirits for future contests; for to the honor of the

Ottoman Porte be it recorded that it refused the demands of the

Russian and Austrian governments for the extradition of the

Polish and Hungarian refugees.

During a short revisit which he made to France, the Eastern

question arose, and he immediately returned to Turkey. He took

part, with the rank of general, in the campaign on the banks of

the Danube, and through the entire Crimean war devoted his

strength, his rare intelligence, his military experience, to

forming regiments of Polish Cossacks, ostensibly for the service

of the sultan, but indulging in the hope of seeing them

ultimately admitted to the ranks of the allies.

In January, 1856, the preliminaries of the Peace of Paris came to

dash aside once more his patriotic day-dreams, and to destroy

every chance of resuscitation which had seemed offered to Poland

in this rupture, so pompous but so fruitless, between France and

England and Russia.

No adequate reason has yet been given for that blind delusion

which prevented the powerful allies, in 1855, or Napoleon I., in

1812, from using against Russia the only power which she could

not control, to recall Poland to that national existence which

was her sacred right; and which, at the same time, was the only

efficient guarantee for the independence and security of Europe.

Made desperate by this thwarted expectation, Poland suffered

herself, in 1863, to be drawn into that strenuous but unfortunate

effort whose miserable consequences are in the memories of all.

Count Zamoyski, now suffering with age and infirmities, made one

last attempt to prevail on England to unite in some kind of

action with France, and not to stand by in silence at those

massacres and outrages which Russia perpetrated with such

impunity, a mockery to the civilization of the nineteenth

century. He failed, and this was his last attempt.

He died, leaving Europe more than ever exposed to perils he had

warned her against, more than ever recklessly serving the

Muscovite power.

He died, seeing Russia supremely powerful in the East, and free

to put the seal on all the bloody hypocrisies of her history:

_here_, making the world resound with her solicitude for the

civil and religious liberty of the Cretans, while she crushed out

with her unholy foot the last palpitations of Polish freedom, and

extirpated, with infernal perfidy, the last vestiges of Polish

Catholic faith: _there_, instigating against regenerated

Austria a formidable conspiracy of her Sclavic subjects, while

the highways and mines of Siberia are strewn with the skeletons

of heroic Poles, whose only crime was to spurn the yoke of those

Russians who are a hundred-fold less truly Sclavic than their

victims.

The history of Count Ladislas Zamoyski is, then, a sad one; it is

the story of a life-long shipwreck.

All his designs were frustrated, all his hopes deceived. Always

hastening from disappointment to disappointment, from defeat to

defeat, he wearied never, paused never, was successful never.

{656}

Deeming no sacrifice too great, and no detail too minute for the

service of his country, he was prompt to avail himself of any

circumstance or encounter any new risk which might gain for her a

friend, remove an error, or stimulate in her behalf the

indifferent. Self-armed against disasters, he raised himself from

each defeat with the tenacity of an old Roman on the

battle-field, where he had been once overthrown, to fall again,

wounded and crushed down by an implacable adversity.

It would seem as if so many trials, mental and material, public

and private, might suffice to fill that measure of suffering

which is the lot of all below. But no! he had still to endure

those which would appear more fittingly the portion of the idle

and prosperous.

Crippled with wounds and infirmities, the last ten years of his

life were passed in physical sufferings which made them one

prolonged torture. He endured, during all this time, the

prolonged weariness, the distastes, the feebleness of failing

health; and he supported them with the same imperturbable

patience, the same tranquil and unconquerable courage, which had

sustained him through the sad vicissitudes of his public life.

How great the virtue, crowned by those great sufferings! There is

in it a grand and mysterious lesson, and one, above all, which

God seems to have designed for our instruction and edification;

for his character more than his career at all times raised him

far above the mass of human kind. No one could approach him

without feeling a profound respect before a strength of mind so

determined, a patience which never failed; before that singular

union of bravery and gentleness, that generous sense of honor,

that equanimity, that integrity. Rich in the domestic happiness

which Providence accorded to his declining years, he was content

to live, content to suffer; yet appreciating any relief, and

humbly thankful for those rare moments of respite which were

permitted to his numerous infirmities. Without disavowing the

aspirations of his youth, he had purified and transformed them in

the crucible of self-denial and sacrifice. What remained to him

of generous pride was so tempered that the most exacting could

not have reproached him. His Christian fervor brightened as the

chills of age encircled him; and the destinies and well-being of

the church inspired him no less than those of his country.

He gave a proof of this devotion in the past summer, (1867,)

when, so broken in health, he went to Rome to lay at the feet of

Pius IX. a last homage. In the midst of those _fètes_ of the

Centenary of St. Peter, where were gathered the bishops and the

faithful of the entire world, except those bound fast and gagged

by the Muscovite autocrat, Ladislas Zamoyski appeared, like the

living spectre of absent, enchained Poland.

Nor was it only faith: it was still more--charity--which animated

this soul, so Christian and chivalrous. How can we depict that

compassion and generosity, so irrepressible, toward his destitute

compatriots! or how sufficiently admire that charity of

forgiveness to his enemies--the pitiless enemies of his nation!

Never one word of bitterness crossed his lips.

"What is to be thought of the Russians?" said a friend to him,

one day, "and how far are they implicated with the emperor?"

"I never judge them," he replied: "I pray for them."

For us, who are not bound to exercise such superhuman moderation,

who are witnesses and not victims of these atrocities, we raise

beside the tomb of this just man a cry of grief and indignant

surprise.

"_Usquequo, Domine sanctus et verus, non judicas et non

vindicas, sanguinem nostrum de iis qui habitant in terrâ?_"

{657}

How long, O Lord! shall crime and falsehood triumph? How long

wilt thou leave unpunished this martyrdom of a Christian nation,

which will soon have lasted an entire century?

But all rebellious thoughts against the tardiness of divine

justice are checked, all the poignancy of sorrow is subdued, by

the remembrance alone of the departed dead. He is gone! His long

and cruel trials are over! He has entered into light and peace!

He lives in the bosom of his God, and his memory will be for ever

cherished among men, with the annals of his illustrious house and

of his unfortunate country. He leaves behind a name which will be

a crown of glory to his children, born in the land of exile where

he died, and rocked in their frail cradle on a stormy sea. He

leaves a sacred grief, which is a treasure to her alone, to the

youthful and admirable woman who gave herself to him in his

darkest hour; the intrepid sharer in his vicissitudes and perils,

the loving and faithful consoler of his sufferings and decline,

and who enjoyed a happiness with him in this world which is to be

interrupted only for a few brief days.

Finally, he leaves a great and profitable example to all who have

known and loved him; above all, to those who, subjected to

slighter trials, submit to them with less patience and less

courage.

----------

The Catholic Church And The Bible.

_Does the Catholic Church condemn the Bible and forbid her

people to circulate and read it?_

We answer: NO! On the contrary, the Catholic Church believes the

Bible to be the inspired word of God himself, and constantly

incites her people to its diligent perusal. In testimony of

which, we offer: first, her official declarations; and second,

her unvarying practice.

First, her official declarations.

The holy Council of Trent, which closed its sessions in the year

1564, and whose canons and decrees are the voice of the universal

church, binding upon every Catholic under pain of sin, distinctly

says:

"The Holy OEcumenical and General Council of Trent, ...

following the example of the orthodox fathers, does with due

veneration and piety receive all the books of the Old and the

New Testament, of both which God himself is the immediate

author. ... And, lest any doubt should exist as to what books

this council has thus received, a catalogue of the same is

annexed to this decree. (Here follows a list of the sacred

books, as found in. English Catholic Bibles.) Now, if any one

shall refuse to receive these books entire, with all their

parts, according as they are accustomed to be read in the

Catholic Church and are contained in the ancient Latin Vulgate

edition, as sacred and canonical, ... let him be anathema."

[Footnote 194]

[Footnote 194: _Can. et Dec. Conc. Trid._ Sess. iv.]

{658}

Again, the Pope, who, as the head and mouth-piece of the Catholic

Church, administers its discipline and issues orders to which

every Catholic, under pain of sin, must yield obedience, has

positively declared, "that the faithful should be excited to the

reading of the Holy Scriptures: for these are the most abundant

sources which ought to be left open to every one, to draw from

them purity of morals and of doctrine;" which declaration may be

found in the preface to the English Catholic Bibles now in use.

Second, her unvarying practice.

The Catholic Church, from the beginning, has provided effectual

means, not only for the distribution of the Bible among her

people, but also for their knowledge of the truths which it

contains. One of her holy orders is that of _Reader_, "whose

duty," as her catechism says, "is to read the Sacred Scriptures

to the people in a clear and distinct voice, and to instruct them

in the rudiments of faith." [Footnote 195]

[Footnote 195: _Catechism. Cone. Trid._ pars. ii. De

Ordin.]

Again, from the beginning, it has been made the daily duty of her

priests and religious persons to recite "the divine office,"

which consists of psalms, of readings from the Bible, and of

prayers. The new revision of this office made by Gregory VII., in

which its different parts were first collected into one volume,

became known as the "Breviary," and is still so called. From this

was translated and compiled, in great part, the "Daily Morning

and Evening Prayer" of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the

epistles, gospels, lessons, and psalms of which, thus borrowed,

present, as is well known, so large a portion of the Holy

Scriptures. Indeed, the Breviary is but the Bible, in a form

adapted to devotional uses, and illustrated with pious

meditations and devout prayers. Before us lies a copy, published

in the year 1632, during the Huguenotic wars and persecutions. It

bears the official order of the great Richelieu; and, as we turn

over its leaves, we find that a large part of the whole Bible is

embraced within its pages, and we perceive that as long as this

book can be found in the hands of all her clergy, and is

accessible to every one who seeks it, so long, within the borders

of the Catholic Church at least, the Holy Scriptures will be

widely circulated and intimately known.

Again, in every age, the most eminent and pious of the pastors

and scholars of the Catholic Church have devoted their lives to

the study and explanation of the Bible. The sermons of the first

eight centuries were principally oral commentaries on the sacred

text. The great libraries of valuable Christian works, which have

come down to us from the primitive church, are made up of volumes

directly based on Holy Scripture. Their writers are well known as

men of great intellect, of unwearied zeal, of deep and humble

piety. Look at this list of some of them: In the second century,

Pantaenus, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen; in the third

century, Pierius, Pamphilus, Hesychius, and Eusebius; in the

fourth century, Hilary, Ambrose, Jerome, Augustin, Chrysostom,

and Ephrem; in the fifth century, Cyril, Theodoret, and Isidore

of Pelusium; in the sixth century, Gregory the Great,

Cassiodorus, Procopius, and Primasius; in the seventh century,

Maximus, Isidore of Seville, Julian of Toledo, and John

Damascene; in the eighth century, Venerable Bede, Alcuin, and

Rabanus Maurus; in the ninth century, Christian Druthmar,

Walafridus Strabo, Remigius of Auxerre, and Sedulius; in the

tenth century, OEcumenius and Olympiodorus; in the eleventh

century, Nicetas, Lanfranc, and Theophylact; in the twelfth

century, Euthymius, Anselm, and Rupert; in the thirteenth

century, the great Thomas Aquinas and Hugo de Sancto Caro; in the

fourteenth century, Nicholas de Lyra, Paul of Burgos, and Gerson;

in the fifteenth century, Laurentius Valla, Tostatus, Denis the

Carthusian, Marsilius, and Le Fèvre: in the sixteenth century,

Cornelius à Lapide, Maldonatus, and Jansen of Ghent; in the

seventeenth century, Natalis Alexander and John Baptist du Hamel;

in the eighteenth century, the learned Calmet, of whose work the

famous Dr. Adam Clarke has written: "This is, without exception,

the best comment on the sacred writings ever published, either by

Catholics or Protestants." [Footnote 196]

[Footnote 196: Horne's _Introduction_. Vol. ii. part.

iii. chap. V. sec. iii. § 3, Am. ed. 1836.]

{659}

Certainly, no age, illuminated with such lights as these,

deserves to be called "_dark;_" no people, taught by such

teachers, could ever have been ignorant. And when we remember

that, as an eminent Protestant clergyman has said, "the writings

of the dark ages are made of the Scriptures;" not merely, "that

the writers constantly quoted the Scriptures, and appealed to

them as authority on all occasions, but that they thought and

spoke and wrote the thoughts and words and phrases of the Bible,

and that they did this constantly as the natural mode of

expressing themselves," (_The Dark Ages._ By Rev, S. R.

Maidand, D.D. London, 1853;) and remember, further, that this

could not be so, unless the people who wrote and those who read

alike had free access to Holy Scripture both possessing the books

and being permitted to circulate and use them, we shall be far

enough from believing that in the Catholic Church the Bible has

ever been "_a hidden book,_" or that the doors of its rich

treasure-house were ever closed to men.

Again, the efforts of the Catholic Church to preserve and

perpetuate the Bible have been unceasing. As early as the fourth

century, by the direction of Pope Damasus, St. Jerome entered on

the work of preparing a full and perfect copy of the Scriptures.

He devoted twelve years to the study of the Hebrew, Syriac, and

other oriental languages. He collected at Jerusalem and in the

East all the most accurate versions, both of the Old and New

Testaments. From these, revised, compared, and corrected with

each other, he prepared that Latin version which is commonly

called the "Vulgate," and which, as all biblical critics allow,

is the most perfect and complete copy of the Bible which now

exists. During the period between the fourth and sixteenth

centuries, every great monastery (and Europe was full of them)

had its "scriptorium," or writing-chamber, in which copies of the

Scriptures were constantly produced. Of the 1400 manuscripts of

the New Testament which are now extant, not one was written

earlier than the fourth century, or by other than Catholic hands;

and Protestants themselves have no higher origin for their

Scriptures than these Catholic copies, and no surer ground of

reliance on their accuracy than the fidelity and learning of

Catholic scholars. How easy, if the Catholic Church condemned the

Bible, would it have been to neglect this multiplication of the

sacred books, and to silently destroy existing copies! Yet those

who depend altogether on her labors for their boasted Scripture,

have said, and still will say, that she fears the Bible and would

gladly banish it from men. But when the age of printing came, her

efforts were redoubled.

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According to the popular idea, translations of the Scripture into

the vulgar tongues were never made before the Reformation, or

even till long after it, by Catholics. Nothing could be more

false. The Bible, either wholly or in part, had been translated

and published in no less than _seven_ of the common

languages of Europe, before Luther and his Reform were ever

dreamed of. In the year 1466 a translation into German was

printed, copies of which still exist. This translation passed

through _sixteen_ different editions at Strasburg,

Nuremberg, and Augsburg, in the course of a few years, and was

followed by another translation, of which _three_ editions

were published at Wittemberg in 1470, 1483, and 1490; _two_

at Cologne in 1470 and 1480; _one_ at Lubeck in 1494;

_one_ at Haberstadt in 1522; and _one_ each at Mayence,

at Strasburg, and at Basle, in 1517. Luther first published his

translation in 1530, nine years after the Diet at Worms and

twelve years after he had turned Reformer. Before his time,

therefore, there were no less than _twenty-seven_ different

editions of the Bible in the German language in circulation among

the people, besides almost innumerable editions in Latin, a

tongue with which the clergy and the learned of that age were

well acquainted. In the year 1471 a translation of the Bible into

Italian was printed both at Rome and Venice, and passed through

_thirteen_ different editions before the year 1525. Two

different translations into French were also published; one in

1478, which was printed in _seventeen_ successive editions

before 1546; and the other in 1512, which also passed through

many editions. In 1478 a translation into Spanish was published,

which was reprinted in 1515 _with the express sanction of the

Spanish Inquisition._ In 1475, a translation into Flemish was

published at Cologne, of which _seven_ new editions were

printed before 1530. In 1488, the Bible, in the Bohemian

language, was printed at Prague, and again produced at Cutna in

1498, and at Venice in 1506 and 1511. An edition in Sclavonian

was also published at Cracow in the first part of the same

century. Add to these the different versions made in the "dark

ages," and you have no less than _twenty-two_ translations

and _seventy_ printed editions of the Holy Scriptures in the

vulgar tongues of England, Germany, France, Spain, Italy, and

Sweden, prepared by the Catholic pastors and scholars of Europe,

and distributed among their people, before Luther and his Bible

were ever heard of. When Protestant historians relate that this

renowned Reformer never saw a Bible till he was twenty years of

age, and had been a student at the university upward of two

years, and depict his wonder and delight at its discovery,

(_Hist. Ref. D'Aubigné_, vol. i. p. 131,) we hardly know

whether to condemn the ignorance of the Reformer or the

dishonesty of the historian, one of which must be true.

Circumstances certainly seem to cast the odium of falsehood on

the latter, rather than that of unparalleled stupidity upon the

former.

After the Reformation began, the Catholic Church applied herself

to preserve and perpetuate the Scriptures with the same diligence

and zeal as of old. A new translation into German appeared in

1534, and passed through _twenty_ different editions within

the century. Another was printed in 1537, and also passed through

several editions. Still another was published in 1630, and during

the past fifty years there have been several others. Between the

years 1525 and 1567, _eight_ different editions of the

Italian translation of 1471 were printed, with the formal

permission of the Holy Office at Rome.

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Another translation appeared in 1532, which passed through

_ten_ editions within twenty years. Another still was

published in 1538, 1546, and 1547, and more recently there have

been several others; the principal of which is that of Antony

Martini, which in 1778 received the written endorsement and

recommendation of Pope Pius VI. _Thirty-nine_ different

editions of the French translation of Le Fèvre, as revised by the

doctors of Louvain, were published between 1550 and the year

1700, since which latter date many new versions, and many

reprints of former versions, have appeared in France; of one of

which the great Bossuet is said to have distributed _fifty

thousand_ copies with his own hands. In Spain, likewise, the

Bible, and especially the New Testament, has been frequently

reprinted. The most famous Spanish edition is the renowned

Polyglot Bible of Cardinal Ximenes, in six folio volumes,

published at Alcala in 1515. In the year 1582, the New Testament

in English was issued from Rheims, and in 1609, the Old

Testament, in the same language, was printed at Douay, the two

together forming the Douay Bible, an edition which, if not the

most elegant in phraseology, is still generally admitted by all

critics to be more faithful and correct than any other version in

the Anglo-Saxon tongue. This latter version has appeared in

almost every form, from the largest and most ornate to the

smallest and least expensive, and may be found in almost every

Catholic family which possesses the ability to read it. Nearly

the same may be said of all other versions in the common

languages of the present age. They were intended not for the

learned, but for the people. The encouragement which they

received came from the people, not in opposition to, but in

consequence of, the permission and recommendation of the pastors

of the church: and it is simply incredible that all these

different translations should have been made, and these numerous

editions printed, unless the Bible had been freely read and

freely circulated among the Catholic masses both of Europe and

America.

So far, therefore, from ever hiding the Holy Scriptures, or even

keeping them in the background, history proves, beyond the

possibility of doubt or denial, that the Catholic Church has

always occupied the foremost position in the preservation and

diffusion of the written word of God; and that to her efforts,

and to her efforts alone, is due not only the continued existence

of the Bible itself, but also of those vast treasures of research

and investigation which tend to throw light upon its meaning, and

enforce its teachings on the hearts of those who read it; nay

more, that Protestants themselves possess a Bible, only so far as

the same church has bestowed it on them; and that their

commentaries and expositions are but mere digests and abridgments

of the laborious and extensive works of Catholic philosophers and

theologians.

How, then, when the Council of Trent--which is the unerring voice

of the universal church--when the Pope, who is the head and ruler

of the faithful--when the unvarying practice of all ages of

Catholics throughout the world--proclaims that the Catholic

Church believes the Bible to be the inspired word of God, and one

of the great means for the enlightenment and instruction of

mankind--how, then, can Protestants ask whether the Catholic

Church condemns the Bible, and forbids its members to circulate

and read it? Does not all history answer them?

{662}

Do not thousands of sermons, homilies, and commentaries answer

them? Do not hundreds of translations, scattered over all ages

and all lands, answer them? Does not their own possession of the

Bible at the present day, which they profess to prize so highly,

and for which they are indebted to that same church, answer them?

How, then, can they believe those slanders which have, for so

many years, been uttered against the church of God in reference

to the Scriptures? Above all, how can they _repeat_ them,

after the often made and complete demonstration of their

falsehood?

Still it is asked, _What, then, about these Bible burnings,

this actual hinderance, in particular instances, to the use of

the Bible? And why does not the Catholic Church join with the

great Bible societies of the age in the diffusion of the Bible,

or at least form societies of her own for the same purpose?_

These are important questions, and questions, too, which must be

answered, if the preceding demonstration would have its full

effect upon the mind; and for this reason we will now consider

them.

What is the Bible? Very few Protestants ever seem to know, or at

least to remember, what the Bible really is. Most of those whom

we have met appear to regard it as a book, delivered in its

present form directly by God to man. But this is not so. On the

contrary, the Bible is a collection of different books, written

at various periods during the space of more than fifteen hundred

years. Some of them were originally in Hebrew, some in Chaldaic,

some in Greek. They had no less than thirty-six different

authors, most of whom were widely separated from each other

either in place or time; and they were neither collected into one

volume nor arranged in the shape of the present Bible, until many

years after the establishment of the Christian church.

Now, it is evident that, when we say, "The Bible is inspired,"

"The Bible is the word of God," we mean just this, and nothing

more, namely, that the original manuscript, which any one of

these authors wrote with his own hand, exactly as dictated to him

by the Holy Ghost, was inspired, and contained the revelation of

God. When a copy of that original manuscript was made, the copy

was not inspired. If it precisely corresponded with its original,

it would give a perfectly correct idea of that original; if it

differed from it, it would, so far, fail to give such idea; and

would, to that extent, fail to be a sure guide to the knowledge

of the written word of God. So with a translation; if it rendered

the ideas contained in the original manuscript into another

language so exactly that a reader of the translation would

receive precisely the same impressions that were intended to be

conveyed by the original--supposing them to be rightly understood

by him--then would the translation, in its turn, make known the

exact truth of God. But if there was in this the smallest

deviation, and the ideas imparted by it were not precisely those

imparted by the original, then it would not convey the word of

God. And since not one of these original manuscripts is now

preserved, it becomes evident that there is not an inspired book

in existence; but, at the best, only copies and translations of

books that were inspired, but have long ago been lost or

destroyed.

{663}

But even these copies which we now possess are not _first_

copies, made directly from the original manuscripts themselves.

Moses wrote his five books of the Old Testament upward of three

thousand years ago; and the oldest existing copy of them was made

within the past nine hundred years. How many successive

generations of copies, so to speak, filled up the intermediate

two thousand years, no one can tell. The same is true, in their

degree, of the remaining books; copy of these also being made

from copy, and so on, until the art of printing was discovered.

All of these copies, both of the Old and the New Testament, were

made by hand, in rude characters, and with ruder implements,

while languages were constantly changing, and different ideas

were being conveyed to different generations by the same words

and phrases. From these copies all of the modern translations

have been made, and these translations are the "Bible," as

commonly read and circulated among men.

Now, we ask in all candor, what certainty there is, on Protestant

grounds, that any of these modern translations is the real word

of God? To be such, the translation must be an infallible

rendering from the copy; the copy must have been exactly like the

preceding copy, and that, again, exactly like its predecessor,

and so on back to the original inspired manuscript itself. And

are Protestants so certain of this, that they have any right to

feel sure that, when they open their Bible, the ideas which they

receive are precisely those which God intended that the words of

Moses, Samuel, Daniel, or the Evangelists should convey? And yet,

unless they are sure of it, how can they really believe what they

read in it, and stake the salvation of their souls on the

correctness and fidelity of copies and translations, about which

they can never, by any possible evidence short of a new

revelation, become satisfied?

Our object is not, however, to destroy faith in the Bible as the

word of God, (a truth which, on Catholic grounds, is thoroughly

demonstrable,) although it is worth while to reflect on the

difficulties which surround the attempt to make it the sole

teacher of divine revelation; but to call to mind how important,

how _absolutely necessary_, it is, that the Bible which we

read should be a _true translation_ from a _correct

copy_ of the original inspired book. And we think the reader

will agree with us when we say, that the greatest care to secure

correctness is none too great, and the most rigid exclusion of

all erroneous, or even suspicious, copies and translations cannot

be too rigid; but that, on the contrary, it is the duty of every

Christian to obtain, and of the Christian church to provide, the

very best and most perfect Bibles possible; and then to abandon

and condemn all others.

And this is exactly what the Catholic Church has always done and

is doing at this day. We have already mentioned the labors of St.

Jerome. This holy man lived at an age when most of the old

manuscripts were still existing, when those copies of the Old

Testament which had been in use during the life of Christ had not

all perished, and when the originals of the New Testament, or, at

least, copies of them which had been made under apostolic

supervision, were still attainable. All these, and many

others--Hebrew, Syro-Chaldaic, Greek, Latin, and Syriac--he

collected, and, having thoroughly compared them with each other,

and restored the original text to its highest possible purity, he

translated it into the Latin tongue, which was then, and probably

always will be, the most definite and expressive of human

languages.

{664}

This translation is called the "Vulgate." It is the most complete

and accurate version of the Bible in existence, and the only one

which was made from the originals, or first copies, of the New

Testament, and from authoritative copies of the Old. Protestant

critics have said of it: "The Vulgate may be reasonably

pronounced, upon the whole, a good and faithful version."

[Footnote 197] "It is allowed to be, in general, a faithful

translation, and sometimes exhibits the sense of Scripture with

greater accuracy than the more modern versions." [Footnote 198]

"The Latin Vulgate preserves many true readings where the modern

Hebrew copies are corrupted." [Footnote 199] "It is in general

skilful and faithful, and often gives the sense of Scripture

better than modern versions." [Footnote 200]

[Footnote 197: Campbell's _Dissertations on the

Gospels._ Diss. X. part iii. § 10.]

[Footnote 198: Horne's _Int._ Vol. i. p. i. ch. iii. §

iii. p. 277. Am. ed. 1836.]

[Footnote 199: _Ibid_.]

[Footnote 200: Gerard's _Institutes_. Chap. iv. sec. 4,

p. 82. Am. ed. 1823.]

This most excellent Vulgate edition is the very one which the

Catholic Church has sanctioned as the authorized text of

Scripture. The Council of Trent decreed, "that the ancient and

Vulgate edition ... should be deemed authentic in public

readings, disputes, sermons, and expositions, and that no one

should dare or presume, on any pretext, to reject it." [Footnote

201]

[Footnote 201: Sess. iv.]

Moreover, as the original manuscript of St. Jerome was no more

imperishable than others which had gone before it, and as it

could be perpetuated only in copies, the church has put forth

every effort to secure these in abundance and perfection. They

were all written in her own monasteries, under the very eyes of

her priests and bishops. They have been subject to constant and

thorough revision. When printing was invented, and Bibles began

to multiply on every side, (some of them filled with dangerous

errors and perversions,) she remedied this evil by stringent

legislation. Thus, the same council says: "Desiring to impose

some limit upon printers in this matter, who, ... without

licenses from their ecclesiastical superiors, do print these

books of Holy Scripture, ... this Holy Synod decrees and

declares, that hereafter the Holy Scriptures, and especially the

ancient and Vulgate edition, shall be printed with the utmost

exactness; and that it shall be lawful for no one to print, or to

have printed, any books concerning sacred things, ... unless they

shall have been examined and approved by the ordinary. ... This

approval shall be given in writing, and shall appear, either

written or printed, authentically in the front of the book; and

both the approval and the examination shall be made

_gratis_, to the end that good things may be countenanced

and evil things condemned." [Footnote 202]

[Footnote 202: Sess. iv.]

In this manner has the Catholic Church secured the preservation

of the pure text of Scripture. Starting at an age when it was

possible, if it ever was, to obtain an exact version of the word

of God, she, by the hand of St. Jerome, prepared one which has

stood the test of the most hostile criticism. Exercising over

this her constant vigilance, she brought it down to the age of

printing. Then, rigidly excluding all editions which could not

undergo the most searching scrutiny, she openly endorses all

those which are genuine and faithful, so that the Catholic reader

of to-day, seeing in his Latin Bible the approval of his bishop,

and knowing that no bishop could sanction any false version

without being immediately discovered and punished, knows also

that what he reads and studies is the Holy Scripture, as Moses

and the prophets wrote it, as Christ and his apostles used it,

and as the church of all ages has received it.

{665}

Advancing one step further, the care of the church next manifests

itself in the Bibles for the people. These are, of necessity,

translations into the vulgar tongues. They are all made from the

Vulgate by persons duly authorized for the purpose, and must also

be certified as correct by ecclesiastical authority, before they

can be printed, sold, or read. Take, for instance, the English

translation, commonly called the Douay Bible. This version was

prepared by some of the most eminent English scholars on the

continent of Europe, who possessed a wide acquaintance with the

Greek and Hebrew as well as with the Latin and more modern

tongues. This version is admitted by all critics to be exact and

literal, and to exhibit, as far as a translation can do so, the

precise sense of the original text of Scripture. It has received

the approbation of the Holy See and of innumerable bishops; and

every new edition bears the official recommendation of the

ecclesiastical superior, who vouches for its completeness and its

purity. It is hardly possible that, with all these precautions,

the Douay Bible should fail to be, in fidelity of rendering, the

most perfect copy of the Scriptures that exists in the English

tongue.

But the Catholic Church has not stopped even here. No one denies

that in the Bible there are many passages difficult to

understand, and that it is impossible for those who have no

access to the original manuscript and no opportunities for

critical research, to ascertain the true meaning of these

passages without external aid. The object of commentaries and

expositions is to supply this aid; but these have long ago grown

so voluminous and costly as to be beyond the reach of ordinary

men. And so, to meet this final difficulty, the church

accompanies every translation into a vulgar tongue with proper

notes and comments, prepared by competent and pious persons, for

the illustration of the sacred text.

From this brief sketch of what the

Catholic Church has done concerning

the Bible, it will be perceived:

1. That the church possesses, in the Latin Vulgate, the

earliest, purest, and most exact version of the Holy

Scriptures which exists in the whole world;

2. That her translations of the Vulgate into the languages

of the people present them with the purest and most exact

version of the Bible which they can possibly obtain;

3. That by her notes and comments she affords to them freedom

from serious error and mistake in their perusal of the

sacred text.

Now, for a moment, let us turn to the Bibles which Protestantism

offers, and inquire as to their reliability. The ordinary

translations of Protestants are made from Greek and Hebrew

manuscripts. These manuscripts, as we have seen, are copies, not

originals, and, of course, are not inspired. They are, therefore,

reliable so far as they present the exact ideas presented by

their originals, and no further; and the fidelity with which they

do this depends, in a great measure, upon their own antiquity and

their nearness to the originals themselves. But not a manuscript

of the Old Testament in Hebrew now exists which dates back

further than the eleventh century. The oldest extant Greek

manuscripts of the New Testament are not older than the fourth

century; and these are confessedly imperfect, and, in some

places, entirely wanting.

{666}

Out of these manuscripts and later ones, however, Protestant

translators are first compelled to select a text which shall

represent, as near as they can make it do so, the original Greek

and Hebrew, and then, from this text make their translation.

To the first translation this work presented no small

difficulties. They were unskilled in the languages in which these

manuscripts were written. the manuscripts disagreed extensively

among themselves, and many of them were without lines or

punctuation marks, and in characters long fallen into disuse. It

is not surprising, therefore, that the first Protestant versions

were, both in the text and in the translation, exceedingly

erroneous, and in some portions, utterly unreliable. Most of

these difficulties have vanished with advancing years. Protestant

scholars have become versed in Greek and Hebrew. They have

learned to read with accuracy the ancient characters in which the

manuscripts were written, and their extensive research among the

various versions has done much to clear their text from

ambiguity. But the fact still remains, that the best Greek or

Hebrew text, which they can reach, is later by many centuries,

and more fallible by numerous successive copyings, than those

from which the Latin Vulgate was prepared; and, consequently, can

bear no comparison in purity and genuineness with that which St.

Jerome produced from the first copies, if not from the originals

themselves, of the New Testament, and from versions of the Old,

which Christ had sanctioned by his personal use. And it is this

difference, between the sources of the text of Catholic and

Protestant Bibles, which gives the Catholic version its deserved

preeminence, and has won for it the encomiums to which we have

referred.

Extending our view to the translations made and used by

Protestants we perceive this difference still subsisting. Most of

these were the result of private enterprise, and never have

received the sanction of great ecclesiastical authority. Even the

ordinary English, or "King James" version, (which is the one in

common circulation in this country,) was a private venture of the

king whose name it bears; and though indorsed by him as the head

of the state church of England, it has never received the

approval of any authority which can strictly be called

ecclesiastical. The people who now use it have no other guarantee

of its correctness than the fact that their fathers used it

before them. They look in vain for any mark upon its pages which

shall assure them, on an authority they know to be reliable, that

what they read is the true word of God. On the contrary, if they

examine their own writers, they find the sentiment prevailing the

the "king's version" is _not_ the word of God. It is accused

of being "without fidelity," "ambiguous and incorrect, even in

matters of the highest importance;" [Footnote 203] and a

well-known commentator has even said, "That it is not so just a

representation of the inspired originals, as merits to be

implicitly relied on for determining the controverted articles of

the Christian faith." [Footnote 204]

[Footnote 203: _Horne's Int._ Bibliographical Appendix,

p. 37, Am. ed. 1836.]

[Footnote 204: Macknight. _General Preface to Epistles_,

sec, 2, vol i. p. 26, Am. ed. 1810.]

These general statements are applicable to other Protestant

translations as well as to the English. None of them are perfect,

or are even claimed to be so. Each is in turn vilified and

condemned by the authors of the others; and not one of them has

yet received the sanction of such an authority as can assure the

reader that he will find upon its pages the revelations of God.

[Footnote 205]

[Footnote 205: In 1833, the Rev. T. Curtis, an English

Protestant clergyman, published a work _On the Errors and

Corruptions in Modern Protestant Bibles_. The work

contains "Four Letters to the Hon. and Rt. Rev. the Lord

Bishop of London, with specimens of the intentional and other

departures from the authorized standard, to which is added a

postscript, containing the complaints of a London committee

of ministers on the subject; the reply of the universities,

and a report on the importance of the alterations made." In

the course of his work, Mr. Curtis gives various instances of

"the largest church Bibles" "found very erroneous." On one

occasion "an important part of a text he had taken in the

lesson of the day, to his great astonishment was not in the

church Bible when he came to read the lesson. In a note on

the same page, Mr. Curtis says: "The church Bible still in

use in the parish church of St. Mary's, Islington, is a

remarkably erroneous one. A clergyman, who some years ago

officiated in this parish, assured me he was occasionally at

a loss to proceed in reading the lessons from it. One passage

(l John i. 4) has, I have reason to believe, been read

erroneously in this church four times a year for many years."

Mr. Curtis says, (page 80,) "The British and Foreign Bible

Society _have never circulated a single copy of the

Scriptures_ that has not contained THOUSANDS of

_intentional departures_ from the authorized version!"

Who can now say with truth that the pure word of God is read

or heard in Protestant churches or families?]

{667}

Here, then, the matter comes to a distinct issue between the

Catholic and Protestant Churches. The Catholic Church has a

reliable and accurate text from which to translate; a competent

and literal translation, containing all sufficient notes and

explanations; and never publishes a copy of even this without the

express sanction of one whom her people know to be able to judge

and impartial[ly] to decide on its fidelity and truth. The

Protestant churches, on the other hand, have a text confessedly

corrupt and unreliable; innumerable contradictory translations,

each of which is admitted to be, in many respects, erroneous, and

none of which enjoys the sanction of any spiritual authority. How

could the Catholic Church do less than to command those of her

children who wish to read the Bible, to read the one which she

has provided for them? How could she do less than expose to them

the faults and errors of the Protestant translations, and forbid

their use by the faithful? What right would this church, what

right would any church, have to be called a spiritual guide, if,

having the pure wheat herself, she permitted those who follow her

to feed on coarse grain, gathered from the store-house of her

enemies? In reference to such a matter, reason and common-sense

dictate a rigidly exclusive policy; and that is just the policy

which has been, and is now, pursued by the Catholic Church. Her

rules are few and simple, but sufficient. They are these:

1. That those who would read the Scriptures in a vulgar

tongue must read a Catholic version.

2. That not only must this version be a Catholic one,

but it must also have been approved by the proper spiritual

authority.

3. That the version must not only be Catholic and properly

approved, but must be accompanied by approved notes and

explanations.

4. That those who in the judgment of their pastors would

derive more hurt than good from the perusal of the

Scriptures, may be forbidden to read them altogether.

Strict as these rules may seem, we believe that any one who

reviews the reasons for them will now say, that at least the

first three of them are eminently just, and that the Catholic

Church, in prescribing and enforcing them, has acted wisely and

for the best interests of men. And when we further state that she

has never prevented the circulation of any Bible, or taken any

Bible from her people, or burned any Bible, except those false,

imperfect translations which, so far as they are imperfect, are

not the word of God, we believe that it will be admitted that in

this also she has done nothing but her duty toward the people

committed to her care.

{668}

But that the fourth rule is also just, we think a moment's

reflection will determine. At the date of the Reformation, as we

have seen, the Bible had been largely printed in many languages.

When Luther and the other reformers began to preach, they pointed

to their own translations of the Scriptures as the sole divine

authority, and bade all the people to read them and examine for

themselves. And hence arose a Babel of religions, of which we, at

this day, can form no adequate conception. Text was pitted

against text, author against author. Men claimed the most

outrageous license under the name of Christian liberty. The

sacred words of God were bandied from mouth to mouth in jest and

song and ribaldry. The contagion spread even into the borders of

the Catholic Church. The danger was most imminent that, by this

fearful abuse, men might lose all respect, not only for true

learning, but also for the Bible and for Christianity itself. It

became absolutely necessary to put a check somewhere; and the

Council of Trent, therefore, decreed that in order "to repress

all that rashness by which the words of Holy Scripture are turned

about and perverted to profane uses, to wit, to buffoonery, to

fables, vanities, detractions, impious superstitions, devilish

incantations, divinations, lots, and even impious libels," no one

should dare to take the words of Holy Scripture in any manner for

these uses, but that all such "presumers upon, and violators of,

the word of God," should be punished. [Footnote 206]

[Footnote 206: Sess. iv.]

When further measures became necessary, on account of the

increasing turmoil and disputes, the rule which we have cited was

adopted; a rule under which no one who is able to be profited by

the reading of the Bible was ever hindered from perusing it, and

by which, probably, thousands who, but for it, might have made

utter shipwreck of their souls through the abuse of God's holy

word, have been saved from pride and error. But this rule is now

virtually rescinded. The occasion for its exercise has long since

passed away. The increasing learning of biblical scholars, the

progress of intelligence among the masses, the subsidence of the

wild storm of fanaticism and impiety which marked the age of its

enactment, have removed the necessity for enforcing it; and the

sole restraint now placed upon the reading of the Scriptures, is

that contained in those three rules which we have seen to be so

wise and just.

How then, when no conditions are imposed upon the use of the

original Greek, Hebrew, or Latin texts of Scripture, and when

only such ones are imposed upon the use of popular translations

as tend to give the people a more accurate and reliable version

of the word of God, how can it be said, with even the semblance

of truth, that the Catholic Church forbids or even discourages

the reading of the Bible; or how can it be denied that, in

providing her children with complete and accurate Bibles, she has

given them every inducement to their careful and continued study?

But now we think we hear it asked, with redoubled earnestness:

_If the Catholic Church possesses the most perfect of all

copies of the Bible, and really desires it to be read among her

people, why does she not coëperate with the existing Bible

societies in its diffusion, or, at least, form such societies of

her own?_

{669}

The answer is an easy one. The commandment which the Catholic

Church received from Christ was, "Go into all the world and

preach the Gospel," not "Go, distribute Bibles;" and the

commandment which she received she has obeyed. The energies, the

money, which Protestants would have expended in printing and

circulating translations of the Scriptures, she has expended in

founding churches, hospitals, convents, and seminaries, and in

providing the whole world with missionaries, by whose labors,

nations, to whom the Bible could have no access, have been

subjugated to the faith. She recognizes but one means for the

conversion of mankind, and that is, the voice of the living

teacher; and never can she substitute another in its stead.

Moreover, God gave the sacred books of the Old Testament to his

own Israel, not to heathens. Our Lord, through his apostles,

bestowed on Christians, not on pagans, the inestimable treasures

of the New. The Bible is for those who believe already, for the

"man of God," "that he may be thoroughly furnished unto all good

works," not for the infidel and heathen, who perhaps read it, but

are infidels and heathens still. Such is the will of God, as the

Catholic Church has received the same, and the facts of history

prove that she is right. For when Protestantism arose, its great

aim was to spread the Bible. Its history has been the history of

Bible-circulation, and in the Bible Society has culminated the

Reformation. These societies have labored bravely,0. We read that

previous to the year 1834, a single society in Germany had

distributed nearly 3,000,000 copies of the entire Bible, and

2,000,000 more of the New Testament. That by another society in

Great Britain, over 35,000,000 copies of the Bible, or New

Testament, had been put into circulation before 1859; and that

another in New York publishes every year more than 250,000

Bibles, and twice that number of New Testaments, and parts of

Scripture. But what are the results? Where are the nations which

have been added to the Christian fold? Where are the signs of

well-developed and intelligent piety in the great Protestant

empires of the age? Have not their own writers told us that the

boundaries of Protestantism are the same to-day that they were

when Luther left it--that no new nations have been added to its

numbers, and, with the exception of the Anglo-Saxon portion of

this continent, that no new territory has been subjected to its

sway; that for the heathen it has done comparatively nothing, and

for the irreligious of its own lands but little more? Look at the

United States, for instance, all of whose people come of good

Christian stock. The census of 1860 fixes the population at over

30,000,000, while a census of professing Christians, of all

Protestant denominations, estimates their number at less than

6,000,000. Is the proportion greater in Germany or in England?

And what a comment is this upon the boast of these societies,

that they evangelize the world, and that the work they are

performing is the work of God!

And has the Catholic Church by preaching done no better? While

men yet lived who heard the voice of Luther, the Catholic

preachers of Europe had won back to the church more than one half

of what she lost by the Reformation. In a few years longer the

continent of South America, the Canadas, and thousands of the

inhabitants of India, China, and Japan, were sheltered in her

bosom. Another century, and again the Catholic faith was

blossoming in England, and springing green and vigorous from the

soil of our own land. To-day where is the country in which she is

not strong and valorous, strong in the blood of her martyrs,

valorous in the surety of her victory?

{670}

Does history leave a doubt upon the mind as to the true means of

Christian labor? Or who can wonder that the Catholic Church

refuses to substitute the human means for the divine, or even to

waste her energies and money on what experience has shown to be

so fruitless? She has the Bible for her children. She places it

within the reach of all. Those who are able, can buy it for

themselves. To those who are unable to buy, she gives it when

they ask. But never has she taken pains to strew the pure pearls

of written revelation underneath the feet of infidels and

heathen--mindful that, as the Lord warned her, "they will turn

again and rend you."

In conclusion, let us ask of every Christian reader a single

favor more. It is, that he will candidly examine the best

authorities upon this important subject; that he will carefully

reflect upon the reasons we have offered, and decide for himself

the great questions which we have tried to answer. And when he

finds, as he surely will, that the Catholic Church does not

condemn the Bible, or forbid her people to circulate and read

it--that she has never prohibited or burned a Bible which she did

not know to be erroneous and liable to lead her children into

error--that she has never cast her lot in with the Bible society,

simply because she follows the command of Christ--let him undo

the evil he, perhaps, has done, in stating that concerning her

which he now knows is false, and manfully assert the truth he now

has learned, thus doing justice to the church of God.

[Footnote 207(No reference *): Macaulay's Misc., art.

Ranke's _History of the Popes_.]

-------

Sketches Drawn From The Abbé Lagrange's

Life Of St. Paula.

In Three Chapters.

Concluded.

Chapter III.

The government of Paula in her newly founded monastery was

admirable, and she herself was the example of all virtues, as was

also Eustochium. The fame of her rule spread throughout the East,

and went back to Rome, where Marcella still lived and gloried in

her friend.

The chief happiness of the recluses was to study the Scriptures,

which they now read from beginning to end. Jerome read with them,

explaining everything. His grotto was not far off, and he passed

his nights there, by the light of a lamp, surrounded with

manuscripts and assisted by others copying for him; for he was

now growing old, and his failing eyesight no longer allowed of

his enduring the fatigue of writing. He resumed the study of the

eastern dialects in order the better to comprehend the original

of the holy works, and, encouraged by Paula and Eustochium,

resumed his work of translation, which was continued for nearly

twenty years under their saintly influence.

At the end of three years Paula's monasteries, church, and

hospital were all finished, with their surrounding walls, which

in those times were so necessary a protection from the raids of

the neighboring Arabs.

{671}

The number of the recluses had increased, and Paula now divided

them into three communities, each one having an abbess or mother

at its head, after the plan of St. Pacomius.

During the week their vows of enclosure prevented all intercourse

with the outer world. They all went on Sunday to the church at

Bethlehem; for the holy sacrifice of the Mass was not offered up

at their own chapel, St. Jerome never having deemed himself

worthy to mount the steps of the altar, such was his profound

humility; and Vincentius, the only priest they had beside, did

not attempt to officiate where Jerome dared not.

Paula was the soul of her communities. Her austerities were as

great as her charities, and these were without number. St. Jerome

represents her like a devoted mother to each and all of her

spiritual daughters, loving them all and studying their

characters equally, in order to guide each one according to her

individual nature and for the best. Intellectual activity was

greatly encouraged among them by her, and she took care to

furnish them with books and food for the mind. In this Jerome was

of great assistance to her. His convent was the dwelling of

science and letters as well as of asceticism. He had around him

many men of vast erudition, who in taking care of their souls did

not forswear the paths of learning, and in solitude pursued their

studies. They also wrote books which were read with great avidity

by Paula and her religious family. Jerome himself, in addition to

his great works, composed many pious biographies, and among

others the life of St. Epiphanius, at the particular request of

Paula. The latter had now taught her daughters to copy the

Psalms, which Jerome had translated at Rome by the order of Pope

Damasus. This was a work of importance, as exactness was

necessary in order to repair the harm done to the work by neglect

of the original manuscripts. Copying thus became universal in all

monasteries, owing to the impetus given to it by Paula, and to it

we are indebted for the preservation of much that is of

inestimable value to Christianity.

Paula now urged Jerome to revise all his various translations of

the Holy Scriptures, and this prodigious work was concluded by

him as early as the year 390. The book was dedicated to Paula and

Eustochium. To Paula particularly, _palmam ferat qui

meruit_, great praise is due for the holy influence she

exercised for so many years over St. Jerome, to such a noble

purpose, and which produced such fruits in the translation of the

Bible called the Vulgate, still used in the church after the

lapse of so many centuries.

All these pious labors gave great renown to Paula's monasteries,

and she who had thought to hide herself from the world, saw the

curious world appear at her gates, attracted by the beacon light

of Bethlehem. Her buildings could scarcely contain the visitors

who flocked to see her. St. Augustine himself had sent his

beloved friend, Alypius, across the seas to witness these wonders

and to see Jerome and Paula. Augustine afterward wrote to Jerome,

thus beginning a friendship between these two great men, one of

whom was just risen above the horizon of the church, while the

other great luminary was on the decline, though spreading out his

rays in all the splendor of the setting sun.

{672}

But that which most astonished the pilgrims to Bethlehem was not

Jerome nor any other inhabitant of this holy place, but Paula in

the midst of her virgins. "What country," says St. Jerome, "does

not send hither its pilgrims to see Paula, who eclipses us all in

humility? She has attained that earthly glory from which she

fled; for in flying from it she found it, because glory follows

virtue as shadows follow the light."

Among all the visits paid to the recluses, none filled them with

so much joy as that of the venerable Epiphanius, whose early

lessons had had so much to do with the religious training of

Paula. He, too, was delighted; he had seen nothing more perfect

in the desert. The order, the prayerful and fervent nuns, the

austere and laborious monks, the wonderful intellectual activity,

amazed him. He remained some time with his friends at Bethlehem,

praising God for what he saw.

About this time the discussions on Origenism began to trouble the

church of Alexandria, and finally penetrated to Jerusalem and to

Bethlehem. Jerome was estranged from Rufinus and Melanie, and

others of his early friends, by differing with them on the

subject of this celebrated heresy. Paula was afflicted at this,

and foresaw clouds in the future which did not fail to burst on

her own monasteries. The great doctrinal combats of the fourth

century, in which the church was destined to come off victorious,

Paula would gladly have avoided entirely, but in spite of herself

she became involved in them. Her sorrow was great when she saw

her monasteries as well as St. Jerome and herself excluded from

the Holy Sepulchre because of their clinging to their old friend

St. Epiphanius, who was the champion of orthodoxy and the great

antagonist of Origenism, The ordination of a priest for the

monasteries was the ostensible cause of their being put under the

ban. This priest was Paulinianus, the brother of Jerome, and the

validity of his ordination by Epiphanius was questioned by John,

the Bishop of Jerusalem, on the ground of the youth of

Paulinianus, but in reality because John, instigated by Rufinus,

was profoundly irritated against Jerome and Epiphanius on account

of his own leanings toward the doctrine of Origen. He forbade the

entrance of the church of the Nativity or of the Holy Sepulchre

to all who considered the ordination of Paulinianus canonical.

This, of course, included the recluses of Bethlehem. Their dismay

was great.

Epiphanius did not consider it derogatory to his dignity for him

to bend his white head before the younger bishop and sue for

clemency for others. He explained the great want of a priest at

the monasteries, and the motives for the ordination of

Paulinianus, and he begged John, for the sake of charity, to

cease such persecution; and then the illustrious patriarch, on

his knees, conjured him to abjure the false doctrines that had

divided them.

But John would not yield, and talked only of the offence of the

uncanonical ordination. Whereupon, Epiphanius thought it his duty

to expose him, and demanded of the recluses that they should

suspend all communion with the bishop of Jerusalem until the

latter should renounce his errors.

Notwithstanding this moderation, the rancor of John burst upon

them. All ecclesiastical functions were forbidden Jerome and

Vincentius. Paula's catechumens were refused baptism, and his

wrath went so far as to deny religious burial to the hermits as

if they were excommunicated. Paula suffered inwardly from this

warfare, so different from the quiet and repose she longed for.

{673}

Herself untouched by the arguments of the heretics, she became an

object of envy. But the voice of calumny could not disturb the

serenity of her mind, and by no word or sign did she ever show

impatience or anger. She endeavored also to console St. Jerome

for the wounds he had received. She loved to quote Scripture to

him, to soothe his mind. It was in the Bible that she always

found strength to endure every evil.

Finally, Bishop John, carrying his hatred to Jerome to its

climax, passed a decree of banishment against him. Jerome, worn

out by contention, wished to depart at once, but Paula said to

him these touching words: "They hate us and would crush us, but

let us return patience for hatred, humility for arrogance. Does

not St. Paul bid us return good for evil? And when our conscience

tells us that our sufferings do not proceed from sin, we are very

certain that the afflictions of this world are only the assurance

of eternal reward. Bear, then, with the trials that assail you

and do not quit our beloved Bethlehem."

In this way Paula sustained and soothed the old monk by the

delicacy and serenity of her own noble soul, which lived so high

up in the love of God that the storms of this world passed by

leaving her unharmed.

After a while Jerome was freed from this phase of persecution by

the Metropolitan of Palestine, Cesarius, who was a prudent and

wise man. These perils ended, Paula encouraged him to recommence

his great labors on the Bible, and also to renew his

correspondence with his friends, and to think no more of this

painful episode, but to suffer the tempest without to rage and no

longer disturb him. [sic]

We will turn away from these discussions, at which we have

glanced but cursorily, though unavoidably, to rest our minds in

the contemplation of virtue.

Jerome now wrote more of his most admirable letters, and Paula

continued the even tenor and pious practices of her life. She

received a visit from Fabiola, who came from Rome in search of

that peace and solitude which she believed could be best found in

Bethlehem. This visit gave great joy to the recluses; for Fabiola

could tell them of all their friends in Rome, of Paulina and

Pammachius, of Toxotius and his wife Laeta, and of the young

Paula, called after her venerable grandmother. She brought them

messages from Marcella and the Aventine. While Fabiola was with

them, they resumed the habits of former years, and read the Holy

Scriptures together, Jerome explaining it to them. The ardor of

Fabiola was wonderful. After she had ended her visit and left

Bethlehem, much was done by Rufinus and Melanie to estrange her

from her old friends. But she could not be moved and had

determined to settle near them.

At this time, however, dark rumors of invasion threw

consternation among the quiet inhabitants of the monasteries. It

was rumored that the Huns threatened Jerusalem. Other cities had

already been besieged, and they were now before Antioch. Arabia,

Phoenicia, Palestine, and Egypt were filled with terror. On all

sides preparations for defence were being made, and the walls of

Jerusalem, too long neglected, were now under repair.

To save her monasteries from insult, Paula meditated flight, and

conducted her whole community to the sea-shore, ready to embark

if the barbarians made their appearance. But the Huns having

suddenly diverged in another direction, Paula brought back her

followers to their beloved monasteries, and with a joyful heart

once more took possession of them.

{674}

These events decided Fabiola to return to Rome. When all the

troubles had ceased, Jerome wrote to her: "You would not remain

with us; you feared new alarms. So be it. You are now tranquil;

but, notwithstanding your tranquillity, I venture to say that

Babylon will often make you sigh for the fields of Bethlehem. We

are now at peace, and from this manger, which has been restored

to us, we once more hear the wail of the infant Christ, the

echoes of which I send you across the seas."

Unfortunately, however, the peace and quiet did not last long.

After three years the dispute with the Bishop of Jerusalem was

renewed with great violence. But the bishop, Theophilus, having

only declared himself against Origenism, John was finally brought

to reason by him, and Jerome and Rufinus were reconciled in his

presence, before the altar in the church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Peace now reigned in the monasteries on what appeared to be a

surer foundation.

But other sorrows came pouring in. News arrived from Rome of the

death of Paulina, when she was but thirty, and Pammachius was

left a widower and without posterity.

His loss in the daughter of Paula was great, for theirs was an

admirable and holy union; for Paulina loved her husband and would

have endeavored not only to make him happy, but virtuous. The

grief of Pammachius was overwhelming. He had now but one wish on

earth, which was to do something for the good of Paulina's soul.

It was an ancient custom in Rome at the obsequies of persons of

distinction to give alms in honor of the dead, and to perpetuate

their memory. This was called the _funeraticium_. On the day

fixed for that of Paulina the streets of Rome were thronged.

Troops of the poor, the lame, and the maimed wended their way to

the church in answer to the invitation of Pammachius. The gilded

door of the great basilica was open before them, and Pammachius

himself was there distributing on all sides abundant alms in the

name of Paulina.

Who can describe the grief of Paula when the news reached

Bethlehem of the death of Paulina? She was ill for days

afterward, and Eustochium feared for her life. Jerome wrote to

Pammachius on the sorrowful event. "Who can see," cried he,

"without grief, this beauteous rose gathered before her time and

faded away? Our precious pearl, our emerald, is broken."

Paula's only consolation was in the admirable conduct of

Pammachius. "This death was prolific," said St. Jerome, "for it

gave a new life to Pammachius." He had always been a good

Christian, he now became a heroic one. He thought of heaven,

where his faith made him see his beloved Paulina; the example of

Paula and Eustochium, and of his holy friend Jerome, all combined

to detach him from the things of earth. He felt inspired with the

noble resolution to consecrate to God the remaining years of his

life. He assumed the dress of a monk and passed his time in

charities and prayer. The jewels of Paulina were converted into

money and given to the poor, and also her dower and the house of

the noble senator was thrown open to all who were in want.

Fabiola generously seconded him in founding hospitals, and their

combined resources enabled them to accomplish great charities in

Rome.

{675}

"Ordinary husbands," said St. Jerome, "show their affection and

love by scattering roses and lilies and violets over a grave. Our

Pammachius has covered the tomb of his departed wife with holy

ashes, and with the perfume of charity. These are the aromatics

with which he has embalmed Paulina." Such fruits were a great

solace to Paula. When she heard that he had given away Paulina's

dower to the poor, she exclaimed, "These are indeed the heirs

that I would see my daughter have! Pammachius has not given me

time even to express my wish; he has been beforehand with me!"

In the midst of her grief a ray of joy came from Rome, in the

proposition from Toxotius and Laeta to send young Paula to her

grandmother. They had determined that, in order to secure such

holy training for their child, she should leave Rome and go to

the East, where Paula and Eustochium would bring her up in the

way of truth. Eustochium begged her of Laeta, and young Paula did

eventually come to Bethlehem to join her aunt; but her venerable

grandmother was no longer there to receive her.

The burden of years was now beginning to be felt by Paula. Sorrow

and sadness pressed upon her, yet the ineffable beauty of her

soul was greater than ever. St. Francis de Sales says of her that

"she was like a beautiful and sweet violet, so sweet to see in

the garden of the church." It is this exquisite and rare perfume

which we must enjoy more in speaking of her in the years just

before her death, when God seemed to touch her soul with a

singularly soft and mellow light, like the evening of a fair day.

She had been much disturbed by the renewal of the dissensions

between St. Jerome and the Origenists. We have already said how

she had grieved over the first encounter, seeing bishops against

bishops, friends against friends, hermits against hermits. But

the new struggles were still more painful to her: they had become

personal, and, notwithstanding the reconciliation with Rufinus,

he had attacked St. Jerome's character and writings, and the

latter was obliged to defend himself. Paula had also witnessed

another painful sight. After the council condemning Origen, the

monks accused of sharing his erroneous opinions were driven away

from the desert, and among them were many whom Paula had formerly

known and venerated, and who were now homeless wanderers. The

severity of the Patriarch of Alexandria against them grieved her

deeply; and, the most bitter of all, her tears were those she

shed for the throes of the church and for the evil passions of

men. New sorrows came upon her also. She heard of the death of

Fabiola, her old and dear friend. Then came the death of St.

Epiphanius, who had been to Paula like a beloved father.

Toxotius, her only son, was now taken away. All her children but

Eustochium were dead. What was left for Paula but suffering?

Physical infirmities accumulated upon her the result of her

austerities. Of these she would merely say, "When I am weak, then

it is that I am strong;" and again, "We must resign ourselves to

carrying our treasure in brittle vases, until the day comes when

this miserable body shall be robed in immortality." She also

loved to repeat these words: "If the sufferings of Christ abound

in us, his consolations abound also. Sharers of his bodily agony,

we will also be partakers of his glory."

{676}

The things of earth could no longer touch her, for she had seen

how passing they are and knew that they could not last. The

longing for the heavenly country grew in proportion. She would

say with the patriarchs of the desert, "We are but travellers on

the earth." And when her sufferings increased, she murmured

gently, "Oh! who will give me the wings of a dove, that I may fly

to everlasting rest?"

She no longer belonged to the earth, she was almost in heaven.

Her soul had reached such extraordinary perfection that she

seemed already to see the glory and to hear the harmonies of

heaven. Peace and joy were suffused throughout her being, rising

above her sufferings. Her love of God grew greater, and death

seemed to her not a separation from those she loved on earth, but

an indissoluble union with God, in whom all joys are found again.

"Who," says St. Jerome, "can tell without tears how Paula died?"

He himself wrote immortal pages on the subject, which have

consoled many a dying soul since.

When Sainte Chantal was on her death-bed, she asked to have read

to her once more St. Jerome's account of the death of Paula, to

which she listened with wonderful attention, repeating several

times these words: "What are we? Nothing but atoms alongside of

these grand nuns."

It was in the year A.D. 403 that Paula fell ill. When it became

known that her life was in imminent danger, the whole monastery

was in consternation.

Eustochium could not be comforted; she who had never quit her

mother from childhood could not bear the thought of separation.

Her love for her mother, which had always been so touching, shone

now in all the ardor and strength of her nature. She would yield

her place by the bedside to no one by day or by night. Every

remedy was administered by her hands, and she would throw herself

on her knees by the bed, and implore God to suffer them to die

together and be laid in one tomb. But these tears and these

prayers could not postpone the hour marked by God for the end.

Her time had expired; Paula had suffered enough and wept enough.

She should now see joy, and put on the robes of glory. It became

evident that her strength was failing, and that she had but a few

days left to live. She bore her sufferings with admirable

patience and heavenly serenity. She was grateful for the care

bestowed on her by Eustochium and the devoted daughters of the

house, but her whole mind was given up to the thought of opening

Paradise. Her lips were heard to murmur her favorite verses from

Scripture.

The Bishop of Jerusalem and all the bishops of Palestine,

together with a great number of religious, flocked to her bedside

to witness this saintly death. The monastery was filled with

them. But Paula, absorbed in God, saw them not, heard them not.

Several asked her questions, but she did not answer. Jerome then

approached and wished to know if she were troubled and why she

did not speak. She answered in Greek, "Oh! no; I have neither

trouble nor regret; I feel, on the contrary, great inward peace."

After these words she spoke no more, but her fingers ceased not

to make the sign of the cross. At last, however, she opened her

eyes with joy, as if she saw a celestial vision, and as if

hearing the divine voice of the canticle, "Rise up, come to me, O

my dove, my beloved, for winter is past and the rain has

disappeared." She spoke as if in answer, for she continued, in

low but joyful tones, the words of the sacred song: "Flowers have

appeared on the earth, the time for gathering them has arrived."

Then she added, "I think I see the good things of the Lord in the

land of the living." With these words on her lips Paula expired.

{677}

She had lived to the age of fifty-six years eight months and

twenty-one days; of which time, twenty-five years had been passed

since her widowhood in religious life.

Her obsequies were a marvel. Before consigning her body to the

tomb, it was carried to the church of the Nativity at Bethlehem,

which she loved and where she lay for three days with uncovered

face, for the visitation and veneration of the faithful. Crowds

flocked from all parts to do her honor, and bishops sought to

take part in the funeral ceremonies and to show respect to the

lamented deceased. Among the hermits of the desert, it was almost

esteemed a sacrilege to stay away. John of Jerusalem himself

officiated. But the most touching part of the spectacle was the

long array of the poor, following in the procession, and weeping

for their mother. Death had not altered the noble countenance of

Paula; she was only pale, and looked as if sleeping. The people

could not tear themselves away from this last view of her beloved

features. She was finally interred under this same church, in a

grotto, where her tomb may still be seen up to the present time.

During the week following her burial, the crowd continued to

linger about her tomb, singing psalms in Hebrew, in Greek, and in

Latin or in Syriac.

All this time, the sorrow of Eustochium had been terrible to

behold. Her very being was rent in twain. She could not be torn

away from her mother's body up to the last, but would remain by

her, tenderly kissing her eyes, throwing her arms around her, and

beseeching to be buried in the tomb with her. This continued

until the grave shut out the form of Paula from her for ever.

Jerome tried to console her, though himself bowed down by grief.

Of all the souls he had directed, none were so lofty nor so

intimately connected with his own as that of Paula. So crushed

was he by this loss, that it was long before the world again

heard his mighty voice.

He found some solace in composing two epitaphs in her honor, to

be engraved, one at the entrance of the grotto where the grave

lay, the other on the grave itself. The following is the

translation of the inscription on the sepulchre of Paula:

"The daughter of the Scipios, of the Gracchi, the illustrious

blood of Agamemnon, rests in this place. She bore the name of

Paula. She was the mother of Eustochium. First in the senate of

Roman matrons, she preferred the poverty of Christ and the

humble fields of Bethlehem, to all the splendor of Rome."

In this epitaph, Paula's whole history is told. The other epitaph

of St. Jerome, engraved on the entrance of the grotto,

reproduces, in other terms, the same record of virtue, and, what

is more, shows its sublime origin. It is in the following words:

"Seest thou that grotto cut in the rock? It is the tomb of

Paula, now an inhabitant of the heavenly kingdom. She gave up

her brother, her relations, Rome, her country, her wealth, her

children, for the grotto of Bethlehem, where she is buried. It

was there, O Christ! that your cradle was. It was there that

the Magi came to make you their mystical offerings, O man God!"

Eustochium desired St. Jerome, besides these two epitaphs, to

write a funeral eulogium on her mother. With a hand trembling

with age and emotion, he performed this pious duty. We should

here mention that most of the details we have endeavored to give

in this short narrative, are taken from what is, perhaps,

considered the most eloquent and touching of all his writings.

{678}

At the conclusion, he thus apostrophizes her:

"Farewell, O Paula! Sustain, by your prayers, the declining

years of him who so revered you. United now by faith and good

works with Christ, you will be more powerful above than you

were here below. I have engraved your praise, O Paula! on the

rock of your sepulchre, and to it I add these pages; for I wish

to raise to you a monument more lasting than adamant, that all

may learn that your memory was honored in Bethlehem, where your

ashes repose."

Paula's good works died not with her. Her monasteries were

continued piously and courageously by Eustochium, the worthy

daughter of such a mother. With time, heresies arose to disturb

the atmosphere anew; and the controversy of Pelagius aroused the

latent powers of Jerome, and for some time absorbed him, to the

detriment of his studies. But at the prayer of Eustochium, and in

memory of Paula, he finally resumed his labors, and in the year

403 concluded his great work in the translation of the Bible,

which is called the Vulgate, and was adopted by the church in the

last universal council.

The Pelagians having set fire to the monasteries of Bethlehem,

all the buildings erected by the pious care of Paula were burned

to the ground. This act was odious to the whole world. It was

admirable to see the serenity of Eustochium under this trial. She

went to work, and, using for that purpose the noble dower brought

to her by her niece Paula, who had come to her at Bethlehem, the

monasteries were soon built up again, and filled with their

former inhabitants. About this time, Alaric, King of the Huns,

overran Rome with his barbarian hordes, and numberless Christian

refugees from them came to the East in search of an asylum.

Pammachius and Marcella were dead, but many of their friends were

numbered among the exiles. Eustochium and Jerome received all who

came with wide-open doors, and the hospitality of Paula still

lived in her successors.

Eustochium survived her mother only sixteen years. She expired

without a struggle, like one falling asleep. No further details

are given of her last moments. This was on the 28th day of

September, A.D. 418. Her remains were laid by those of her

mother, according to her wish. St. Jerome did not long survive

her. Her death was his last great sorrow; and he died in the

following year. He was too old now to resist the final dispersion

of what he had called his _domestic church_. Marcella,

Asella, Paula, Fabiola, Pammachius, Eustochium, had all ceased to

live. Rome itself was gone, for, to a Roman heart like that of

Jerome's, her captivity was her death.

He fell into a state of settled melancholy, his voice having

become so weak and feeble that it was with difficulty he could be

heard at all. It was soon impossible for him to be raised from

his miserable couch, but by means of a cord suspended from the

roof of his grotto; and in this position he would recite his

prayers, or give his instructions to the monks for the management

of the monastery. He died at the age of seventy-two years, after

living thirty-four years at Bethlehem. His eyes rested, when he

was dying, on young Paula, who was beside him. She who had been

his spiritual child from her cradle, now performed the last sad

offices for him. We have no details of his obsequies. According

to his request, she placed his remains in the grotto not far from

the venerable Paula, her grandmother, and Eustochium. United in

life, they were so also in death.

{679}

Jerome's principal disciple, Eusebius of Cremona, now assumed the

head of his convents, while young Paula continued to rule those

of her grandmother's. We know nothing more. With the

correspondence of Jerome died all traces of these communities,

and night fell upon the East.

--------

Glimpses Of Tuscany.

II.

The Boboli Gardens.

The high wall of our raised garden binds on the southern entrance

to the Boboli: our white spirae droops down into it like a

willow, so large and in such perfect bloom that strangers stop to

sketch it as they pass. The good grand duke has gone since I last

was here; the Sardinian bayonet is gleaming exactly where the

Austrian sentinel stood. The Boboli has changed masters--not for

the first time--and accepts the situation with the serenity of a

veteran.

It is a bright Sunday morning. There is still time for a walk

there before the Military Mass at Santo Spirito. Twelve years

have not disturbed the placid sameness of this creature of the

hill-side: the laurels are clipped just as evenly, the old busts

and statues look at you, or at each other, just as archly or just

as stolidly. It is all thoroughly man-made--intensely artificial.

Every impulse of nature has been stifled in tree and shrub, until

they no more dare to lean out of line than soldiers on parade.

The very crocuses steal timidly through the grass, as if they

were afraid of doing wrong.

"Grove nods to grove, each alley has its brother;

One half the garden represents the other."

It looks human, every inch; the Lord is completely banished; his

Spirit could not possibly walk in such a garden. And yet this

creature of man seems clothed with imperishable bloom: this death

of all nature seems able to outlive all other life. You cannot

despise it, for it possesses the semblance of indestructibility--

unchangefulness in the midst of change. In the forests,

dissolution and reproduction are palpably waging their unending

warfare; even on the eternal Apennines, the snow comes and goes,

the lights and shadows of the clouds are endlessly shifting. But

in this miniature world monotony counterfeits the terrible fixity

and relentlessness of fate. Nature is deprived of all free-will,

and moves obedient to a fixed design.

It is difficult to say how far civilization, apart from religion,

may go with advantage in remodelling the natural man. It is

equally difficult to say how far art may safely encroach upon

nature in reconstructing a landscape. Some of the grand elemental

presentations disdain our interference. We have no control over

the clouds, or the curves of the ocean, or the nocturnal radiance

of the skies.

{680}

But the surface of the earth is an unfinished sketch, which the

Creator has left us to humanize, in some small degree, after our

fancy. We do not make even the smallest impression upon its

planetary aspect; but, after centuries of toil, we succeed in

partially changing its more immediate expression. We take the

groundwork ready made, accept the laws as we find them, and then,

inspired by the supreme longing after unrevealed beauty, which,

in some shape or other, haunts every human soul, proceed to

establish a little paradise of our own.

But above and beyond that last temporal Eden, there is still

another--the one beyond the grave. I, who am an immortal spirit

capable of sharing the celestial joy of angels, predestined for

the beatific vision; I, whose hereafter should be passed amid

perpetual light, and peace, and beauty; may I not have imaginings

of better forms, of sweeter faces, of fairer prospects, of deeper

skies, and even of diviner stars than those revealed to the

senses? Did Raphael ever see a face that equalled hers of the San

Sisto? Was there ever in the flesh a form to rival the Apollo of

the Vatican? Is there any pattern in nature for Giotto's

Campanile? Is there any voice in the woods or seas to suggest the

melodies of Kreutzer or the harmonies of Beethoven? And may we

not, then, poetize our landscapes too, and throw into the face of

nature the expression of a human soul? But here is precisely the

difficulty: the landscape has a soul of its own, which must not

be murdered, even to make way for ours. The Grand Master has been

at work before us; his works have wandered, of their own sweet

will, into shapes and combinations that exhibit the grace beyond

the reach of art. The mountains, the streams. the valleys, are

full of these sweet surprises. The true artist can do little more

than reproduce them, squared and framed, for parlor

contemplation: the true gardener can do little more than display

them to the best advantage.

It is more than likely, though, that, when the Boboli Gardens

were laid out by the Medici, the artists employed had only to

deal with unornamented slopes of olive orchards and arable land.

The landscape was less to be remodelled than created. The surface

under treatment was artistically as blank as uncolored canvas--

as meaningless as quarried marble. With this difference, however:

that while the groundwork of the painter fades and wrinkles,

while marble stains and shatters, while even the sculptured

arches of great cathedrals crumble into dust, the living canvas

on which the landscape gardener works is not only imperishable,

but so charged with vitality that it gains instead of losing by

duration; or, should a touch of decay at last appear, it is but

in transition to new phases of beauty. One would think that,

where human fancy is free to conceive a garden of delight, and

human means sufficient to ransack the ages and spoil the climes

for its embellishment, the result could not escape being a public

and paramount attraction. I take this Boboli Garden as a sample

of most public gardens or parks. Are they popularly, or even

selectly, attractive? Are they ever thronged, except at stated

hours, when people chiefly congregate to exhibit themselves and

criticise each other? Was an artist, by any miracle, ever caught

there more than once, save in the capacity of casual saunterer?

Are they not startlingly unfrequented, in spite of their superb

richness and beauty?

{68l}

However conducive these civic Edens to municipal health, have not

the park police an almost exclusive monopoly of the fresh air and

gravel? Do these magnets draw by dint of their intrinsic beauty?

It may safely be questioned. And may not this failure be

attributed to our vague, unpronounced repugnance to having nature

out of harmony with itself and ourselves? Notwithstanding all the

gilt and carmine of the new emblazonry, we keep asking the gay

palimpsest to restore the lost features of our first friend.

The curse that fell on Adam also visited the earth from which he

was taken. The heart of fallen man is full of yearning; the face

of nature is full of sympathetic sadness; her voice is nearer a

sigh than a song. More than half the year is clouded, more than

half the hours belong to night, and over more than half the world

goes the wail of the unresting seas. The vast _distances_

are everywhere softened or shaded into pensiveness; the very

sunshine turns to blue and purple on the hills; it is only the

small _near_ which presumes to be glad with the flash of a

rivulet, the song of birds, or the glance of flowers. And, in

these minor poems too, there is apt to lurk some sly suggestion

of the unattained. Even where the universe is transfigured by the

coming morn, and the world thrills with the joyous cry of

reawakened life, the momentary exultation, the piercing delight

of existence, are soon sobered by toil, or care, or thought; and,

bright as the coming day may prove, the impression left on human

hearts is that of promise unfulfilled. The poorest part of

sunrise is the sun itself; the horns on the Rigi are silent as

soon as the orb is fairly up.

It may not be overbold to affirm that some of these grander

parks, such as the Bois de Boulogne, bear no mean resemblance to

the first paradise itself. But our lot is changed since then; the

primitive tradition of Deity incarnate has been fulfilled. Eden

could no longer content us; we would not care to pass those

Cherubim with the flaming sword, even if we dared. Between us and

any possible paradise lies the grave. It is worse than mockery to

expect the sorely laden Christian heart to find more than casual

enjoyment in arbitrary walks, and endless beds of roses, and

artificial fountains, and manufactured grottoes. Sorrow, passion,

death, were encountered by God in descending to man; sorrow,

passion, death, must be encountered by man in ascending to God.

Spiritual felicity is less to be extracted from violets and roses

than from sackcloth and ashes. Temporal happiness is not to be

compassed by meandering through shaded avenues and even lawns,

but by the sweat of the brow and the work of the hands; and in

our respites from toil we like the wild, suggestive

irregularities of nature better than a too glaring array of

brightnesses with which we are seldom in complete accord. The

post-Adamic garden needs depth and gloom and mystery as well as

sunshine and flowers.

I do not mean to say that the Boboli is wholly glad; much of it

is sad or saddening enough. That long, grim avenue of cypress

would suit the valley of the shadow of death. Arnolfo's dark,

mighty wall goes striding down the hill-side like a phantom. The

Boboli was only _meant_ to be wholly glad. Though probably

not designed by a Greek, it is nevertheless Grecian, or rather

Athenian; for, in art, Athens is Greece. By an exceptional

felicity and refinement of mental, moral, and physical

organization, the Athenian realized in himself the most perfect

development of natural civilization.

{682}

The dark, religious mysteries which tinge and sadden Hindu,

Egyptian, and most Gentile life had little hold upon the Greek.

Athens, in her prime, succeeded in escaping the pressure and

responsibility of the hereafter. She aimed at making time a

success independent of eternity. The real heaven of the Athenian

and his disciples, in both classic peninsulas, was this world,

not the next. Eternity was but the ghost of time, a vague

prolongation of the present for better or worse in Elysium or

Hades, the shadow projected by a vast material world as it moved

through endless space. The poets of Greece dictated her popular

theology; her sculptors carried beauty to the very borders of the

beatitude, giving such glory to form that the inspired likeness

is mistaken for the divine original. It is impossible to tell

where the hero ends and the god begins. We have the deification

of man in marble or fable, instead of the humanization of God in

the flesh; or, in other words, the identity of religion and art.

This pleasant way of being one with God, this graceful fulfilment

of destiny, imparted a complacency to Athenian life which we

cannot imitate.

"In every dark and awful place,

Rude hill and haunted wood.

This beautiful, bright people left

A name of omen good.

"Unlike the children of romance,

From out whose spirit deep

The touch of gloom hath passed on glen.

And mountain, lake, and steep;

On Devil's Bridge and Raven's Tower,

And love-lorn Maiden's Leap."

Grecian life, in its highest aspect, was an attempt to reproduce

the perfections of a lost Eden; Christian life, in its highest

aspect, is purification, self-denial, self-immolation, for a

paradise which can never be reached in this world, and only in

the next after life-long fear and trembling. And although we

strive more or less successfully to substitute the joys of the

spirit for those of the flesh, yet "Even we ourselves, who have

the first-fruits of the spirit, groan within ourselves, waiting

for the adoption of the sons of God, the redemption of our body."

(St. Paul. [Footnote 208]) After the knowledge of good and evil,

our paradise must have no walls. The broad expanse of which each

one of us may chance to be the centre, bounded by the horizon and

vaulted by the sky--the whole visible landscape, with its fitful

light and shade, its changing blight and bloom, its alternating

sigh and song, whether subdued into use or wild as on the morning

of the first Sabbath--this whole visible universe is the only

garden in harmony with the vast aspiration, the ceaseless

yearning of Christian life. Our opened eyes would weary of the

walled Eden, as Rasselas wearied of the Happy Valley.

[Footnote 208: For the suggestion of this text of St. Paul

the writer is indebted to a notice in the _Freeman's

Journal_ of Father Ryan's beautiful lines, "_Why does

your poetry sound like a sigh_."]

It is a pure and paramount joy to grapple with the rugged earth

and bend it to your will; a joy to pierce the forest to your

liking and smooth a bare expanse into velvet lawn: of mortal joys

perhaps the purest and most enduring. But when all is done?--

Take your stand behind the Pitti Palace almost anywhere high up

the hill, on the observatory itself, if you choose. All the wide

valley of the Arno, with its circumference of cultured hills and

woodless mountains, is before you. For thousands of years

industrious generations have been at work on that fair panorama.

Yellow villas are dotting all the heights; olive-trees are

wrapping all the slopes in pale monotony; the vines are trailing

everywhere in endless procession over mutilated mulberries; the

long gray walls are solemnly parcelling out the small Tuscan

farms.

{683}

All Florence is beneath you, with its domes and towers and

spires, its streets and bridges, its memories and suggestions.

The atmosphere is so transparent, the cultivation so perfect,

that the area described by half the radius of vision seems to

enclose only a vast kitchen-garden. But further on, the mist and

haze are settling; the enchantment of distance is falling;

Vallambrosa, gleaming on its mountain's breast, turns into some

mysterious opal; the records traced by man through all those

centuries are gradually erased by the quiet alchemy of nature,

and the same eternal story reappears as vividly as if the

superscription were but the shadow of a dream.

Turn to the Boboli at your feet. Do you wonder it is a

failure--that Florence never goes there? They love their own

little gardens dearly and the flowers in their windows; for these

are but sweet thefts from nature to embellish home. But for these

attempts to compress universal beauty into a given space, for

this overprizing, overadorning of the _near_, only to be

lost, or merged, or overlooked in the glory of the _far_,

the Christian heart can have but little relish.

The bells of Santo Spirito are ringing; and I wonder, on my way

there, if that cold white hand of Athens will ever quite relax

its hold on Christian life.

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

Translated From Le Correspondant.

Anecdotical Memoirs By A Former Page

Of The Emperor Nicholas.

One day, some months after my admission among the pages, as the

classes were being dismissed, I heard a great noise. People were

running to and fro, agitated and hurried; officers of the

service, pages of the bedroom, inspectors, all seemed to be in a

state of extraordinary excitement.

"Gentlemen, look out! look out! the emperor!" cried in an

authoritative tone the head of our company, while his deep,

sonorous voice reechoed throughout the dormitory, where,

according to custom, we were all assembled before dinner.

At this name I was deeply moved. My mother and my companions had

often, very often spoken to me of the emperor in recitals where

legend mingled with reality, but I had not yet seen him face to

face. The officer on duty arranged us in military order, each one

standing near his own bed, and so we waited for him.

Soon the captain of the guard announced that the czar was coming

up the great stairway. The dormitory, ordinarily so noisy, became

perfectly still. There was a moment of solemn silence, religious

in its perfect stillness. We hardly dared to breathe. The

officer, with his helmet on, placed himself at the threshold.

Suddenly, in the opening of the large doorway, appeared a man of

tall stature, in the uniform of a general and in the midst of a

_cortége_ of superior officers.

{684}

His countenance was severe, his whole exterior imposing. This was

Nicholas I.

Since then I have seen, and closely, most of the sovereigns of

Europe, and more than once have been admitted to the honor of

direct conversation with them; but never have I beheld a figure

more royal or more profoundly imprinted with supreme majesty;

never have I since experienced the icy impression that this view

of the czar produced upon me.

He walked straightforward in lordly style, his leaden eyes coldly

fixed on those of each person to whom in turn he addressed

himself, and gazing deeply into each face with a penetration that

seemed to mark the very secrets of the soul. His step impressed

you; his aspect intimidated; and his attitudes, so truly

sovereign, added to a physiognomy so haughty, reflected the

guiding sentiment of his life, his utter contempt for mankind,

and his mystical faith in his own all-powerfulness. Of colossal

height and admirably beautiful in face, his hard and penetrating

eye subjugated you at once. Simply clad, even in peasant attire,

he would have been recognized by his look and his imperial

carriage, and surrounded even by twenty generals in full uniform,

the cry would have resounded, "The emperor! it is he!"

He made the tour of the room, and, after speaking to several

pages, came at last to where I stood. As he neared my bed, the

director approached him and said:

"Sire, this is D----."

"Ah!" bowed the emperor, and turning toward me:

"How is your mother?"

"Well, sire."

"She is a good friend of mine. Are you satisfied with your

present position?"

"Yes, sire."

"How long since he entered among the pages?" asked the czar of

the director.

"About two months since, sire."

"And conducts himself well?"

"Very well."

"Bravo!"

Until now the conversation had been in French.

"And," resumed the emperor, but this time speaking Russian, "have

you learned Russian?"

"Not yet, sire," I replied in French.

"What! here two months, and not yet a word! Why, that is

outrageous. Can't you even say _no_ in Russian?"

"I ask pardon, your majesty; I do speak Russian with my

comrades."

"Well, why then, stupid, if you can speak it with your comrades,

do you answer me in French when I address you in Russian?"

"Because, if I express myself incorrectly to a simple page, I am

not annoyed, whereas, with your majesty--"

"Very well, that will do."

I had heard he wished nothing badly done in his presence, and I

knew too little Russian to dare venture it before his majesty.

"Did you hear that?" said the emperor; and turning toward General

Philosophoff, "Here is one who will never be a fool," added he,

and passed on.

Nicholas I., Paulowitch, the third son of the Emperor Paul III.,

had never dreamed of a crown. He believed himself destined for

the pompous and useless life of a grand duke. Between him and the

empire were two older brothers, both young and both intelligent.

However, since his earliest youth his character had shown itself

self-willed, domineering, and tyrannical, in a manner the presage

of his reign and harbinger of his politics.

{685}

There has been discovered among the books used in his education

while he was quite a child, a volume of the _History of

Russia_, by Karamsin, and on the margin of which are written

in his own hand these remarkable words, "The Czar Ivan IV., the

Terrible, was a severe but a just man, as one ought to be to

govern a nation."

Such sentiments loudly expressed by Nicholas could not fail to

alarm a people and court who still remembered the reign of his

father, Paul I., only dead twenty-three years. The reign of this

crowned fool had, notwithstanding its short duration, tired out

even Russia itself--Russia, too, already so corrupted by the

habit of despotism; and a revolution in the palace had at last

put an end to the follies of this barbarian, this second

Heliogabalus.

During the reign of Alexander I., the court and town spoke freely

of the despot Paul. Nicholas, who neither could nor dared

reinstate the memory of his father, and who considered it

impolitic to permit a people to express themselves irreverently

of a czar, forbade throughout his whole empire even the mention

of a name so abhorred. The legend of his death he especially

interdicted, and so long as the reign of Nicholas lasted, the

memory of Paul I. remained in silence and obscurity.

While his brother Alexander I. governed the empire, Nicholas,

who, as we have said, believing it impossible he should ever

reign, kept himself in comparative obscurity, concentrated all

his attention on the troops, each day passing them in review, and

occupied himself only with the lot of the soldier and the

amelioration of his condition. The marriage of the Grand Duke

Constantine with the Princess of Lowicz brought him unexpectedly

nearer the throne. At the death of the Emperor Alexander, and

notwithstanding the unequal marriage of his brother, he was still

uncertain of his approaching advancement. But when he learned,

first by the will of Alexander, then by the letter of Constantine

intrusted to the Senate, and finally from Constantine himself,

his renunciation of the empire, he accepted the crown, and from

the day he did so, faithful to his character, he understood how

to reign fully and absolutely.