Firmly convinced that he represented celestial power on earth,

sincerely persuaded that to his own people he was the mandatary

of God, and held within himself divine prerogatives, he watched

with an overshadowing jealousy the sacred deposit with which he

believed himself charged, and any attempt against his authority

appeared to him a sacrilege and proved him inexorable. The

conviction that he never pardoned even the simple appearance of

such a crime isolated him in the midst of his court and people,

enveloped him in an atmosphere of gloom and terror, and placed

him at a distance that added to his prestige and the respectful

fear he inspired.

It is said that one evening, about two years after his death, one

of his aides-de-camp, (in the midst of an animated conversation,)

recognizing the portrait of the emperor in the drawing-room,

suddenly left his place, and quickly turned its face to the wall.

"During the life of the czar, I had such a terror of him," said

he, "that I fear the copy, with its terrible eyes fixed upon me,

may disconcert and embarrass me as greatly as did the model."

This very intentness of look was in truth the power of

intimidation which the emperor possessed. Intending to win a

confidence from any one or force a confession, he fastened on his

victim his cold and immovable eyes.

{686}

The unfortunate was literally fascinated. He knew that a word or

a gesture from the autocrat sufficed to annihilate him, and the

least contraction of his brow froze the blood in his veins.

Terror is the necessary auxiliary of every despotism, democratic

or aristocratic, monarchical or republican.

Yet these jealous instincts, and this implacable firmness in

punishment, were not solely due to the character of the Emperor

Nicholas, but also to the sad experiences which signalized the

commencement of his reign. Conspiracies against the new czar,

revolts occasioned by the appearance of cholera, indeed all sorts

of disorders, Nicholas had to suppress on his accession to the

throne. From the very first he learned these bloody retaliations,

and never pardoned.

The first conspirators of his reign, Pestel, Mouravieff-Apostol,

and the poet Relieff, were condemned to be hung. The emperor

signed the decree after the Russian formula, "_Byt po

siemau_" (So be it.) They were then conducted to the place of

execution. Relieff, a poet of the highest order, was the first

one led to the scaffold. Just at the moment when the executioner,

having passed the slip-knot, over his head, had raised him on his

shoulders to launch him into eternity, the too weak cord broke,

and he fell forward bruised and bleeding.

"They know not how to do anything in Russia," said he, raising

himself without even turning pale, "not even to twist a rope."

As accidents of this kind--besides being very rare, were always

considered occasions of pardon, they sent, therefore, to the

Winter Palace to know the will of the emperor.

"Ah! the cord has broken?" said Nicholas.

"Yes, sire."

"Then he was almost dead? What impression has such close contact

with eternity produced on the mind of the rebel?"

"He is a brave man, sire."

The czar frowned.

"What did he say?" asked he severely.

"Sire, he said, 'They know not how even to twist a rope in

Russia.'"

"Well," replied Nicholas, "let them prove to him the contrary."

And he went out.

A wealthy Polish lord, the Prince Roman Sanguszko, had been

condemned, as a conspirator, to serve the rest of his life as a

simple soldier, and to immediately join a regiment fighting in

Caucasia. On the margin of the sentence, the emperor wrote in his

own hand, "On foot!"

Such severity was in him a system. He sincerely believed in it as

a necessity, and a part of the sanctity of absolute power. In

Russia, especially, his knowledge of the character of his people

fortified him in his belief, and he let no opportunity escape to

declare his despotism.

Of all the heterogeneous elements that compose the immense empire

of Russia, there is not one that ever seems likely to develop in

the slightest degree the idea of liberalism; not a single

nationality in which servilism is not innate, and to which the

people themselves are not as much attached as the nations of the

East to liberty. Hence it is that among the Russians, properly

so-called, and who constitute the main portion of the population,

we find the nobility infected with an inveterate sentiment of

servile obsequiousness, and the people predisposed by

temperament, and moulded by past experience, to the most abject

submission.

{687}

They all have the same character as the great princes of Kieff,

who, when under the yoke of the Tartars, went to receive the

investiture of the Khan of the Horde d'Or; and who, after having

held his stirrup and offered him a glass of _koumys_,

[Footnote 209] were obliged to lick from the neck of his horse

the milk that dropped from his moustaches. Do we need greater

evidence of the servility of the Russian people than the reign of

the crowned tiger, Ivan IV. the Terrible, a despot without

parallel in history, whose subjects, more patient than the Romans

under Caligula and Nero, not only were contented to bear with his

follies and crimes, but actually supplicated him to resume the

throne, after his voluntary abdication through disgust of others

and himself? The reign, too, of Peter the Great, whose savage

grandeur could not absolve him from cruelty, and even the

possibility in the nineteenth century of such a despot as

Nicholas I., what greater proofs do we require?

[Footnote 209: Camel's milk fermented.]

As to the half-savage nations of the northern limits of Russia

and Siberia, with populations perhaps only yesterday awakened to

anything like social life, their need is still, as with children,

the master, and the ferule.

It is easy to understand, then, how a man armed like Nicholas

with an iron will and immense authority, and comprehending

perfectly the character of his people, should have conceived this

superhuman idea of his own power. Never thwarted by the least

resistance, only now and then by an occasional murmuring, we can

need no better explanation of his apparently exaggerated

despotism, of his inveterate faith in the sanctity of his

domination, his conviction that in himself centred his whole

empire, and the faculty, in fine, which he possessed in so great

a degree, of entirely ignoring mankind.

One day, a short time before the Crimean war, at a grand military

review at Krasnoe-Selo, the emperor, on horseback, presented his

troops to the empress seated in her carriage. Suddenly appeared

on the drill ground a cariole drawn by one horse, and out of

which stepped a _feld jaguer_, (courier of the palace,)

charged with two autographic letters from the King of Prussia to

the emperor and empress. As the empress was the more easily

approached, he handed her the first letter, and ran toward the

emperor to present the second. But some steps from him he pauses,

turns pale, and bursts into tears. The letter is lost.

Trembling from head to foot, he retraces his steps to try and

find it, but the soldiers, the aides-de-camp, the horses, have

already trodden it in the dust, and the precious envelope cannot

be found.

"What ails that animal?" asked the emperor of one of his

aides-de-camp.

"I do not know, sire."

"Well, go and ask him, and bring me his reply."

The aide-de-camp spurred his horse, and from the lips of the poor

feld jaguer he learned that an autograph letter from the King of

Prussia to the Emperor of Russia had been lost. He brought the

czar the information.

The face of Nicholas clouded instantly; his expression was gloomy

and severe.

"Take charge of this man yourself and without allowing him to

communicate with any one, conduct him immediately to Siberia. Let

him not be harshly treated, but let him never again appear in

Europe."

The aide-de-camp, as well as the unhappy feld jaguer, were both

to set out, without even changing their boots, for this journey

of 2000 leagues. The aide-de-camp returned eight months

afterward, and was recompensed by promotion from the emperor, but

the poor courier was doubtless dying or dead in the neighborhood

of Tobolsk, such faults as his having escaped an amnesty.

{688}

Such instances (I witnessed the one I am about to relate) were

not rare in the life of Nicholas. One morning in the spring, when

a freshet of the Neva had rendered its crossing extremely

perilous, the emperor, on looking from the window of his Winter

Palace, saw a large crowd watching, in evident stupefaction, a

man directing himself, by leaps from one piece of ice to another,

toward the opposite shore.

He called his attendant aide-de-camp.

"Look at that fool," said he. "What courage! Run and see what

motive he has for so exposing his life."

The aide-de-camp learned the particulars and returned.

"Sire, he is a peasant who has bet he would cross the Neva for

twenty-five roubles, and is trying to gain the reward."

"Give him twenty-fire lashes," replied Nicholas; "a man who risks

his life in this miserable way would be capable of anything for

money."

To a desperate caprice of the same kind is due the construction

of the railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow, called the

Nicholas railroad. The emperor had in his court a certain

general, Kleinmichel, a disagreeable person, exceedingly

unpopular, and of equivocal fidelity, but who pleased by his

reticence and promptness in executing orders. When the road was

decided upon by a counsel of ministers, and its erection

considered urgent, a map of Russia was brought to the czar, who

was asked to look over the course designated by the different

engineers and give his preference. Nicholas, without saying a

word, took the map, marked a straight line from Moscow to St.

Petersburg, and said to the stupefied engineers:

"This is the line of the railroad."

"But," they all cried, "impossible. Your majesty will find no one

to undertake such a work. It would be to hide treasures in a

desert."

"No one undertake it when I command it to be done!" said

Nicholas. "We shall see."

And signalling Kleinmichel from a corner:

"Kleinmichel," said he, "you see this line?"

"Yes, sire."

"This is a new railroad I propose constructing in my empire."

"Sire, it is magnificent!"

"You think so? Will you charge yourself, then, with the execution

of my orders?"

"With the greatest pleasure, sire, if your majesty orders it. But

the funds, the funds?"

"Don't be troubled about them. Ask for all the money you want."

And turning to the engineers:

"You see," said Nicholas to them, "I can get along without you. I

will build my own railroad."

And the construction of this road lasted ten years. It did not

deviate an inch from the line marked out by the imperial finger;

and leaving on one side, at about a distance of ten leagues, the

villages of Novgorod, Twer, and a host of others equally rich and

important, it traversed, in the midst of marshes and woods,

nothing but immense solitudes; 706 kilometres of iron rail cost

Russia 400,000,000 francs--a little more than half a million a

kilometre--of which the devoted Kleinmichel, but that as a matter

of course, took a good share. Nicholas, however, was right in

saying nothing could resist him.

{689}

Some weeks after the inauguration of this railroad an ambassador

arrived at St. Petersburg. According to custom and to pay him

attention, everything was shown him in detail, all the objects of

interest in the city. He expressed no surprise or admiration; his

oriental gravity was proof against either.

"What could we show him that would astonish him?" asked the

emperor of Menschikoff.

"Show him the accounts of Kleinmichel for the Nicholas railroad,"

replied the prince, laughing.

A few days later, General Kleinmichel, in presence of the

emperor, was discussing with Menschikoff some question upon which

they could not agree. The general proposed to the prince a wager.

"With pleasure," replied the latter, "and this shall be the

stake, if your excellence permits it. He who loses shall be

obliged--at the expense of the winner--to go to Moscow and return

by the railroad your excellence has just finished."

"What joke is this?" asked the emperor.

"A very simple one, sire. The road is so constructed that one is

very sure to break his neck on it; so, you see, we are playing

for our lives."

The emperor laughed heartily at the joke, but Kleinmichel took

care not to accept the bet.

These two instances prove that Nicholas knew how, now and then,

to listen to a truth well said. He was too certain that none of

his subjects dared fail him in the respect he required, so he

could afford to listen to those who were bold and witty enough to

approach him with the truth. Menschikoff, the same who commanded

at Sebastopol, was one of these; better than any other, he always

maintained before the czar his frank speech, and Nicholas, little

accustomed to such frankness, loved him dearly, and frequently

amused himself with his sallies.

General Kleinmichel was the aversion of Menschikoff. One day the

latter entered the cabinet of Nicholas at the moment when the

emperor was playing with one of his grand-children, the Grand

Duke Michel, still quite an infant.

Astraddle on the shoulders of his grandfather, the little prince

made the czar serve for his horse.

"See," cried Nicholas gayly, "see how this little imp treats me.

I am growing thin under it. The little monkey is so heavy, I

shall fall with fatigue."

"Zounds!" quickly replied Menschikoff, "little Michel (in German

_Klein-michel_) ought not to be a very light load, if he

carries about him all he has stolen."

Notwithstanding his jokes, which spared no one, Menschikoff

delighted Nicholas, who could readily enough withdraw him from

the chief command at Sebastopol, but would not deprive him of his

friendship. This was of more ancient date, and founded on the two

good qualities of courage and sincerity. Sometimes, but rarely,

others approached the emperor as familiarly. The celebrated poet,

Pouchkine, for example, dared to express himself in his presence

with a frankness which, even in occidental Europe, and in a

constitutional state, would pass for audacity.

In the palace of the Hermitage, where they were walking together,

the emperor had led the poet into a gallery of pictures that

contained the portraits of all the Romanoffs, from Michel

Fedorovitch to the last reigning sovereign, and had ordered him

to improvise some verses on each.

{690}

Pouchkine obeyed; but coming to the portrait of Nicholas, he was

silent.

"Well, Pouchkine," said the emperor, "what have you to say of

me?"

"Sire!"

"Some flattery, of course? I don't wish to hear it; so tell the

truth."

"Your majesty permits me?"

"I order you. Believe in my imperial word, you shall not suffer."

"So be it, sire."

And he wrote the famous distich:

"Des pieds à la tête la toile est admirable;

De la tête aux pieds le tzar est détestable." [Footnote 210]

[Footnote 210:

"From feet to head the picture is admirable:

From head to feet the czar is detestable."]

The emperor made no reply, but he asked Pouchkine for no more

verses.

Notwithstanding his despotism, and the arbitrary acts that

signalized his reign; notwithstanding the innumerable banishments

into Siberia and Caucasia, it is seen the emperor could sometimes

bear to hear the truth. The instinct of justice was born in him;

despotism had smothered it, unfortunately, but his better nature

frequently triumphed. Often the hereditary grand duke had, in

this respect, to submit to severe reprimands. One day, in 1832, a

year after the revolt of the Poles, whom Nicholas had handled

with implacable rigor, the grand duke, in the presence of his

father, had called them _accursed_. Rebuking publicly his

son:

"Imperial Highness," said Nicholas, "your expressions are

unseemly. If I chastise the Poles, it is because they have

revolted against my authority; but to you they have done no harm,

and you are destined to reign over them. You have no right to

make any difference in your future subjects. Be assured, such

sentiments make bad sovereigns."

The sentiment of gratitude was no more a stranger to the Emperor

Nicholas than the spirit of justice. True, he guarded as

faithfully the remembrance of injuries as of services, and if he

never forgot those who had served or defended him, neither did he

ever forgive those who had made the least attempt against his

power. While the Troubetskois, the Mouravieffs, the

Tchernicheffs, worked in the mines of Siberia, still there could

be seen, at the end of his reign, several generals perfectly

unqualified, yet provided with advantageous employments, without

any great power, it is true, but well lodged, well fed, honored,

and tranquil. If they committed any absurdity, and this

frequently happened, he changed their places according to

capacity, or sometimes secretly directed them in the exercise of

their functions, never failing in his goodness toward them. These

men, in the military revolt of 1826, had offered their swords to

assist his growing power.

Strange character! Curious mixture of faults and good qualities,

of littleness and grandeur; brutal and chivalrous, courageous

even to temerity, and distrustful even to poltroonery; equitable

and tyrannical, generous and cruel, at once the friend of

ostentation and of simplicity! His palace was magnificent, his

court splendid, the luxuriousness of his courtiers dazzling,

while, in his own person, his habits and tastes, he affected an

imposing austerity. His working cabinet was almost bare; he slept

always on a camp bed. The oldness of his uniform, and of his

military cloaks, was proverbial at St. Petersburg. Worn out,

pieced in different places, they evidenced, by their shining

neatness, how carefully they were preserved. At his repasts even,

he drank no wine; he never smoked, and the odor of tobacco was so

disagreeable to him that it was forbidden, not only in the Winter

Palace, but in the streets of St. Petersburg.

{691}

Even the Grand Duke Alexander, the czar truly, and an inveterate

smoker, was obliged to sit under the mantel-piece, to enjoy the

luxury of a cigar in the imperial palace.

Loving beyond everything military discipline, and rigorous in his

formulas, Nicholas, who for thirty years was accustomed to this

refrain, "Master, thy slave is here to obey thee"--Nicholas

could only comprehend order and uniformity. Reviews were his

favorite passion; during his reign, he transformed his empire

into a barrack. He passed his life in manoeuvres, exercises, and

miniature wars. The soldiers adored him, although he was only

eclipsed in the severity of military rule by the Grand Duke

Michel. It is true, the latter pushed his worship of discipline

to such an extent that the emperor himself was often amused at

the expense of his younger brother. One day he met an officer

with his clothes torn and covered with mud, and without helmet or

sword. The officer, finding himself discovered, and knowing he

was to blame, was terribly frightened, and nearly fell backward

in making the military salute. Nicholas fixed a severe look upon

the poor devil, which made him totter. But, suddenly changing his

tone and countenance, he said gayly:

"Go, dress yourself; but take good care you don't meet my

brother!"

Rising with the dawn, and at work from the earliest hour of the

day, whether at his palace in winter or in the field in summer,

he hardened himself, as well as others, to both cold and fatigue.

An excellent rider, his horses were magnificent and marvellously

cared for; he always mounted alone those that were reserved for

him, and out of two or three hundred sent every year to his

stables for his own use, he could scarcely find a dozen to suit

him. In manoeuvres I have seen him twenty times, at the moment of

the loudest cannonade and in the most frightful noise, jerk, in

his impatience, his horse's bit until the jagged lips of the poor

beast were streaming with blood. Sometimes this torture lasted

several minutes; the sides of the beautiful animal whitened with

foam; he trembled in agony, and yet never lost for a moment his

statue-like immobility.

Such methods of proceeding, applied by Nicholas equally to

everything that surrounded him, generals, servants, horses, and

courtiers, were fortunately tempered in him by the sense of

justice, of which I have already spoken, and especially by the

fear of public opinion, not only in Russia, but in all Europe. He

seemed ashamed of the despotism he practised, and strove to

conceal it from the governments and people of the West. In

proportion as he affected to despise their arms, so much the more

did he respect their ideas.

We know that it is customary at the court of St. Petersburg to be

presented to the emperor in full uniform. And even more, that

there is no condition in life, however trifling, which has not

its distinctive costume. It is related that one morning Lord

----, ambassador from England, arrived in his carriage at the

gate of the Winter Palace, was recognized, and went up to the

apartments of the emperor. He was in his great-coat. Seeing it,

the chamberlain-in-waiting, who did not dare remark this

infringement of the laws of etiquette in such an important

person, immediately sent word to the chancellor of the empire.

Count Nesselrode, and meanwhile retained the ambassador under

various pretexts.

{692}

The count arrived in haste, and the morning toilet seemed to have

the same effect on the chancellor as on the chamberlain.

"I am delighted to see you, my dear count," said Lord ---- to M.

de Nesselrode. "I wanted to speak to his majesty on some very

important business, but I have been detained here nearly an

hour."

"Because we do not dare, my lord--"

"Do not dare--what?"

"We cannot introduce you to the emperor in such morning

_négligé_."

"_Négligé!_" said he, throwing a rapid glance at his person,

and aware of his reputation for elegance, and supposing he had

been guilty of some impropriety in his toilet.

"In Russia, no one is admitted in similar costume to the presence

of the sovereign."

"Would full uniform be necessary?" asked smilingly the reassured

ambassador.

"Exactly, my lord."

"Oh! pardon me, then. I will go dress myself." And he left,

shrugging his shoulders.

The emperor was furious when he heard of the adventure.

"Cursed fools!" he grumbled, "they represent me a barbarian!"

When, an hour afterward, the ambassador returned to the palace in

official uniform, the emperor excused himself with great anxiety,

blaming the narrow-mindedness of his servants, and declaring

loudly that he did not occupy his brain with such trifles.

"When you wish, my lord," added he, giving him his hand, "to come

and see me as you did to-day, do not be incommoded, I beg of you,

by any such formula."

This fear of Western irony affected all his relations with

Europeans. We know the flattering reception he gave the Marquis

de Custine, Horace Vernet, and twenty other illustrious

strangers. Those employed in his empire were as anxious to throw

dust in the eyes of travellers as himself. Nothing could be more

amusing than the arrival of a stranger at St. Petersburg, under

the reign of Nicholas. As no one could remain in the city without

a permit, all new-comers hastened to the police to have their

cards presented them, and the scenes enacted were truly comical.

The following dialogue will give a good idea of them:

"You wish to live at St. Petersburg?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long?"

Each one then fixed the probable duration of his stay.

"Well, your permit will be given you."

Here a pause. The policeman gives the necessary order, then

resumes the conversation.

"Well, what do you think of St. Petersburg?"

"It is an admirable city."

"Are not our theatres as fine as those of Paris?"

"Most assuredly."

"Is not the perspective from Newski a superb view?"

"Truly."

"Do they not tell idle stories of us in Paris, and are they any

freer than we?"

"Prejudices these, nothing more. Travellers, like me, are here to

rectify such errors. A proof that Russia is free, I can move

about with perfect liberty."

"Have you seen the emperor?"

"Yesterday evening at the Théâtre Michel."

"Is he not a remarkably handsome man?"

"The handsomest I have ever seen."

{693}

"Sir, your permit must be ready by this time. Will you go and

receive it, and prolong your stay in Russia as long as you

please. You will see that you have judged our country correctly."

Notwithstanding all his efforts to conciliate European opinion,

the Emperor Nicholas was not rewarded in his travels by any

praise whatever. Once out of his own country, he quickly

discovered he had deceived no one, and his despotism was in

Europe the object of universal unpopularity.

From the Holy Father he received his first lesson: a lesson,

however, both given and received with dignity.

It was well known that he had changed hundreds of Catholic into

Greek churches, in all the western provinces of Russia and

Poland.

Curious to visit Rome, he asked permission of Gregory XVI. to

enter the holy city. The pope asked, in return, by what

ceremonial he wished to be received.

"As a Catholic sovereign," replied the emperor.

Lodged at the Quirinal, he went the next day in Eastern style

with a guard of Cossacks to visit the holy father, who received

him standing at the head of the staircase of the Vatican.

Nicholas knelt to receive the benediction of the venerable

pontiff, who, after having given it to him, without being at all

impressed with his Attila-like costume, said to him with a

serenity almost angelic:

"My son, you persecute my sheep."

"I?" cried Nicholas in a disconcerted tone.

"Yes, you, my son. You are powerful. Do not use your strength to

oppress the weak."

"Holy father, I have been slandered."

The conversation continued some time in the cabinet of the pope,

and the emperor remained, during his stay in Rome, on terms of

the most affectionate respect with Gregory XVI. He afterward sent

him a magnificent altar of malachite, that may be admired at the

church of St. Paul, outside the walls. An inscription, dictated

by Nicholas to St. Peter at Rome, recalls his visit to the

Capital of Christianity:--"Nicholas came here to pray to God for

his mother, Russia."

In London, as is well known, he was received with great popular

demonstrations. We need not relate here the tumultuous scenes to

which he had to submit, and how his carriage was more than once

covered with mud.

With a brutality unworthy a sovereign, and at times a delicacy

astonishing in a man of such a character, the most contrary

qualities and defects reproduced themselves in a hundred acts of

his life. For instance, one night I saw him fisticuff a poor Jew

in the face, and accompany the act with the most sonorous oaths,

because in giving light to the postilions of the Berlin imperial,

he had awakened him with a start, by throwing the light of his

lantern into his face. Again, at Warsaw, where he went to receive

the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria, he took Francis

Joseph into his arms to force him to occupy the seat of honor in

his carriage, which the young emperor was unwilling to accept: a

courtesy, according to the Cossack, that would have exactly

suited him.

Yet this man, so rude and so haughty, evidenced occasionally

great delicacy of sentiment. One very cold day, returning from a

review, where he had been almost frozen, he stopped at the house

of a lady, whom he knew to be in ill health, and met the doctor

in the waiting-room.

"How is Madame ----?" said he to the latter.

{694}

"Very poorly, sire. The cold of St. Petersburg is killing her."

"Ah! the cold is injuring her? Feel my hands. They are frozen,

are they not?"

"Very cold, sire."

"Well, I will wait here until they are warm; I would not for the

world increase her malady."

And the emperor waited in this sort of an antechamber, talking to

the doctor, until his hands resumed their natural warmth.

So this character, which, at first sight, appeared all of a

piece, was composed of contrasts the most dissonant. Nicholas

bared his breast to the revolted regiments in 1826 and recalled

them to duty by this single attitude; at the time of the cholera,

alone amid a populace mad with terror and exasperated by famine,

a gesture from him, a single word, could constrain the delirious

multitude and throw them on their knees before him; in cases of

fire, so frequent at St. Petersburg, and under the burning beams,

a hundred times he uselessly risked his life; yet on another

occasion, when the safety of an empire depended upon him, he

resolutely refused to repair to Sebastopol.

His long reign was fatal to Russia. For nearly thirty years it

accomplished nothing. During the lifetime of Nicholas, the

wheel-work of the machine moved regularly under his powerful

hand, the cogs upon which he impressed the movement never being

completely paralyzed. But the evil, being hidden, was not the

less deep or real. Under this show of factitious strength, the

downfall was already visible, and the approaching disaster keenly

felt. The army, upon which Nicholas concentrated all his

attention and intelligence--the army, his strength, his hope, his

pride, began to be disorganized under the influence of an

administration without control. Alone, the will of the czar

sustained the edifice, and his pride sustained his will. And this

word pride embodies to my mind the character, the conduct, the

whole politics, of the Emperor Nicholas. His ruling passion was

pride, a pride incommensurable, a pride such as neither Louis

XIV., Henry VIII., nor Solyman the Magnificent--these three

crowned representatives of capital sins--could ever equal. The

idea of humiliation would leave him smiling, so entirely he

believed such an event impossible. It may be truly said that he

never submitted, for the first repulse he had to suffer killed

him.

This pride in him passed all bounds, and touched sometimes on the

aberrations of a Schahabaham. One day, one of his aides-de-camp

came to him very much excited, and throwing himself at his feet:

"Sire!" cried he, "I beg your majesty to grant me a favor."

"Speak."

"Permit me to fight a duel."

"Never!" replied the emperor.

Nicholas had a horror of duels. In his eyes, all blood was

criminally shed in Russia that was not for the country or in his

service, and he punished the guilty in this respect most

severely.

"Sire, I am dishonored. It is necessary for me to fight."

"What do you say?"

"I have been struck in the face."

"Ah!" said the emperor, contracting his brows. "But no, I cannot

permit a duel. You must come with me."

And taking him by the arm, he conducted him before the assembled

court, and, in presence of all, kissed him on the offended cheek.

{695}

"Go, now," said he, "and resume your tranquillity; the affront is

washed out."

During the war of the Crimea, and especially in the first part of

it, Nicholas, very restless, waited every day for news from the

south. Each one tried his best to conceal the bad turn affairs

had taken; but after the battle of the Alma, the truth had to be

confessed. A courier, Colonel A., was despatched to him in great

haste. He received orders to repair immediately to the czar.

"Well! what news?" said the emperor to him brusquely, giving him

scarcely time to enter or fulfil the accustomed formalities of

etiquette.

"The battle has been fought, sire."

"Finish!" said the emperor, with an emotion that caused his

usually firm voice to tremble.

"Alas!--"

"You say--?"

"Fortune has failed us."

"We are--?"

"We are beaten, sire."

The emperor arose from his seat.

"It is impossible," said he in a quick manner.

"The Russian army has taken flight."

"You lie!" cried Nicholas with a frightful explosion of anger.

"Sire--"

"You lie. My soldiers never fly."

"Sire, I have told you the truth."

"You lie, I say, you lie."

And his eye beaming with anger, his lips contracted, his hand

raised, he threw himself on the military courier and tore off his

epaulettes.

"Go! You are now only a soldier."

The unhappy colonel, pale with shame, smothering his rage and the

tears that rose to his eyes, went out, his soul in despair. But

hardly had he reached the staircase, when he heard the voice of

the emperor begging his return. He retraced his steps, and

Nicholas, running to meet him, embraced him ardently, begged

pardon for his brutality, and offered for his acceptance the post

of aide-de-camp.

"May your majesty hold me excused," replied the poor officer;

"for, in taking off" my epaulettes, you have deprived me of my

honor. I leave them in your hands with my dismissal."

"You are right," replied Nicholas. "It is not in my power to

repair the offence of my hasty action. Ah! we are both unhappy,

and I am vanquished. Yes, completely vanquished!"

And, walking up and down with an agitated step, the subdued lion

in his cage, his heart bleeding with the wound given his pride:

"Go, leave my empire," continued he, turning to Colonel A----,

"and pardon me. We must not meet again. Both of us would suffer

too much in each other's presence."

The mortification attending the first reverses of his army before

Sebastopol was a mortal blow to his health; yet, had not his

stubborn pride brought about these reverses? Self-deceived

thoroughly as to the real condition of his empire, the disastrous

news of the Alma came upon him like a thunder-bolt. Some honest

men, sent to the different stations, signalized the imperfect

state of the fortifications of Sebastopol, the disorganization of

the army, the deplorable condition of the roads. They informed

the emperor that the soldiers, in their march toward the south,

were dying by thousands for want of sufficient nourishment and

necessary clothing. Thanks to the bad quality of the grass and

hay, whole regiments were in a few days entirely dismounted. And

now the alarming news spread with rapidity.

{696}

Each day brought fresh tidings of new embarrassments, new checks,

and new misfortunes. Nicholas at last opened his eyes. He saw the

colossus, with its feet of clay, tremble to its base; he felt his

power crumble in his hands, his prestige fade and disappear. From

the windows of Peterhoff, his loved summer residence, he could

follow with his telescope the evolutions of the allied fleet.

Turkey itself, hitherto so despicable in his eyes, was

transformed into a redoubtable enemy. Now he began to think of

the ravages that continued theft had made in his empire, the

disorders in the finances, the corruption of public morals, and

every one was doomed to punishments. By his order, judgments,

condemnations, banishment to Caucasia and Siberia, were daily

multiplied. It was too late; the gangrene had reached the wound.

Tears of grief and rage flowed with the consciousness of his

impotence. He opened his eyes to the fall of Russia with each

victorious flash of the allied cannons; and the edifice of terror

that had taken him twenty years to build, he saw crumbling, stone

by stone, and felt that the military quackery with which he had

intimidated Europe had frightened no one. With the mocking pride

of Titan, he bled at every pore. Repeated blows of this kind

ended by undermining his constitution, till now so vigorous.

Little by little he sank, bent his haughty head, and tottered,

with slow and saddened step, to the grave.

It was February. Under a gray and cold sky, a penetrating,

driving snow enveloped St. Petersburg in a whitened dust. The

streets, the houses, the beards and furred great-coats of the

passers-by, all were white. The great city resembled a giant

asleep under the snow. An inexpressible sadness took possession

of you, weighed down your whole being, and froze your very heart.

You seemed to be at the pole itself.

On this day the emperor, an early riser as usual, came out of his

bedroom and entered his cabinet, where were already assembled his

general aide-de-camp, his other aides, the chamberlain, and

gentlemen of the bed-chamber. Perceiving his general

aide-de-camp, he called to him, and said:

"I am suffering. Send for Mandt."

"I will go myself, sire."

"Yes. I have a grand review at the end of the week, and must be

there."

Mandt, his attendant physician, Prussian by birth, a man of

science, and an excellent practitioner, hastened to the emperor,

who, after having given his orders, had returned to his

apartments.

"It will be nothing, gentlemen," said the doctor to us on leaving

the imperial chamber; "only the emperor should abstain from going

out, as the least imprudence may aggravate a malady which at

present portends nothing serious."

The emperor remained two days in his room, and there was a

sensible improvement in his condition. But his wasted figure, his

dull eyes, and waxy color betrayed the existence of a hidden

malady. The third day, the courier from the south brought him

news--sad news, certainly, for it had been a long time since his

couriers had anything happy to tell him. The next day was

terribly cold, icy, heavy, impregnated with the boreal fog; yet

this was the day of the review at which the czar wished to

assist.

He threw a small military cloak over his uniform, and at the

appointed hour left his cabinet, to mount his horse.

Mandt was waiting for him in the antechamber.

{697}

"Sire!" said the doctor to him in a supplicating voice, and

trying to retain him.

"Oh! it is you, doctor. I am better, thank you."

"Yes, sire, better, but not well yet."

"Oh! indisposed merely,"

"No, sire, a serious malady. I come to beg your majesty not to go

out."

"Impossible!"

"Sire, for pity's sake--"

"You are crazy, Mandt."

"Sire, you had better be resigned."

"You believe there is danger?"

"It is my duty to warn you of it."

"Well, Mandt, if you have done your duty in warning me, I will do

mine by going out."

And the emperor, without listening to another word, pursued his

way.

Mandt, stupefied for a moment, ran after him, and rejoined him in

the court-yard, at the moment he mounted his horse.

"Sire," cried he, resuming his supplications, "deign to listen to

me--"

"I have said it, Mandt. I thank you, but to insist would be

useless."

"Sire, in this condition!"

"Well?"

"It is your death, sire."

"And then?"

"It is suicide."

"And who has permitted you, Mandt, to scrutinize my thoughts? Go,

and insist no longer. I order you."

After the review, he returned to the palace, pale, trembling, icy

cold.

"I am threatened with my malady," said he to his aide-de-camp.

"Shall I send for Mandt?"

"Useless; he has already warned me."

"He warned your majesty?"

"Yes; that I would kill myself."

The aide-de-camp turned pale.

"Ah sire! what do I hear?"

"To die, is it not the best thing I can do? Farewell, my old

friend, I have need of rest. Let no one disturb me."

All night the imperial family, who had been apprised of his

condition, the doctors, Mandt and Rasel, united in the anteroom,

waited with anxiety--not daring to knock at the door of the

emperor--for the moment he might call to them. Obedience, in this

court, was so blindly servile that it imposed silence on the most

natural and imperious sentiments. Toward two o'clock something

was heard between a groan and a sigh. Mandt thought he might

knock gently at the door of the imperial chamber.

"I have forbidden any one to disturb me," murmured the emperor,

in a voice still feeble, but which retained an accent of

authority.

That night was spent in mortal inquietude, in inexpressible

anguish, and not until the next morning was the doctor informed

by the valet de chambre that his august patient would like to see

him.

"Well, Mandt, you were right. I believe I am a dead man."

These were the first words of Nicholas.

"O sire! I spoke as I did to dissuade your majesty from so great

an imprudence."

"Let us see: look me in the face and tell me if there is yet

hope."

"I believe so, sire."

"I tell you I am a dead man. I feel it. Go on, make use of your

trade. Sound my lungs; I know that science will confirm my

conviction."

Mandt, having accomplished the orders of the emperor, shook his

head.

"Well?"

"Sire--"

"You are troubled, Mandt; your hand trembles. See, I have more

courage than you. Come, let us have the sentence, and quickly,

for I have to settle my affairs in this world, and I have a great

many of them."

{698}

"Your majesty troubles yourself unnecessarily. No case is ever

desperate, and with the grace of God--"

Nicholas gazed at his doctor fixedly in the eyes.

The latter looked down confusedly.

"You know, Mandt, I cannot be deceived easily. Let us have the

truth now, and only the truth. Do you think that Nicholas does

not know how to die?"

"Sire--"

"Well?"

"In forty-eight hours you will be dead or saved."

"Thank you, Mandt," said Nicholas in a voice of deep emotion.

"Now good-by, and send me my family."

The doctor prepared to leave the room.

"Mandt!" called Nicholas, on seeing him direct his steps toward

the door.

"Sire."

"Let us embrace each other, my good old friend. We will perhaps

never meet again on earth. You have been an honest and faithful

servant. I will recommend you to my son."

"What do you say, sire? Never see you again! I sincerely hope the

contrary, and that my attentions--"

"Your attentions will be superfluous. There will be time for me

only to see my ministers and my priest, and make my peace with

God. Human science can do no more for me, and, indeed, I do not

wish to try it."

"And now at the close, sire, I revolt," cried the doctor. "I have

no right, and my duty forbids my thus abandoning you."

"Mandt, do you answer for my cure?"

The doctor hung his head, and could not reply.

"Farewell, then, my friend."

"Sire, if not, then, as your physician, permit me as a devoted

servant to see you again. Who can tell? God is great! and for the

destiny of the Russia which he protects, may work a miracle."

"And because I know that God protects Russia, so neither do I

wish nor hope for my restoration to health. Mandt, let my family

come now. I assure you the time will soon fail me."

Mandt wept. With tears in his eyes, he went out and related to

the courtiers his conversation with the emperor. Strange

contradiction! This man, whom I have tried to depict as so severe

and haughty, was adored by all who approached him. Courtiers,

soldiers, servants, burst into tears. Lost in the crowd with

them, I mingled my complaints and prayers.

Then, after the empress and the grand hereditary duke, the

imperial family, all in tears, entered the apartment of the

emperor. The door closed upon them, and all that passed there,

all that was said in this supreme grief, only God knew. Mandt,

however, with a voice choked with emotion, continued his recital,

and we listened to him with the keenest attention. How and by

what indiscretion the news he had just given us was spread in the

city, I cannot tell; but already, before the death of the czar,

it was believed at St. Petersburg that Mandt had helped to poison

him. From this to the pretended act itself there was but one step

toward belief, and this was soon overcome; so the exasperation,

true or false, against the honest doctor, knew no bounds, and

they would have torn him to pieces in the streets. The name of

Nicholas still inspired such terror that every one endeavored to

give some public demonstration of grief as a claim on his

benevolence in the event of his returning to life. Yet after his

death these manifestations changed their character, and the

contrast between such marks of affection and the epithets with

which they loaded his memory when they were certain he really

ceased to exist, was a lesson for kings to contemplate.

{699}

For the time, though, the anger of the people against the poor

doctor was so blindly furious, that it is related of a thief,

seized by the collar by a passerby, from whom he had tried to

steal his watch, that in order to escape, he raised the cry,

"Hist! hist! it's Mandt, comrades, it's Mandt!"

The interview between the emperor and his family lasted three

hours, three long hours, during which expectation for us was

changed into real anguish. By degrees retired, one by one, the

children, the grand-children, and his brothers. The grand

hereditary duke came out last, bathed in tears. An hour flew by,

and not a sound was heard from the imperial chamber; no one dared

enter. Mandt listened attentively, holding his breath. Suddenly a

loud noise was heard in the corridors; a courier from Sebastopol

arrived. As the whole court knew the impatience with which the

emperor awaited the news from the Crimea, the aide-de-camp

general on duty, thinking to please the emperor, knocked at his

door.

"Do they still want me?" murmured the emperor; "tell them to let

me rest."

"Sire, a courier from Sebastopol."

"Let him address himself to my son; this concerns me no longer."

Soon the primate, followed by the clergy, arrived to offer the

last consolations of the church. Then the ministers were

presented, the Count Orlof at their head. This lasted during the

night. At ten o'clock, the emperor asked for the officers of his

household. His face already bore the impress of death; a

cadaverous paleness betrayed the progress of the decomposition

that preceded the fatal moment; lying on his camp-bed, he

addressed us some farewell words, which the first strokes of

death-rattle interrupted, and took leave of us with a waive of

his hand. None of us slept that night in the Winter Palace, none

of us after that hour ever saw the emperor alive.

The next day, the 18th of February, at mid-day, the grand

chamberlain of the palace was sent for by the physicians to the

imperial bed. At half-past twelve o'clock, returning among us,

"Nicholas Paulowitch is dead," said he.

We went out silent and sad.

The next day, on the walls of St. Petersburg could be read this

inscription: "Russia, grateful to the Emperor Nicholas I. for the

18th of February, 1855."

--------

{700}

Translated From The French

Of The Pere Landriot--

Addressed To Women Of The World.

Household Duties.

"She giveth meat to her household,

and a portion to her maidens.'

We finished the question, vulgar perhaps in one sense, yet so

important in many others, of sleep: [Footnote 211] a benefit of

divine Providence accorded us each day to repair our strength,

renew our life, and provide for the weakness and precipitation of

man; a time for repose and sage counsel.

[Footnote 211: See "_Early Rising_" in _The Catholic

World_ for September, 1867.]

Sleep is a precious dictate, a solitary bath for body and soul,

and a prudent counsellor and daily preacher to remind us of our

approaching and last departure. But like all good things, sleep

is subject to abuse, and then it produces effects entirely

contrary to the will of the Creator: weakening, stupefying, and

dulling the faculties, it becomes for humanity a living

sepulchre. If the abuse of sleep coincides with the quality, that

is to say, if the hours by nature destined to it are considerably

changed--night turned into day, and day into night--the

constitution is assuredly ruined, and an infirm old age prepared,

a never-ceasing convalescence. Parties and midnight revels have

killed more women than the most exaggerated mortifications and if

religion commanded the sacrifice the world requires of its

votaries, the recriminations against it would be unending. In a

hygienic light, physical as well as moral, it is better to retire

and rise early. Everything gains by it--health, business, and the

facility and excellence of prayer. But we must not dissimulate;

and the struggle with the pillow is, in its very sweetness, one

of the most violent that can exercise man's courage; and to break

these _chains of bed_, it is necessary to exercise an almost

superhuman energy. The enemy is deceitful, dangerous in his

caresses, and generally ends in persuading us; we think he is

right; and, after all, it is a cruelty to martyrize ourselves. I

have not wished, ladies, to conceal the difficulties; but I have

pleaded my cause, which is also yours. To your wisdom and reason

I submit it, and I trust to succeed at such a tribunal. If you

wish to appeal, and present the cause before the tribunal of

Idleness, listening to its numerous lawyers, in advance I may

tell you the first judgment will be suspended. Well, I will

consent to lose, but on one condition--that you will insert this

explanation in the judgment: that the case was gained before

Judge Reason; but that, in the supreme court of Indolence,

Idleness, surrounded by his lawyers, revoked the decision.

Now for the end of our text: "_The strong woman giveth meat to

her household, and a portion to her maidens_."

Formerly, ladies, when families and societies were truly

Christian, the domestics, according to the etymology of the word,

were really a part of the house; for _domestic_ comes from

the Latin word _domus_, which signifies house. In those

days, a family formed a body; the father and mother were head,

and the domestics themselves had their place in the organization

of the family; they were only subordinate members, but they were

a part of the body.

{701}

Therefore, they always lived in the house, passed their lives

there; and when they were no longer able to work, they were cared

for with paternal and filial affection; and when the hour of

death came to them by length of time, they had fallen into decay

as a branch dying on its trunk. The relations of benevolence and

Christian charity united masters to servants; and while the

latter accepted the place of inferiority, they felt themselves

loved, and loving in return, a tie was formed stronger than

massive gold--the tie of love. Saint Augustine speaks to us with

much feeling of the nurse who cared for his mother's infancy, and

who had even carried on her back the father of St. Monica, as

young girls then carried little children: "_Sicut dorso

grandiuscularum puellarum parvuli portari solent._" [Footnote

212]

[Footnote 212: _Confessions_, i. 9, c 8.]

"This remembrance," continued St. Augustine, "her old age, the

excellence of her manners, assured her in a Christian house the

veneration of her masters, who had committed to her the care of

their daughters; her zeal responded to their confidence; and

while she exercised a saintly firmness to correct them--to

instruct, she was always guided by an admirable prudence."

Nowadays, ladies, things have changed. Such examples are rare;

but without doubt, there are still honorable exceptions--servants

who love their masters, and who make part of the family as true

children of the house, serving with ease and gentleness, because

they are guided principally by affection, and bearing the faults

of their masters, who, in return, are patient with them, until

household affairs glide on with a smoothness which, though

sometimes very imperfect, is, after all, a small evil. Yes, we do

still find Christian families where domesticity is thus

understood; but alas! they become rarer every day! In our time,

owing to a spirit of pride, independence and irreligion are

spreading everywhere; good servants are hard to find, and perhaps

also good masters; and as two fireplaces placed opposite each

other are mutually overheated, so the bad qualities of the

domestics increase those of the masters, and _vice versâ_.

Servants have exaggerated pretensions; they will not bear the

least reproof; everything wounds them; and on the other side,

masters do not command in a Christian spirit. Thus, everywhere is

heard a general concert of complaint and recrimination; masters

accuse their servants, servants do as little as possible for

their masters; and certain houses become like omnibuses, where

the servants enter only to get out again at their convenience.

I have told you, ladies, that, if I had to preach to your

husbands, I could add a kind of counterpart, not adverse to your

interests, but to complete my instructions; but, addressing

myself to you, my words must be limited to your duties. I would

add here, also, that, if I had to preach to your servants, I

would be obliged to give them advice very useful for your

household organization; but they are absent; my instruction is to

you; so I must leave in shadow all their shortcomings.

It appears to me your duties to them will be well accomplished if

you enter into the spirit of this text: "She riseth while it is

yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her

maidens." Look at the sun; it rises on the horizon, and, in

shedding its beams, seems to distribute work to every creature,

and, by way of recompense, prepares their nourishment in advance.

Is it not he who, while lighting the world, invites the artisan

to his shop, the laborer to his field, and the pilot to leave his

port?

{702}

Is it not he who prepares the germs in the bosom of the

earth--who warms them, and conducts them to that point of

maturity that the statesman waits for as impatiently as the

laborer? "Woman," says the Scripture, "should be the sun of her

household." She should lighten and warm like the planet of the

day. Her rays are emitted in indicating to each one his duties,

in distributing the work in wise and suitable proportions, and,

when all is justly ordered, superintending its execution. Then

everything goes on admirably, because brightened by the spirit of

regularity that guides the mistress of the house. Her glance,

given to all around her, projects the light; and this light is

the strongest and most insinuating of counsellors, as well as a

gracious but severe monitor. A woman who presides well over her

household need talk but little; her presence speaks for her, and

the simple conviction that she has her eyes everywhere, and that

the least detail is not unknown to her, prevents any

irregularity. But see, on the contrary, a house where the

mistress rises late, and sleeps morally the rest of the day.

Everything is left to chance; disorder introduces itself

everywhere, in heads as in business; a general pell-mell of ideas

and objects--a confusion which recalls the primitive chaos. Madam

sleeps late, the servants rise only a little earlier; during the

day, madam dreams, occupies herself with her toilet, in matinees,

and visits, and the house, given up to itself, becomes what it

may. The children are almost abandoned, and work accumulates in

the most delightful disorder.

Woman, the sun of her house, should not be satisfied to

illuminate it; she should warm it also, and with her heart.

You ought, ladies, to watch your servants, demand an account of

their proceedings in-doors and out, watch over them particularly

in their connection with your children; for too often the heart

and mind are lost by servants, and, were it permitted to reveal

all the human heart can tell us in this respect, you would be

seriously alarmed.

About twenty years ago, I had charge of a seminary. One day I

received a visit from a very indignant father, who told me with

bitterness that his child had been corrupted in our

establishment. I knew to the contrary; but I had no defence to

offer, so in silence I bore an unmerited reproach. Some time

afterward I had permission to speak, when I was able to prove to

him that it was in his own house that his child was lost, by

keeping company with a servant.

Watch, then, your children, ladies, by watching your servants.

Watch their going out and coming in, their bearing and their

company; watch their words and actions. But, I beg of you, watch

with kindness, for the light of your supervision should be warm

with Christian affection. Love your servants, and always remember

that they are human--the image of God, and that they have been

bought by the blood of Jesus Christ. As much as possible, speak

to them with kindness, and, if an occasional impatience escapes

you, endeavor to repair it by sincere benevolence. That your

watchfulness may not engender suspicion and restlessness, do not

appear a spy on their actions. We often make people good by

believing them so, and bad by accusing them of qualities they do

not possess; or, at least, we freeze their hearts, and

permanently harden them. Avoid everything which appears like

ill-humor, meanness, or caprice.

{703}

To-day madam is in a good humor, and all goes well; the servants

may be as merry, and make as many mistakes as they please; nobody

notices them. To-morrow the moon reddens in its first quarter:

woe to the inhabitants of the house! woe to the servants! Madam's

coffee is cold, yet it bears its ordinary temperature; the soup

is too salty, yet the usual quantity was put into it. The room is

full of smoke, it was the servant's fault, and yet the poor

creature made neither the wind nor the chimney. A racket in the

kitchen; madam's voice is heard from the cellar to the garret--

from the court-yard to the neighboring houses. Nothing renders

authority more ridiculous than such conduct. The servants are

tired out; they lose every sentiment of affection and confidence,

because they see no regard is shown them; that they are

considered inferior beings, entitled to no respect; and that,

even on days when caprice is not predominant, they only encounter

airs of silent pride and haughtiness.

Without doubt, ladies, there is a just medium to be preserved.

Many servants are unreasonable, and take advantage of favors

accorded them; are exacting and indiscreet; they require masters

without faults, and are completely blinded to their own. "Treat

them as friends," said an ancient philosopher, "and they lack

submission; keep them at a distance, and they resent your conduct

and hate you." [Footnote 213]

[Footnote 213: Confucius, _Entr. Philos_. c. 17.]

The middle course of wisdom is therefore hard to find; but it is

so in all worldly affairs, yet it is necessary to resolve it. The

heart of a Christian woman appears to me best adapted for this

work of conciliation; she can preserve her authority by

demonstrating a wise firmness, recalling the words of Fenelon:

"The less reason you find in men, the more fear requisite to

restrain them." [Footnote 214] The strong woman must be able to

cope with such difficult minds, often so pretentious and

ridiculous in their exactions, and put them in their place when

wisdom and occasion demand it. But, in her ordinary conduct, let

her remember that she commands her brethren, for whom our Lord

died; that love and gentleness are the best, the most Christian

roads to persuasion, and that severity should always be reserved

for circumstances where reason and charity fail.

[Footnote 214: _De l'Education des Filles_, c. 12.]

Fenelon says again that, in certain houses, "servants are

considered no better than horses--of natures like theirs--human

beasts of burden for their masters." [Footnote 215] Nothing can

be more opposed to sentiments of faith and reason; servants are

brothers, to be loved and treated as such; they owe you their

service and fidelity, and if they fail, recall them to duty

prudently, with a charitable compassion and firmness that does

not exclude affection. A single word will often dispel a cloud

and dissipate increasing shadows, and give you, in return, the

deep and solid friendship of your servants. Is this not far

better than forced relations, coldness and constraint that freeze

the heart and poison innumerable lives? The fable itself teaches

us a lesson in telling us that the friendship of the ant is not

to be despised.

[Footnote 215: _Ibid_.]

"The strong woman giveth meat to her household, and a portion to

her maidens." The spirit of God neglects no detail, because in

life everything is important. Let your servants work; nothing is

better for them; but do not traffic with either their food or

duties.

{704}

Treat them a little like the children of the house; you will not

only interest your charity, but your service will gain by it. Do

not calculate with an avaricious hand what may do them good and

alleviate their lot. You will gain on one side what you lose on

the other; and besides, is not the true affection of a devoted

heart worth more than a piece of gold? It is not only food and

material comforts you must assure your servants. How I love to

see the Christian woman enlarge her maternal heart and reserve in

it not only a place for her children, but for all the people of

her household! Yes, she must have a mother's affection for all,

and let the least one understand that he has part in the warmth

of her soul and the fireside of her heart. Thus she realizes the

comparison that I always love to repeat, because she is truly

great in her splendor and simplicity, and, in proportion as she

is examined, new aspects are discovered; then the strong woman is

the sun of her household: _sicut sol oriens_.

The planet of day sheds its light on the clouds, the high

mountains, and the gilded palaces, but he never omits the little

valley flower or the blade of grass that claims his warmth. He

does not give it so abundantly as to the oaks of the mountain,

but it is always the same light, and suffices for their life and

happiness. Thus the strong woman pours her intimate affections on

her family and her true friends, but her soul has still a reserve

for her servants. She gives them less than her husband and

children, but it is all from the same source, and bears with it

for them the same unction.

After such a distribution of work, of care and affection, do not

expect to find no faults in your servants. To these servants, I

would say: Bear with the faults of your masters and mistresses;

the best of them are imperfect, and for you the true way to

modify their defects is to reply only by patience and an

immovable docility; sweetness and patience do much more than

anger and violent recrimination, as various elastic substances

are, we know, among the best agents to arrest the impetuous

movement of the cannon-ball. To you, ladies, I say: Bear with the

faults of your servants, as they are never wanting. With two such

sureties, with the certainty of patience on the part of the

servants, and in return on that of the masters, you will be sure

to pacifically organize the interior of your households. If the

tether of patience is short at one end, you can stretch it at the

other; and such is the admirable teaching of Christianity,

wherever the relations of mankind exist, it establishes

reciprocal duties on so firm and solid a foundation that, if one

is lacking, the other becomes more strong to resist it. Thus it

preaches to the husband love and respect; to the wife, love,

respect, and submission; to masters, benevolence; to servants,

deference and patience; but in such a way that, if the first are

faithless to their duties, the fidelity of the second will more

than repair the defect. Nature evidently holds another language;

if our neighbor fails in his obligations, we believe ourselves

freed from ours, and this spirit of free exchange in point of bad

proceedings is not, perhaps, one of the least causes of our

perturbations in the family and society.

"There are some faults," says Fenelon, "that enter into the

marrow of the bones." "Then," said the Archbishop of Cambrai, "if

you wish to correct such in your servant, he is not wrong to

resist correction, but you are foolish to undertake it."

[Footnote 216]

[Footnote 216: _Lettres Spirituelles_,

193, t. 1. p. 554, éd. Didiot.]

{705}

You have a horse that is one-eyed, you would wish him to see

clearly with both eyes; it is you who are entirely blind. Alas

ladies! in this world we are all slightly one-eyed, therefore we

must bear with each other.

You have a servant who does not always display the judgment you

require of him; tell me, why do you employ him in any delicate

business? He has made a blunder, but were you not the first cause

of it? You have another who never sees more than a few steps

before him; you cannot expect better of him, he is short-sighted.

You are angry because he cannot see leagues off; you are the

unreasonable one. Another one is lame, and him you would have

walk straight; do you not see that you exact the impossible? I

tell you, ladies, that poor human nature is full of weaknesses,

and having once perceived certain infirmities in your neighbor,

keep them in remembrance, and don't demand a reform in what

cannot be corrected. "Bear ye one another's burdens," said Saint

Paul; it is the rule of true wisdom, of peace and domestic

happiness: "_Alter alterius onera portate_." [Footnote 217]

[Footnote 217: Galat. vi. 2.]

But, you say, he is thick-headed, I cannot put up with him. Alas!

thick heads we meet with everywhere. Have you not yourselves

sometimes the same complaint? Besides, don't be so hard to please

in servants; you may end by finding none at all. You have one who

pouts, another who is violent; you may have one impertinent,

another pettish; choose between them. The best course, believe

me, is to put up with the evil, provided it is bearable. This

world and all it contains is only one grand misery; accept your

share of it; murmuring and changing those who surround you will

do no good.

Well and good, I hear you say. You have just spoken of those who

keep many servants; I am more modest; a nurse, or at most a cook,

constitutes my household. In this case, if you will permit me, I

will find you an establishment where the retainers are numerous

and very difficult to govern. The fathers of the church teach us

that the human soul, in its organization, is a house complete in

itself. We find in it intelligence, the soul properly called, the

imagination, and the senses. Intelligence is the husband, the

soul the wife; and imagination, with its numerous caprices,

represents an establishment of troublesome servants; while the

five senses may portray five grooms at the carriage-ways opening

into the street. To listen to such a world as this, and make it

agree, is no easy matter. Intelligence wishes one thing, the soul

another; the husband and wife are just ready to quarrel. Then

imagination comes in with its thousand phantoms, its fantastical

noises, its clatter by night and by day: can you not believe your

household in good condition to exercise your patience? Then the

porters of this castle, the eyes, the ears, without considering

the nerves--a sort of busy battalion which makes more noise than

all the rest. What an interior! what confusion! what a tower of

Babel! Ladies, I will repeat here the words of Scripture: "Rise

early to give work and a portion" to this establishment of

servants; put them in order from the first dawn of day. Clear up

your imagination; it needs more time and care than a disordered

head of hair. See how your ideas fly hither and thither; how the

mad one of this dwelling sings and grows impertinent; how she

reasons, how she scolds, and how absurd she is. Intelligence

would restore her reason; useless to try! time lost!

{706}

She cries louder, and becomes longer and more violently

nonsensical. She makes so much noise that it could be called,

according to Saint Gregory, the multiplied voices of several

servants, whose tongues are perfectly sharpened: "_Cogitationum

se clamor, velut garrula ancillarum turba, multiplicat_."

[Footnote 218]

[Footnote 218: _Moral_, i. I, c. 30, t 1. p. 546, éd,

Migné.]

Here is a beautiful household to organize every morning. You

complain of having no work for it. I have just found you some.

Bring peace into the midst of this distraction; substitute

harmony for confusion, and so adjust this harmony that it shall

last undisturbed until evening, and I will give you a brevet, a

certificate, as an excellent mistress of a house. Formerly, the

poor human head was not subject to such distraction; and why?

Because it was subject to God; and from thence all the powers of

man, mind, heart, will, imagination, senses, all were submitted

to the head of the house, because this head himself was obedient

to God. Since the primitive revolt, all has been upset in man;

and our poor nature has become like a house where all dispute,

husband, wife, and servants, that is, mind, heart, imagination.

There is a simple way to re-establish peace, not quite complete,

but at least tolerable, for this would bring back God into the

house: let God be head, the commander of all; let the thought of

him preside everywhere, and soon order will be entirely restored.

In the morning especially, I know nothing that can pacify us

interiorly and calm all around us better than a look toward

heaven, a thought of love directed on high, and bringing, in

return, the peace of God. In the morning, if the head aches, rest

it at the foot of the cross; if the heart suffers, place it on

the heart of our Lord; if the imagination is feverish, calm it

with a drop of the blood of Jesus Christ; and if the whole being

is in ebullition, ask God to send it refreshment in the dew of

heaven! Be faithful to these recommendations, ladies, and you may

repose the length of the day under your vine and your fig-tree;

that is, you will enjoy the intimate happiness that God has

promised his friends, and which is one of the sweetest

recompenses of virtue: "_Et sedit unusquisque sub vite suâ, et

ficulneâ, suâ, et non erat qui eos terreret_." [Footnote 219]

[Footnote 219: I Mach. xiv. 12.]

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

{707}

A Sister's Story. [Footnote 220]

[Footnote 220: _A Sister's Story_. By Mrs. Augustus

Craven. Translated from the French by Emily Bowles. 8vo, pp.

539. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.]

We do not usually go to France for pictures of domestic life;

yet, when we do find a cultivated French family penetrated with

the home instincts which are so much more common on the opposite

side of the channel, and lavishing upon the members of their own

household an affection elevated and sanctified by true piety,

there is a charm about the scene which is apt to be wanting in

our own more commonplace experience. The charm, to be sure, often

asserts itself too boldly; for the Frenchman has a keen relish

for sentiment, and in nine cases out of ten the rapture with

which love fills his heart is only half of it inspired by the

object of his passion, while the other half is an unconscious

admiration of the delicacy of his own feelings. He makes a

romance out of love for his father and mother, and his affection

for his sweetheart is an extravagant poem. Still, unless you

analyze it too closely, which there is no need of your doing at

all, the poem is almost always beautiful and delicate, and

sometimes possesses the true poetical aroma. _A Sister's

Story_ is a romance of love, trial, happiness, and death.

Nobody but a French woman could have written it; yet the

sentiment is not what is commonly called "Frenchy," because it is

etherealized by a genuine Christian refinement, and because,

moreover, it is a true history.

The Count de la Ferronnays, who was French ambassador at St.

Petersburg in 1819, and afterward at Rome, had a large family of

children, one of whom, Pauline, married an English gentleman, and

is the author of this book. Another, Albert, is the hero. They

all loved one another with a rare and touching tenderness, and

loved God, too, with a simple and unaffected devotion. The

revolution of 1830 deprived the Count of his diplomatic

appointment, despoiled him of most of his fortune, and, as he was

a stanch adherent of the Bourbons, left him without hope of a

future career in the service of the state. The family seem,

however, to have accepted their reverses cheerfully, and to have

made little change in their way of life, except by practising a

stricter economy than they had been used to. They passed most of

their time in Italy, mingling with people of rank and

distinction, or travelling in search of health, as one or another

of them showed symptoms of approaching disease. Albert was a

young man of handsome appearance, and, we should judge, of no

mean accomplishments. He was warm-hearted, remarkably sensitive,

somewhat of a dreamer, romantic, poetical, and pure in heart. The

life of a man of society he sanctified with the piety of a

recluse. The revolution which cut short his father's public

career destroyed also the young man's prospects in life, and left

him, just entering manhood, without fixed occupation, and without

much hope of obtaining employment suitable to his rank and

tastes. This enforced idleness, coupled with the delicacy of his

constitution, already perhaps undermined by the pulmonary disease

which was so soon to carry him off, predisposed him to a

melancholy reflectiveness which, though corrected by his devout

aspirations, was nevertheless morbid.

{708}

The feminine delicacy of his nature was developed by close

intimacy with his sisters, and his religious elevation was

doubtless heightened by his frequent intercourse with

Montalembert, whose sentiments he fully shared, though he was

unable to join in his labors, with M. Rio, whom he accompanied to

various parts of Italy, with the Abbé Gerbet, and with other

distinguished Catholics of that brilliant day.

Among the acquaintances of the Count's family in Rome was the

Countess d'Alopeus, widow of the celebrated Russian

plenipotentiary at Berlin, and afterward wife of Prince

Lapoukhyn. She had a daughter, Alexandrine, a beautiful and

amiable girl, apparently, like Albert, of a pensive turn of mind,

and, though a Lutheran, (her mother being a German,) of a

strongly religious disposition. Albert fell in love with her the

first time they met, and from that time love and religion filled

up all the rest of his short life. It was but a little while

before Alexandrine learned to return the tender sentiment. The

intimacy ripened fast; but there were many difficulties in the

way of marriage, and it was only after two years, marked by

severe trials, that they were at last united in 1834. Ten days

afterward Albert burst a blood-vessel, and from that time until

his death, in 1836, their happiness was clouded by the gradual

approach of the untimely fate which they could hardly help

foreseeing. The picture which Mrs. Craven, with the help of the

journals and letters of this dear young couple, has drawn of

their courtship, their love, their few hours of happiness, and

their admirable married life, with all its consolations and all

its sufferings, is full of the most delicious beauty. It could

not have been so natural, had it not been drawn from the life; it

would not have been so exquisite, had not the artist been herself

a poet.

By the side of her husband's dying bed, Alexandrine was received

into the Catholic Church. She appears to have possessed a

stronger though not a more lovely character than Albert, and in

her widowhood its magnificence was fully developed. During the

twelve years she survived her husband, she learned to the full

the great lessons of self-abnegation, humility, and detachment

from all worldly things. Even in the first days of her sorrow,

God rewarded her with a strength which surprised all who knew

her; and this was succeeded after a while by a completeness of

resignation and a spiritual joy which were no less than

saint-like. "We shall see," writes Mrs. Craven, in beginning the

narrative of these final years, "by what efforts of resignation,

by what self-surrender, she obtained peace, and entered upon that

other period of her life which she speaks of in her story, and of

which she once said, 'Even before old age and death, faith gave

me rest!' This rest, which went beyond resignation, even beyond

peace, which Alexandrine had soon recovered; a rest which marked

the latter part of her life by a joyousness unknown to her young

days, she did not attain till she had gone through many fresh

sorrows. It was God's will that she should outlive most of those

who had proved her firmest friends and most tender comforters in

her widowhood. Almost at one time she lost her own brother, my

father, Eugénie, and Olga," (Albert's sisters, to whom she was

deeply attached.) "It may be that this was allowed that, when

after such repeated blows she was still able to say she was

happy, no one might mistake the source whence that happiness

sprang."

{709}

She gave herself up to the service of the poor and suffering, and

in order to make herself more like the objects of her charity,

whom she loved so tenderly, she used to deprive herself of all

the little every-day luxuries and conveniences which belonged to

her station, and in which naturally she took a particular

delight. She made trial of a conventual life, but that was

clearly not the path in which God wished her to walk, and her

director bade her leave it. During the latter part of her life

she resided principally with Albert's mother, in Paris. Here is a

picture of her occupations at that time:

"To meet the deficiency in her resources, she gradually

restricted her own expenditure to the narrowest compass, and

deprived herself of everything short of absolute necessaries.

One day I happened to look into her wardrobe, and was dismayed

at its scantiness. When we, any of us, made this kind of

discovery, she blushed and smiled, made the best excuses she

could find in return for our scoldings, and then went on just

the same, giving away all she possessed, and finding every day

new occasions for these acts of self-spoliation. She had, of

course, long ago sold or given away all her jewels and

trinkets, but, if she ever happened to find among her things an

article of the smallest value, it was immediately disposed of

for the benefit of the poor. For instance, one day she took out

of its frame a beautiful miniature of Princess Lapoukhyn at the

age of twenty, and sold the gold and enamel frame, defending

herself by saying that it was the only thing of value she still

possessed, and did not in the least enhance the value of her

mother's charming likeness. Two black gowns, and a barely

sufficient amount of linen, constituted her whole wardrobe, so

that she had reduced herself, as far as was possible in her

position of life, to a state of actual poverty. Her long

errands were almost always performed on foot, and at

dinner-time she came home often covered with dirt and wet to

the skin. One day, when she was visiting some Sisters of

Charity in a distant part of Paris, one of them looked at her

from head to foot, and then begged an alms for a poor woman

much in need of a pair of shoes. Alexandrine instantly produced

her purse and gave the required amount, with which the sister

went away, and in a quarter of an hour returned, laughing, and

bringing with her a pair of shoes, which she insisted on Madame

Albert's putting on instead of those she was wearing, which

were certainly in the worst possible condition. On her return

from these distant excursions, she usually put on her evening

dress and came down to Madame de Mun's drawing-room, where she

found my mother, who also had often been engaged in similar

charitable duties. During that winter I often joined this

little circle, now so thinned by death, and so soon to break up

altogether. For one brief moment I would fain pause and look

back in thought to that well-remembered room and its long

table, at which my mother and Madame de Mun were wont to sit,

with Eugénie's children playing at their feet; and at the place

near the lamp, where Alexandrine was to be seen every evening,

with her head bending over her work; her brown hair divided

into two long plaits, a way of wearing it which particularly

became her, though it was certainly not chosen on that account.

She did not, however, profess to be free from all thought about

her appearance; on the contrary, she was always accusing

herself of still caring for admiration; and when once she heard

that somebody who had accidentally spoken to her had said she

was pretty, she exclaimed with half-jesting indignation: 'I

really believe that, if I were in my last agony, that would

please me still!' Very pretty certainly she looked on those

evenings, in her simple black dress; always calm and serene,

and brightening up whenever the great interests and objects of

life were the subjects of conversation. Otherwise she remained

silent, occupying herself with her embroidery, or else, taking

her little book of extracts, so full of beautiful thoughts,

from her pocket, she read them over and added new ones from her

favorite books.

......

"Time never hung heavy on Alexandrine's hands. After such

trials and sufferings, she could say as Madame Swetchine did:

'that life was lovely and happy; and ever, as it went on,

fairer, happier, and more interesting.' The melancholy which

was natural to her character in youth, and which the radiant

happiness that for a moment filled up her life had not been

able to overcome--that melancholy which was the sign perhaps of

some kind of softness of soul, and which so many deaths and

such floods of tears could naturally have increased--had been

completely put down and overcome by the love of God and the

poor.

{710}

One day as I saw her moving about her room which she had made

so bare, with an air of the greatest gayety, we both of us

suddenly recalled the terrible days of the past, when her grief

had been full of gloom, and then she said, what was very

striking to any one who knew how deep was her unutterable love

to the very last, 'Yes, that is all true; those were cruel and

dreadful days; but now, by God's grace, _I mourn for my

Albert gayly_.'"

Subsequently she was admitted, as a lodger, to the convent of St.

Thomas of Villanova, in Paris, and there she died with the

peacefulness and holy joy which she had merited by her life. By

what austerities she had prepared for and probably hastened her

end, we may judge from this incident:

"One morning at Mass in the convent chapel, a lady happened to

hear her cough, and noticing her pale looks and poor apparel,

she went to one of the sisters, and told her that there was a

lady in the church who was probably too poor to provide herself

with necessaries, and that she should be very happy to supply

her with milk daily, if she had not the means to purchase it.

This kind soul was quite ashamed when the sister told her the

poor lady was Madame Albert de la Ferronnays; but Alexandrine,

much amused, laughed exceedingly at the mistake, and did not

treat herself better than before."

One loving hand which has traced this beautiful story whose

outlines we have thus roughly reproduced, has illustrated it with

many touching reminiscences of the other members of the charming

family circle, of which Albert and Alexandrine are the central

figures. There is an exquisite pathos in every page, and

"The tender grace of a day that is dead"

is delineated with an unaffected delicacy which must move every

heart. Miss Bowles, we should add, has proved herself an

admirable translator, so good a one that her version reads like

an original.

----------

Translated From The French.

Breton Legend Of St. Christopher.

As every one knows, St. Christopher had very broad shoulders; so

in former times he was ferryman for the river of Scorff. One

bright day, our Lord arrived at the bank of the river with his

twelve apostles. Christopher made haste to take them in his arms,

and was delighted to pay them every possible respect.

"Well," said our Lord, "what are your wages?"

"Ask for Paradise," whispered St. Peter.

"Let me alone, I have my own ideas. If, my Lord, you desire to

bestow a favor on me, promise that every object I wish for shall

be obliged to enter my sack."

"I will do it," said our Lord, "but on condition that you never

ask for money, and only for those things of which you have need."

So, for a long time, things went well; the sack filled only with

bread, fruits, beans, and other vegetables; and often it was

emptied for the benefit of the poor. But alas! who can say they

may not enter into temptation? One morning Christopher was

passing through the street of a neighboring town, when he stopped

before the shop of a money-changer.

{711}

He did wrong, for all those heaps of money excited his curiosity

and gave him very bad thoughts.

"See," said the wicked broker to him, "what you can do with all

this money! You can rebuild the huts of the poor, and make life

for them so happy and desirable. Don't you wish it was all

yours?"

Christopher had a moment of weakness, and the money jumped into

his bag. But don't be severe: Christopher was not yet the saint

he afterward became, only a mere mortal man. So this first

failing led to others, and while it must be confessed he was very

generous to the poor, he loved his own good cheer and did not

hesitate to enjoy it. So one day, as he was reposing on the grass

after an unusually good dinner, the devil passed that way, and

began to bully him and crack some of his disagreeable jokes.

Christopher was not remarkably patient, his fists were itching

for a fight, so in a moment he was on his feet and pitched into

the devil right royally. As the forces were pretty equal, the

battle lasted two days, and the end could not be foreseen. The

thick grass disappeared from under their feet, and from afar the

noise of the blows resounded like two hammers falling and

refalling one upon the other. They would have been at it yet if

Christopher had not happily thought of his sack. "Ah cursed

devil! by the virtue of our Lord thou shalt enter my sack." So in

he popped, and Christopher was not slow to draw the cords tight

and swing him over his shoulders, while he wondered at the same

time how in the world he would ever get rid of him. A forge

appeared as he walked, and two brawny men were beating the red

fire with tremendous blows. This gave him an idea; so he

addressed himself to the smiths, and said: "I have got a wicked

animal in my bag; I could not pretend to tell you all the

villanous tricks he has played in his life; so, if you will forge

him until he is about as thick as a sixpenny piece, I will give

you a crown." They consented; and, notwithstanding the cries and

somersaults of the devil, they hammered and beat him the whole

night long. When the day dawned, a weak voice cried out,

"Christopher, Christopher, I give up; what shall I do to get out

of this?"

"Swear obedience to me for ever, and never trouble me again."

"I swear it."

"Very well; get out with you, and I will not say _Au

revoir_."

From this moment, Christopher entirely changed his life, only

occupied himself in good works, and, when he grew too feeble to

be ferryman for the river Scorff, he retired into the little

hermitage, upon the ruins of which is built the chapel still to

be seen. There he lived in prayer and penitence, and was visited

by many pilgrims, who were attracted by his great reputation of

sanctity. However, when after his death he presented himself to

St. Peter, who, we know, holds the keys of Paradise, he was

refused admittance, because the latter said he had formerly

rejected his advice, and he feared to let him in.

The poor Christopher, very sad, and looking rather snubbed,

wandered about, and in his distraction took the stairs that led

to hell. He descended an unheard-of number of steps, and finally

arrived at a door, where was a very good-looking young man, who

courteously invited him to enter; but Satan happened to pass by,

and, seeing him, cried out nervously: "No, no! not in here; I

know him well. Send him away, he is entirely too cunning for me!"

{712}

So Christopher could do nothing but remount to the entrance of

Paradise, where he could at least listen outside to the delicious

strains of heavenly harmony issuing from within, and he felt more

and more desirous to be admitted. He paused and thought; then,

putting his ear as close as possible, "My Lord St. Peter," said

he, "what admirable harmony you have in there! If you would only

set the door ajar, I might at least hear and enjoy it."

St. Peter was kind-hearted, so he did as he was asked; and

instantly St. Christopher threw in his sack, and sprang in after

it. "At home, at last," said he, "and you can't turn me out." St.

Peter conceded he was right, so he has since remained in heaven,

and we must acknowledge he well deserved so comfortable an abode.

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

[Supplement to the article on "The Sanitary and

Moral Condition of New York City" in our July number.]

The Sanitary And Moral Condition Of New York City.

The letter which is published below is an evidence that our July

correspondent's observations on the neglected condition of a

great number of children in New York struck a telling blow in the

right direction, and has called forth one response of the right

kind, which, we trust, will not be the only one. A number of our

good friends have shown themselves to be somewhat hurt by the

remarks made in the article alluded to, on the efforts of certain

Protestant institutions among the vagrant children of this city.

The article was not written for the purpose of showing what the

small number of zealous Catholics--who are alive to the duty and

necessity of rescuing this unfortunate class of our own

children--are doing, but of working up the whole Catholic

community to an active co-operation with these pioneers of

charity, in undertaking that which they are not doing, and cannot

do, while they are so feebly sustained. One principal motive for

doing this is, the fact that sectarian philanthropists are

forestalling us in the work we ought to have attended to long

ago, and drawing away from the fold of the church the lambs we

have neglected to take care of. Every one knows, none better than

the leaders of every Protestant sect themselves, that they have

no more determined adversaries than we are in their aggressions

on the Catholic religion. At the same time, we do not feel called

upon to deny them all humane and philanthropic motives, or to

denounce them as actuated by mere hatred against the Catholic

religion. They do an irreparable mischief to the unfortunate

children whom they draw away from the fold of the church; yet, we

are willing to believe they do it ignorantly, and with an

intention of doing them good.

{713}

So far as their efforts among the young unbaptized heathen of New

York are concerned, they can undoubtedly effect something in

reclaiming them from the wretched condition in which they are. We

desire to confine them to that sphere, and wish them a fair field

to compete with us in, and to show what they are able to

accomplish. We hope, as the result of all philanthropic efforts

for the relief of the degraded classes made by all kinds of

institutions, and by individuals of all kinds of theoretical

opinions, that the superiority of the Catholic Church, and its

necessity to our moral and social well-being, will be

demonstrated. We must demonstrate it, however, by action, and not

by mere argument. We must show practically that we are able to

master and subdue the elements of vice and misery that rage over

the turbulent sea of this vast population. In a former volume of

our magazine, we did full justice to the work which the Catholic

Church has accomplished, and is still carrying on among our own

people in this city, in an article entitled "Religion in New

York." The article in our last number may appear to have too much

overlooked the statistics there given respecting the care of

Catholic children. The statement of the whole number of children

in the city was inadvertently cited from Dr. Harris as being the

number of vagrants, although the correct number (40,000) was

given in several other places. Another quotation from a

Protestant source, which was cited for the purpose of showing the

small proportion of children in Protestant Sunday-schools,

contains a statement that 125,000 children are without

instruction, which also inadvertently passed uncorrected. The

60,000 children in Catholic Sunday-schools, and, we suppose, also

the Jewish children, as well as those who are privately taught at

home, ought to have been deducted. There are said to be 95,000

children in Protestant Sunday-schools. The whole number of

children is estimated at 200,000. There is, then, a vague neutral

ground between vagrancy and the Sunday-school domain, occupied by

some thousands, more or less--how many, we cannot correctly

estimate. We are immediately concerned only with Catholic

children. It is not possible to figure up precisely the numbers,

every day increasing, of these children, in every stage of

neglected moral and religious education down to the most complete

vagrancy. We know, however, that they are to be counted by

thousands, and would be sufficient by themselves to people a

respectable Southern or Western diocese. We know that

comparatively nothing is doing to reclaim them; and as for any

further practical remarks as to what ought to be done, we give

place for the present to the writer of the letter which follows,

who is sorry for these poor children one thousand dollars. We

trust that her good example will be followed by others, and shall

be happy to receive in trust whatever may be contributed toward

the establishment of an institution such as she recommends, and

of which the Sisters of Charity are ready to assume the charge

whenever the requisite funds are provided.--Ed. C. W.

"Rev. and Dear Father Hecker: "The article in The Catholic

World, for July, on 'The Sanitary and Moral Condition of New

York City,' has excited in my mind the greatest interest, and,

I may add, self-condemnation.

"It is true I knew the facts mentioned there before, but never

were they so fully brought home to me as in reading that

article. I could say nothing but '_Mea culpa, mea culpa_.'

{714}

Yes, through my fault, and the fault of every Catholic, these

many thousands of little children are left uncared for; except,

indeed, by those who have been more zealous to spread error,

uncertainty, and darkness than we to give them the true bread

of life. Are we indeed the children of the church? Have we ever

listened to these words of our Saviour, 'Inasmuch as ye have

not done it unto these my little ones, ye have not done it unto

me'? God forgive us, and grant that every Catholic, in reading

that article, may be moved to a true contrition.

"Why cannot the several hundred thousand Catholics in our great

city establish a Central Mission House for these little

neglected ones of the flock? For, of these forty thousand

vagrant and uncared-for children, we cannot doubt that far more

than one half have inherited the Catholic faith. The burden of

supporting this great work of charity should not be borne by

one parish or section of the city, and that the least able to

bear it; but every parish should feel as if this house demanded

its own especial care. And not only every parish in New York

City, but throughout the arch-diocese and the whole country;

for, as the poverty of the Old World finds its first refuge in

our city, so the charity of the New World should be

concentrated here to meet it.

"Father Farrelly is doing a noble work. God bless him for it!

And as to the Reformatory established by Dr. Ives, only God can

know the good it has already done and is yet to do. Catholics

are not accustomed to speak much of what they do, but we who

have done little or nothing cannot shelter ourselves behind

those who, alone and single-handed as it were, have tried to

meet this torrent of poverty and crime. As an act of reparation

on my part for past neglect, I place in your hands a check for

one thousand dollars, ($1000,) as a beginning of this noble

work. The Sisters of Charity or Mercy will surely be ready to

take charge of such a house, for where will they find so true a

work of charity or mercy?

"I beg of you, reverend father, to publish this in your

magazine; for I do not doubt that God has touched other hearts,

and that this little beginning, when known, will grow like a

grain of mustard-seed, and become a great and noble work.

"Yours, etc.,

......"

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

{715}

New Publications

Problems of the Age: With Studies

in St. Augustine on Kindred Topics.

By the Rev. Augustine F. Hewit,

of the Congregation of St. Paul.

New York: Catholic Publication House. 1868.

This volume, being chiefly a republication of some of our own

articles, cannot, of course, receive from us an independent and

impartial criticism. We can only state its scope and design,

leaving it to other critics to judge of its merits. The topics

which it discusses relate to the dialectic unity of the natural

and supernatural in the universal order of truth and being. It is

intended to meet the intellectual difficulties of those who

cannot see this dialectic unity, and who, therefore, apprehend a

contradiction between the natural and the supernatural, or, at

least, a chasm between the two, which makes it impossible to

explain their relation to each other on rational principles. It

is more especially adapted to that class of persons who are

rather perplexed by an apparent contradiction between reason and

faith, than to those who are either positive infidels or positive

sceptics. There are many such persons, predisposed to admit a

spiritual philosophy and the truth of Christianity, but still in

a state of doubt respecting both philosophical and revealed

truths. The reason of this is, because the current philosophy of

Protestantism is shallow and sophistical, and the current

theology of Protestantism irrational. It is necessary, therefore,

to present a sound philosophy as a cure for intellectual

scepticism, and a sound rational theology as a cure for religious

doubt. _The Problems of the Age_ is a contribution to this

work. It is neither a system of philosophy nor of theology, but

rather a clue to find both the one and the other. It proposes to

the man bewildered in the labyrinth of scepticism a path which

will lead him out into the open day of certitude, and leaves it

to him to try the path or himself, and ascertain by his own

examination whether it be the right one. Protestantism first

destroyed theology, and then philosophy. Rationalism has tried to

reconstruct both; but, having only the _débris_ to use as a

material, and no formula to work by, has failed signally. The

author of the volume before us has endeavored to derive a formula

from the works of the best Catholic philosophers and theologians

which gives the principles of construction, to present an outline

of the plan according to which all true builders always have been

working, and always must work, in the rearing of that temple

whose porch is science and whose sanctuary is faith. The first

principles of reason and the first principles of faith are

presupposed as given. The existence and the attributes of God are

briefly demonstrated from the first principles of reason, as the

basis of faith in revealed truths. The connection between

rational knowledge and supernatural faith is exhibited, and the

point of transition from one to the other designated. The

principal mysteries of revelation are then taken up, and their

dialectic relation to the great truths of natural theology,

respecting God as the first and final cause of the creation, is

pointed out. As the perversions of Calvinism represent some of

these mysterious doctrines in such a way that they are

irreconcilable with natural theology, a considerable space is

devoted to the clearing away of these misconceptions. The

principal philosophical difficulties in the way of apprehending

certain doctrines are also noticed, and a solution given. The

topics most thoroughly treated are those which relate to the

supernatural destiny of man, his primitive condition, the fall,

original sin, and the final consummation of all things, including

the redemption of the human race through the Incarnation.

{716}

_The Studies in St. Augustine_ is a subsidiary essay

intended to refute the allegation that the Calvinistic doctrines

have been justly deduced from his writings and the authoritative

teaching of the church in his time. In doing this, the evidence

is clearly presented of the fact that several of the chief

distinctive doctrines of the Catholic Church were held by the

whole church at the time when the great doctor flourished. It is

also shown that modern Catholic theology, although far more

precise and definite in many points than the ancient theology

could be, is the only true and legitimate offspring and

development of its principles. The drift of the whole book in

both its parts is to present a clear conception of what the

Catholic doctrine is, and to show that this conception is in

harmony with the rational principles on which a spiritual and

theistic philosophy must base itself. It is adapted, therefore,

to stimulate thought and awaken an appetite for truth, much more

than to satisfy the mind. Those who are influenced by its

arguments must desire a more thorough exposition both of the

principles of reason and of those of faith, in order to perceive

more clearly the objective truth, both of philosophy and of

revelation, unless they are already well-informed on both points.

The first branch of science has been handled in the most

satisfactory and thorough manner in the philosophical articles of

Dr. Brownson's _Review_. There are also some able articles

on the same topics to be found in _The Catholic World_. It

is much to be regretted that these articles are not to be had in

a separate volume, so as to be easily accessible, and that there

is no complete treatise on philosophy, which is sufficient to

meet the wants of our day, written in the English language. The

second branch of science, which embraces the evidence of the

positive truth of revelation, has been more extensively

cultivated. The shortest and most satisfactory way to a

conclusion on that point is, to take up at once the proof of the

divine institution and authority of the Catholic Church. Two

things only are necessary to be proved: First, there is a God;

second, God reveals his truth and law through the Catholic

Church. It ought not to require a very long time, or a very

difficult process, to establish these two truths in any mind not

prepossessed by error and prejudice. Those who are unfortunately

so prepossessed have no other choice but to work their way out

the best way they can, and every one who lends them a helping

hand does a great service to his fellow-men.

----

Parochial and Plain Sermons.

By John Henry Newman, B.D.,

formerly Vicar of St. Mary's, Oxford.

In eight volumes. Vol. I. New edition.

Rivingtons, London, Oxford, and Cambridge.

For sale at The Catholic Publication House, New York. 1868.

Truly Anglicanism is a unique phenomenon, or, rather, congeries

of phenomena, and of its phases there is no end. Its newspapers

in this country are rather remarkable for virulent hostility to

the Catholic Church, and offensive language about Catholic

persons and things. Only the other day, the Hartford

_Churchman_, which professes to be decent, gave currency to

the shameless report that the late unfortunate Cardinal d'Andrea

was poisoned. The language used about Dr. Newman has been

frequently vituperative and insolent in the extreme. The English

High Churchmen are usually far more gentlemanly than their

American _confrères_, and their tone and language are often

far more decorous when they speak of Catholic affairs. Even in

England, however, as well as in this country, a smattering of

Catholicism very frequently produces an increase of animosity and

bitterness against the Catholic Church. The more nearly some

approach her, the more they become inflamed, like comets

approaching the sun, and the attraction is suddenly turned into a

repulsive force, which drives them back into the dreariness of

space. There are some, however, in England, among those who cling

to the Established Church, whose spirit is kind and loving toward

those whom they would fain regard as their fellow-Catholics, even

though these are converts from Anglicanism. A remarkable proof

that the number of these is considerable is found in the fact

that a new edition of Dr. Newman's _Sermons_ is announced by

the Rivingtons, and that the first volume has already issued from

the press, with a preface by the Rev. W. J. Copeland, rector of

Farnham.

{717}

The typographical execution of the volume is extremely beautiful.

The preface is sad and tender, like the hymn of a captive

Israelite in Babylon. Dr. Newman has, we believe, consented to

this republication. We remember well the delight and instruction

we received from these _Sermons_ when they were first

republished in this country, and the pleasure we experienced in

visiting, a few months ago, the church of St. Mary the Virgin, at

Oxford, where they were preached. We are not able to say whether

they contain anything un-Catholic or not; if so, it cannot be

sufficient to be in any way dangerous, or to detract from their

generally Catholic doctrine and spirit. The editor says that

their author is not to be considered as reasserting all their

sentiments, and that he would undoubtedly wish some parts of them

altered or omitted. They are models of the most perfect English

style, and, as such, of great value to Catholic preachers. Their

circulation among Protestants to as great an extent as possible

is something most devoutly to be wished, and likely to do an

extraordinary amount of good. No doubt the Protestant clergy

here, whatever may be the case in England, will discourage their

being read; yet the younger clergy of all denominations will

undoubtedly read them themselves, and will not be able to hinder

great numbers of the most cultivated among the laity from doing

the same. They are wonderful compositions, the like of which our

language does not contain; and those who are not already familiar

with them will deprive themselves of a very great pleasure if

they do not avail themselves of the opportunity of becoming so.

We feel extremely obliged to the editor and publishers for

sending out this new and beautiful edition, and we hope its

influence may be to draw the hearts of our Protestant friends and

brethren nearer to us. We are extremely anxious that the violent

and hostile controversy between us should cease, and that we

might have the opportunity of discussing with them, in a calm and

quiet way, the points of difference which separate them from

ourselves. While their tone and manner are so discourteous and

unfair, this is impossible; and we hope they may learn a lesson

from Mr. Copeland, and others among themselves who are of like

spirit with him, as well as from the _ci-devant_ Vicar of

St. Mary's, who is revived once more in his surplice and hood, to

preach again among his former people, as the prophet of the ten

lost tribes.

-----

Appleton's Short Trip to Europe. (1868.)

Principally devoted to England, Scotland, Ireland,

Switzerland, France, Germany, and Italy; with

Glimpses of Spain, Short Routes in the East, etc.;

and a Collection of Travellers' Phrases in French and German.

By Henry Morford, Author of "Over Sea,"

"Paris in '67," etc., etc.

New York: Appletons.

This is a very pretty, convenient, and useful hand-book for

travellers, full of useful advice and valuable directions, which

we can cordially recommend to every person about to make a tour

to Europe for the first time, as the best book of the kind we are

acquainted with. There are some allusions and remarks scattered

through the book which seem intended to enliven it and give it a

flavor of humor, and which will doubtless please a certain number

of its readers. Others, however, may perhaps think they detract

from the general good taste evinced by the author, when he

confines himself to a more quiet and simple style of giving

information.

Sidney Smith's coarse pun on the name of St. Peter, and the

author's own very dull attempt at wit in regard to the relics of

the martyrs in the church of St. Ursula, at Cologne, will not

render the book any the more agreeable to Catholic tourists, and

we should think not to any persons of refined taste. The

allusions made occasionally to the supposed vicious propensities

of a certain class of tourists are still more objectionable. They

are like whispering behind the hand, or exchanging nods and

winks, in good company.

{718}

The guidebooks of Paris are models of the most perfect taste and

elegance in style, and so are those of Baedeker, for the

continent, with the exception of an occasional falsehood or sneer

about something Catholic. In our judgment, these are the proper

models to imitate.