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{i}
The Catholic World.
A Monthly Magazine
Of
General Literature And Science
VOL. VI.
October, 1867, To March, 1868.
New York:
The Catholic Publication House,
126 Nassau Street.
1868.
{ii}
John A. Gray & Green,
Printers,
16 And 18 Jacob Street, New York.
{iii}
Contents.
A Royal Nun, 106.
Aimée's Sacrifice, 156.
A Winged Word, 257.
Basher's Sacrifice, and what came of it, 124.
Baby, 227.
Bellini's Romance, 408.
Bethlehem: A Pilgrimage, 462.
Bunyan, John, and Plagiarism, 535.
Bartoleme Las Casas, 829.
Christian Schools and Scholars, 44.
Carlyle's Shooting Niagara, 86.
Cartesian Doubt, The, 234.
Composer's Difficulty, The, 251.
Christianity in France, Present Condition of, 275, 360.
Catholic Congress at Malines, The Third, 289.
Conscript, the Story of, 310, 441, 607, 732.
Cornelius, Peter, the Master of German Painting, 391.
Comedy of Convocation, The, 554.
Catholic Congress of Malines, Bishop Dupanloup's Speech at, 587.
Couture's Book, 653.
Canada Thistles, 721.
Composers, The Rival, 758.
Church and her Attributes, The, 788.
Double Marriage, The, 776.
Faith and the Sciences, 330.
Forget Me Not, 639.
Indians, What shall we do with the, 403.
Irish in America, The, 765.
Italy, Affairs in, 814.
Jesuits in North America, The, 192.
Justification, The Catholic Doctrine of, 433.
Joseph Görres, 497.
Kings of England, The Title of, 257.
Learned Women and Studious Women, 24, 209.
Labor Question, The, 472.
Libraries--Family, Parish, and Sunday-School, 546.
Lacordaire, Inner Life of, 689.
Manager's Dilemma, The, 20.
Martyrs of Gorcum, The, 71.
Meadowbrook Adventure, My, 346.
Magas; or, Long Ago, 666, 804.
Miscellany, 709.
Nature and Grace, 509.
Our Boy Organist, 64.
Old Guide to Good Manners, An, 98.
Old Religion, The, 622.
Old Roman World, The, 751.
Protestants, A Few Thoughts about, 132.
Paris Impious--and Religious Paris, 577.
Philosophy not always Vain, 680.
Paris, The Pre-Historical Congress of, 703.
Rome and the World, 1.
Ritualism and its True Meaning, 375.
Reign of Law, The, 595.
Sayings of the Fathers of the Desert, 92, 171, 421, 700, 851.
Subjective in Religion, Function of the, 175.
Stage-Coach, The Inside of, 412.
Sandal of His Holiness, The Ceremonial, 471.
Sacrifice and the Ransom, The, 485.
Temporal Power of the Popes, The, 528.
The Pre-Historical Congress of Paris, 703.
Women, Learned and Studious, 24, 209.
Washington, Unpublished Letters of, 145.
What Doctor Marks died of, 824.
------
Poetry.
All Souls' Day, 172.
Abscondita, 731.
Beati Mites, Quoniam Ipse Possidebunt Terram, 606.
Divine Loadstone, The, 757.
In Memoriam, 43.
Imogen, 190.
Joy and Grief, 358.
Love of the Pardoned, The, 823.
Mater Filii, 484.
Matin, 527.
Our Lady, 62.
Per Liquidum AEthera Vates, 327.
Providence, 701.
Ran Away to Sea, 103.
Seventy-Three, 266.
Seven Sleepers, The Legend of the, 544.
Sub Umbra, 638.
With Christ, 19.
------
{iv}
New Publications.
Aner's Return, 430.
Alexis, the Runaway, 575.
Battle-Fields of Ireland, The, 288.
Blessed Margaret Mary, History of, 287.
Bohemians of the Fifteenth Century, 144.
Breaking Away, 575.
Blessed Eucharist, The, 859.
Clergy and the Pulpit, 139.
Catholic Crusoe, 430.
Climbing the Rope, 575.
Childhood, Happy Hours of, 576.
Coral Island, The, 717.
Catholic Poets, Selections from, 718.
Claudia, 719.
Comedy of Convocation, The, 719.
Catholic Almanac, 720.
Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland, The, 859.
Day's Synthesis and Art of Discourse, 425.
Dotty Dimple, 576.
Daughter of an Empress, The, 713
Essays on Religion and Literature, 141.
Extracts from the Fathers, 144.
Froude's Short Studies on Great Subjects, 428.
Folks and Fairies, 860.
Galin Method of Musical Instruction, The, 430.
Golden Truths, 716.
Heiress of Killorgan, The, 432.
Haldeman's Affixes, their Origin and Application, 432.
Holy Kings, The Three, 573.
Hildebert, The Hymn of, 574.
Holly and Mistletoe, 576.
Home Fairy Tales, 860.
Irish Reformation, Dr. Brady on the, 571.
Ireland, an Illustrated History of, 855.
Ireland, Legends of the Wars in, 858.
Katrina, Holland's, 285.
Lacorclaire's Letters to Young Men, 144.
Life of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, The, 288.
Little Pet Books, 288.
Life of Curran and Grattan, The, 576.
Layman's Breviary, The, 717.
Lovers' Dictionary, 860.
Modern History, Fredet's and Kearney's, 144,
Meditations of St. Thomas, 431.
My Prisons, 575.
Marie Antoinette and her Son, 713.
Morgan Rattler, 717.
Manual of Physical Exercises, 860.
Napoleon and Queen of Prussia, 713.
Newman's Verses on Various Occasions, 858.
Preston's Lectures on Reason and Revelation, 710.
Poems, 711.
Queens of American Society, The, 719.
Recamier, Madame, Life of, 430.
Rome and the Popes, 718.
Swetchine, Madame, Life of, 429.
Saint Ignatius and the Society of Jesus, 431.
Saint Gwendoline, Ye Legend of, 573.
Shamrock and Thistle, 574.
Saint Vincent de Paul, The Spirit of, 718.
Saint Francis of Assisi, Life of, 718.
Seek and Find, 720.
Strickland's Queens of England, 860.
Two Thousand Miles on Horseback, 715.
Tommy Hickup, 720.
Uberto, 286.
Ungava, 717.
Votary, The, 286.
Whitney on Language and the Study of Language, 423.
Women, The Friendships of, 852.
Young Fur Traders, The, 717.
------
{1}
The Catholic World
Vol. Vi., No. 31.--October, 1867.
------
Rome And The World.
Under the head _Rome or Reason_ we showed in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD for last month that Catholicity is based on reality, and is
the synthesis, so to speak, of Creator and creature, of God and
man, of heaven and earth, nature and grace, faith and reason,
authority and liberty, revelation and science, and that there is
in the real order no antagonism between the two terms or
categories. The supposed antagonism results from not
understanding the real nexus that unites them in one dialectic
whole, and forms the ground of their mutual conciliation and
peace, expressed in the old sense of the word "atonement."
Christianity is supernatural, indeed, but it is not an
after-thought, or an anomaly in the original plan of creation.
Our Lord was the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world; the
Incarnation is included in creation as its completion or
fulfilment; and hence many theologians hold that, even if man had
not sinned, God would have become incarnate, not, indeed, to
redeem man from sin and death which comes by sin, but to ennoble
his nature, and to enable him to attain to that supernatural
union with God in which alone he finds or can find his supreme
good or perfect beatitude. Christianity, whether this be so or
not, must always be regarded as teleological, the religion of the
end--not accidentally so, but made so in the original plan of the
Creator. It enters dialectically, not arbitrarily, into that
plan, and really completes it. In this view of the case the
Creator's works from first to last are dialectical, and there is
and can be no contradiction in them; no discrepancy between the
natural and supernatural, between faith and reason, nature and
grace, the beginning, medium, and end, but all form integral
parts of one indissoluble whole.
But, if there is and can be no antagonism between Rome and
Reason, there certainly is an antagonism between Rome and the
World, which must not be overlooked or counted for nothing, and
which will, in some form, most likely, subsist as long as the
world stands. Rome symbolizes for us the catholic religion, or
the divine order, which is the law of life.
{2}
The Catholic Church in its present state dates only from the
Incarnation, out of which it grows, and of which it is in some
sort the visible continuation; but the Catholic religion, as the
faith, as the law of life, dates from the beginning. The just
before the coming of Christ were just on the same principles, by
the same faith, and by obedience to the same divine law, or
conformity to the same divine order, that they are now, and will
be to the end; and hence the deist Tindal expressed a truth which
he was far from comprehending when he asserted that "Christianity
is as old as the world." Tindal's great error was in
understanding by Christianity only the natural law promulgated
through natural reason, and in denying the supernatural.
Christianity is that and more too. It includes, and from the
first has included, in their synthesis, both the natural and the
supernatural. The human race has never had but one true or real
religion, but one revelation, which, as St. Thomas teaches, was
made in substance to our first parents in the garden. Times
change, says St. Augustine, but faith changes not. As believed
the fathers--the patriarchs--so believe we, only they believed in
a Christ to come, and we in a Christ that has come. Prior to the
actual coming of Christ the Church existed, but in a state of
promise, and needed his actual coming to be perfected, or
fulfilled, as St. Paul teaches us in his epistle to the Hebrews;
and hence none who died before the Incarnation actually entered
heaven till after the passion of our Lord.
Now, to this divine order, this divine law, this catholic faith
and worship symbolized to us by Rome, the visible centre of its
unity and authority, stands opposed another order, not of life,
but of death, called the world, originating with our first
parents, and in their disobedience to the divine law, or
violation of the divine order established by the Creator,
conformity to which was essential to the moral life and
perfection of the creature, or fulfilment of the promise given
man in creation. The order violated was founded in the eternal
wisdom and goodness of the Creator, and the relations which
necessarily subsist between God as creator and man as his
creature, the work of his hands. There is and can be for man no
other law of life; even God himself can establish no other. By
obedience to the law given or conformity to the order established
man is normally developed, lives a true normal life, and attains
to his appointed end, which is the completion of his being in
God, his beatitude or supreme good. But Satan tempted our first
parents to depart from this order and to transgress the divine
law, and in their transgression of the law they fell into sin,
and founded what we call the world--not on the law of life, but
on what is necessarily the law of death.
The principle of the world may be collected from the words of the
Tempter to Eve: "Ye shall not surely die, but shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil." These words deny the law of God, declare
it false, and promise to men independence of their Creator, and
the ability to be their own masters, their own teachers and
guides. "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil;" that is,
determining for yourselves, independently of any superior, what
is right or wrong, good or evil, or what is or is not fitting for
you to do. You shall suffice for yourselves, and be your own law.
Hence, as the basis of Rome is the assertion of the divine law,
conformity to the divine order, or submission to the divine
reason and will, that is, humility, the basis of the world is the
denial of the divine order, the rejection of the law of life and
the assertion of the sufficiency of man for himself, that is,
simply, pride.
{3}
Rome is based on humility, the world on pride; the spirit of Rome
is loyalty and obedience, the spirit of the world is disloyalty
and disobedience, always and everywhere the spirit of revolt or
rebellion. Between these two spirits there is necessarily an
indestructible antagonism, and no possible reconciliation.
The radical difference between Rome and the world is the radical
difference between the humility of the Christian and the pride of
the Stoic. All Christian piety and virtue are based on humility;
the piety and virtue of the stoic are based on pride. The
Christian is always deeply impressed with the greatness and
goodness of God; the stoic with the greatness and strength of
himself. The Christian submits to crosses and disappointments, to
the sufferings and afflictions of life, because he loves God, and
is willing to suffer anything for his sake; the stoic endures
them without a murmur, because he disdains to complain, and holds
that he is, and should be, superior to all the vicissitudes and
calamities of life. The Christian weeps as his Master wept at the
grave of Lazarus, and finds relief in his tears; the stoic is too
proud to weep; he wraps himself in his own dignity and
self-importance, and, when his calamities are greater than he can
bear, he seeks relief, like Cato, in suicide, thus proving his
weakness by the very means he takes to conceal it. The Christian
throws his burden on the Lord, and rises above it; the stoic
insists on bearing it himself, and at last sinks under it. The
world despises humility, and tramples on the humble. To it the
Christian is tame, passive, mean-spirited, contemptible. It has
no sympathy with the beatitudes, such as, Blessed are the poor in
spirit; blessed are the pure in heart; blessed are the meek;
blessed are the peacemakers. It understands nothing of true
Christian heroism, or of the greatness of repose. It sees
strength only in effort, which is always a proof of weakness, and
the harder one strains and tugs to raise a weight, the stronger
it holds him. We may see it in the popular literature of the day,
and in nearly all recent art. The ancients had a much truer
thought when they sculptured their gods asleep, and spread over
their countenance an air of ineffable repose. The Scriptures
speak of the mighty works of God, but represent them as the
hiding of his power. All the great operations of nature are
performed in silence, and the world notes them not. The
Christian's greatness is concealed by the veil of humility, and
his strength is hidden with God. He works in silence, but with
effect, because he works with the power of Him to whom is given
all power in heaven and in earth.
Mr. Gladstone thinks he finds in Homer the whole body of the
patriarchal religion, or the primitive tradition of the race, and
he probably is not much mistaken; but no one can study Homer's
heroes without being struck with the contrast they offer to the
heroes of the Old Testament. The Old Testament heroes are as
brave, as daring, and as effective as those of Homer; but they
conceal their own personality, they go forth to battle in
submission to the divine command, not seeking to display their
own skill or prowess, and the glory of their achievements they
ascribe to God, who goes with them, assists them, fights for
them, and gives the victory. What is manifest is the presence and
greatness of God, not the greatness and strength of the hero, who
is nothing in himself. In Homer the case is reversed, and what
strikes the reader is the littleness of God and the greatness of
men.
{4}
The gods and goddesses take part in the fray, it is true, but
they are hardly the equals of the human warriors themselves. A
human spear wounds Venus, and sends Mars howling from the field.
It is human greatness and strength, human prowess and heroism,
without any reference to God, to whom belongs the glory, that the
poet sings, the creature regarded as independent of the Creator.
In reading the Old Testament, you lose sight of the glory of men
in the glory of God; in reading Homer, you lose sight of the
glory of God in the glory of men. Abraham, Joshua, Gideon,
Jephtha, David, the Maccabees fight as the servants of the Most
High; Agamemnon, Ajax, Diomed, Achilles, even Hector, to display
their own power, and to prove the stuff that is in them.
Perhaps no author, ancient or modern, has so completely embodied
in his writings, the spirit of the world, the Welt-Geist, as the
Germans say, as Thomas Carlyle. This writer may have done some
service to society in exposing many cants, in demolishing
numerous shams, and in calling attention to the eternal verities,
of which few men are more ignorant; but he has deified force, and
consecrated the worship of might in the place of right. Indeed,
for him, right is cant, and there is no right but might. He
spurns humility, submission, obedience, and recognizes God only
in human ability. His hero-worship is the worship of the strong
and the successful. Ability, however directed or wherever
displayed, is his divinity. His heroes are Woden and Thor,
Cromwell, Frederick the Great, Mirabeau, Danton, Napoleon
Bonaparte. The men who go straight to their object, whether good
or bad, and use the means necessary to gain it, whether right or
wrong, are for him the divine men, and the only thing he censures
is weakness, whether caused by indecision or scruples of
conscience. His hero is an elemental force, who acts as the
lightning that rives the oak, or the winds that fill the sails
and drive the ship to its port. Old-fashioned morality, which
requires a man to seek just ends by just means, is with him a
cant, a sham, an unreality, and the true hero makes away with it,
and is his own end, his own law, his own means. He is not
governed, he governs, and is the real being, the real God; all
else belong to the unveracities, are mere simulacra, whose end is
to vanish in thin air, to disappear in the inane. The man who
recognizes a power above him, a right independent of him, and in
submission to the divine law, and from love of truth and justice,
weds himself to what is commanded, espouses the right and adheres
to it through good report and evil report, takes up the cause of
the oppressed, the wronged and outraged, the poor, the
friendless, and the down-trodden, and works for it, gives his
soul to it, and sacrifices his time, his labor, and his very life
to advance it, when he has no man with him, and all the world
unheeds, jeers, or thwarts him, is unheroic, and has no moral
grandeur in him, has no virtue--unless he succeeds. He is a hero
only when he carries the world with him, bends the multitude to
his purpose, and comes out triumphant. The unsuccessful are
always wrong; lost causes are always bad causes; and the
unfortunate are unveracious, and deserve their fate. The good man
struggling with fate, and holding fast to his integrity in the
midst of the sorest trials and temptations, and overborne in all
things save his unconquerable devotion to duty, is no hero, and
deserves no honor, though even the ancients thought such a man
worthy of the admiration of gods and men.
{5}
Carlyle forgets that there is an hereafter, and that what to our
dim vision may seem to be failure here may there be seen to have
been the most eminent success. The Christians conquered the
world, not by slaying, but by being slain, and the race has been
redeemed by the Cross. Indeed, pride is always a proof of
meanness and weakness, is an unveracity; for it is born of a lie,
and rests on a lie: all real magnanimity and strength for men
spring from humility, which is not a falsehood, but a veracity;
for it is conformity to the truth of things.
The principle of opposition to the church is always and
everywhere the same, invariable in time and place as the church
herself, and has a certain consistency, a certain logic of its
own; but it varies its form from age to age and from nation to
nation, and is enraged at the church because she does not vary
with it. It is always at bottom, whatever its form, the
assumption that the creature does or may suffice for itself: "Ye
shall not surely die, but shall be as gods, knowing good and
evil." This primitive falsehood, this satanic lie, underlies all
the hostility of the world to the church, or of the world to
Rome. Analyze what is called the world, and you will find that it
is only a perpetual effort or series of efforts to realize the
promise made by the serpent to Eve in the garden, when coiled
round the tree of knowledge. The world labors to exalt the
dignity and glory of man, not as a creature dependent for his
existence, for all he is or can be, on the Creator, which would
be just and proper, but as an independent, self-acting, and
self-determining being, accountable, individually or socially,
only to himself for his thoughts, words, and deeds--subject to no
law but his own will, appetites, passions, natural propensities,
and tendencies. He is himself his own law, his own master, and
should be free from all restraint and all control not in himself.
It is easy, therefore, to understand why, with the world and with
men filled with the spirit of the world, Rome is held to be the
symbol of despotism, and the church to be inherently and
necessarily hostile to the freedom of thought and to all civil
and religious liberty. The world understands by liberty
independence of action, and therefore exemption from all
obligation of obedience, or subjection to any law, not
self-imposed. It holds the free man to be one who is under no
control, subject to no restraint, and responsible to no will but
his own. This is its view of liberty, and consequently whatever
restricts liberty in this sense, and places man under a law which
he is bound to recognize and obey, is in its vocabulary
despotism, opposed to the rights of man, the rights of the mind,
the rights of society, or the freedom and independence of the
secular order. Liberty in this broad and universal sense
obviously cannot be the right or prerogative of any creature, for
the creature necessarily depends for all he is or has on the
creator. Hence M. Proudhon, who maintained that property is
robbery, with a rigid logic that has hardly been appreciated,
asserts that the existence of God is incompatible with the
assertion of the liberty of man. Admit, he says, the existence of
God, and you must concede all the authority claimed by the
Catholic Church. The foundation of all despotism is in the belief
in the existence of God, and you must deny, obliterate that
belief, before you can assert and maintain liberty. He was right,
if we take liberty as the world takes it. Liberty, as the world
understands it, is the liberty of a god, not of a creature.
{6}
Rome asserts and maintains full liberty of man as a creature; but
she does and must oppose liberty in the broad, universal sense of
the world; for her very mission is to assert and maintain the
supremacy of the divine order, the authority of God over all the
works of his hands, and alike over men as individuals and as
nations. She asserts indeed, liberty in its true sense; but she,
does and must oppose the liberty the world demands, the liberty
promised by Satan to our first parents, and which, in truth,
should be called license, not liberty, and also those who strive
for it as disloyal to God, as rebels to their rightful sovereign,
children of disobedience, warring against, as Carlyle would say,
the veracities, the eternal verities, the truth of things, or
divine reality. There is no help for it. The church must do so,
or be false to her trust, false to her God, false to the divine
order; for, let the world say what it will, man is not God, but
God's creature, and God is sovereign Lord and proprietor of the
universe, since he has made it, and the maker has the sovereign
right to the thing made. Here is no room for compromise, and the
struggle must continue till the world abandons its false notion
of liberty, and submits to the divine government. Till then the
church is and must be the church militant, and carry on the war
against the world, whatever shape it may assume.
With the ancient Gentiles the world rather perverted and
corrupted the truth than absolutely rejected it, and fell into
idolatry and superstition rather than into absolute atheism. The
Epicureans were, indeed, virtually atheists, but they never
constituted the great body of any Gentile nation. The heathen
generally retained a dim and shadowy belief in the divinity, even
in the unity of God; but they lost the conception of him as
creator, and consequently of man and the universe as his
creature. By substituting in their philosophy generation,
emanation, or formation for creation, they obscured the sense of
man's dependence on God as creator, and consequently destroyed
the necessary relation between religion and morality. No moral
ideas entered into their worship, and they worshipped the gods to
whom they erected temples and made offerings, not from a sense of
duty or from the moral obligation of the creature to adore his
Creator and give himself to him, but from motives of interest, to
avert their displeasure, appease their wrath, or to render them
propitious to their undertakings, whether private enterprises or
public war and conquest. They asserted for man and society
independence of the divine order as a moral order. Severed from
all moral conceptions, their religion became a degraded and
degrading superstition, an intolerable burden to the soul, and
their worship the embodiment of impurity and corruption. Such was
the effect of the great Gentile apostasy, or Gentile attempt to
realize the freedom and independence promised by Satan. The
promise proved a lie.
When the church in her present state was established, the world
opposed her in the name of the liberty or independence of the
temporal order, which implies as its basis the independence of
the creature of the creator, and therefore resting on the same
satanic promise, "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil."
When our Lord was brought before Pontius Pilate, and Pilate was
about to dismiss the charges against him and to let him go, the
Jews changed his purpose by telling him, "If you let this man go,
you are no friend to Caesar."
{7}
The heathen persecutions of the Christians were principally on
the ground that they were disloyal to the empire, inasmuch as
they rejected its worship, and asserted the immediate divine
authority of their religion and its independence of the state or
civil society, holding firmly always and everywhere the maxim,
"We must obey God rather than men." All down through the
barbarous ages that followed the downfall of the Roman empire of
the West, through the feudal ages, and down even to our own
times, the state has claimed supreme authority over the church in
regard to her temporal goods and her government, and has
constantly sought to subject her to the civil authority, which in
principle is the same with subjecting God to man. The world
represented by Caesar has constantly struggled to subvert the
independence of religion, and to exalt the human above the
divine. This is the meaning of the mediaeval contests between the
pope and the emperor, as we have heretofore shown. There is not
at this day, unless Belgium be an exception, a single state in
Europe where the temporal power leaves religion free and
independent, or where the church has not to struggle against the
government to maintain the independence of the divine order she
represents. Fidelity to God is held to be treason to the state,
and hence Elizabeth of England executes Catholics at Tyburn as
traitors.
The age boasts of progress, and calls through all its thousands
of organs upon us to admire the marvellous progress it has made,
and is every hour making. It is right, if what it means by
progress really be progress. It has certainly gone further than
any preceding age in emancipating itself from the supremacy of
the law of God, in trampling on the divine order, and asserting
the supremacy of man. It has drawn the last logical consequences
contained in the lying promise of Satan, "Ye shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil." There is no use in denying or seeking to
disguise it. The world as opposed to Rome, ceases entirely to
regard man as a creature, and boldly and unblushingly puts him in
all respects in the place of God. God, when not openly denied to
exist, is denied as creator: he is at most _natura
naturans_, and identical with what are called the laws of
nature. Hundreds of _savans_ are busy with the effort to
explain the universe without recognizing a creator, and to prove
that effects may be obtained without causes. Science stops at
second causes, or, rather, with the investigation and
classification of phenomena, laughs at final causes, and, if it
does not absolutely deny a first cause, relegates it to the
region of the unknowable, and treats it as if it were not. The
advanced philosophers of the age see no difference between moral
laws and physical laws, between gratitude and gravitation. The
heart secretes virtue as the liver secretes bile, and virtue
itself consists not in a voluntary act of obedience, or in
deliberately acting for a prescribed end, but in force of nature,
in following one's instincts, and acting out one's self, heedless
of consequences, and without any consideration of moral
obligation. Truth is a variable quantity, and is one thing with
me and another with my neighbor. There is no providence, or
providence is fate, and God is the theological name given to the
forces of nature, especially human nature; there is no divinity
but man; all worship except that of humanity is idolatry or
superstition; the race is immortal, but individuals, are mortal,
and there is no resurrection of the dead.
{8}
Some, like Fourier and Auguste Comte, even deny that the race is
immortal, and suppose that in time it will disappear in the
inane.
But, without going any further into detail, we may say generally
the age asserts the complete emancipation of man and his
institutions from all intellectual, moral, and spiritual control
or restraint, and under the name of liberty asserts the complete
and absolute independence of man both individually and
collectively, and under pretence of democratic freedom wars
against all authority and all government, whether political or
ecclesiastical. It does not like to concede even the axioms of
the mathematician or the definitions of the geometrician, and
sees in them a certain limitation of intellectual freedom. To ask
it to conform to fixed and invariable principles, or to insist
that there are principles independent of the human mind, or to
maintain that truth is independent of opinion, and that opinions
are true or false as they do or do not conform to it, is to seek
to trammel free and independent thought, and to outrage what is
most sacred and divine in man. The mind must be free, and to be
free it must be free from all obligation to seek, to recognize,
or to conform to truth. Indeed, there is no truth but what the
mind conceives to be such, and the mind is free to abide by its
own conceptions, for they are the truth for it. Rome, in
asserting that truth is independent of the human will, human
passions and conceptions, one and universal, and always and
everywhere the same, and in condemning as error whatever denies
it or does not conform to it, is a spiritual despotism, which
every just and noble principle of human nature, the irrepressible
instincts of humanity itself, wars against, and resists by every
means in its power.
We have shown that the world, as opposed to Rome, rests on the
satanic falsehood, and this conception of liberty, which Rome
rejects and wars against, has no other basis than the satanic
promise, "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil," or be your
own masters as God is his own master, and suffice for yourselves
as he suffices for himself. The world is not wrong in asserting
liberty, but wrong in its definition of liberty, or in demanding
for man not the proper liberty of the creature, but the liberty
which can exist only for the Creator. By claiming for man a
liberty not possible for a dependent creature, the world loses
the liberty to which it has, under God, the right, and falls
under the worst of all tyrannies. Liberty is a right, but, if
there is no right, how can you defend liberty as a right? If
liberty is not a right, no wrong is done in violating it, and
tyranny is as lawful as freedom. Here is a difficulty in the very
outset that the world cannot get over. It must assert right,
therefore the order of justice, before it can assert its liberty
against Rome; and, if it does assert such order, it concedes what
Rome maintains, that liberty is founded in the order of justice,
and cannot transcend what is true and just. The world does not
see that, in denying the spiritual order represented by Rome, it
denies the very basis of liberty, and all difference between
liberty and despotism, because it is only on the supposition of
such order that liberty can be defended as a right, or despotism
condemned as a wrong.
It is alleged against Rome that she opposes modern civilization.
This is so or not so, according to what we understand by modern
civilization.
{9}
If we understand by modern civilization the rejection of the
divine order, the supremacy of spiritual truth, and the assertion
of the divinity and independence of man, Rome undoubtedly opposes
it, and must oppose it; but, if we understand by modern
civilization the melioration of the laws, the development of
humane sentiments, the power acquired by the people in the
management of their temporal affairs, and the material progress
effected by the application of the truths of science to the
industrial arts, the invention of the steam-engine, the
steamboat, the railway and locomotive, and the lightning
telegraph, the extension of commerce and increased facilities of
international communication, though probably a greater value is
attached to these things than truth warrants, she by no means
opposes or discourages modern civilization. Undoubtedly she
places heaven above earth, and is more intent on training men for
eternal beatitude than on promoting temporal prosperity of this
life. The earth is not our end, and riches are not the supreme
good. She asserts a higher than worldly wisdom, and holds that
the beggar has at least as good a chance of heaven as the rich
man clothed in fine linen and faring sumptuously every day. She
would rather see men intent on saving their souls than engrossed
with money-making. The experience of modern society proves that
in this she is right. We live in an industrial age, and never in
any age of the world did people labor longer or harder than they
do now to obtain the means of subsistence, and never was the
honest poor man less esteemed, wealth more highly honored, or
mammon more devoutly worshipped; yet the church never opposes
earthly well-being, and regards it with favor when made
subsidiary to the ultimate end of man.
Yet certain words have become sacramental for the world, and are
adopted by men who would shrink from the sense given them by the
more advanced liberals of the day; and these men regard Rome,
when condemning them in that extreme sense, as condemning modern
civilization itself. We take the Encyclical of the Holy Father,
issued December 8, 1864. The whole non-Catholic world, and even
some Catholics, poorly informed as to their own religion or as to
the meaning of the errors condemned, regarded that Encyclical as
a fulmination against liberty and all modern civilization. Nobody
can forget the outcry raised everywhere by the secular press
against the Holy Father, and what are called the retrograde
tendencies of the Catholic Church. The pope, it was said, has
condemned all free thought and both civil and religious liberty,
the development of modern society, and all modern progress. Yet
it is very likely that four fifths of those who joined in the
outcry, had they been able to discriminate between what they
themselves really mean to defend under the names of liberty,
progress, and civilization, and what the more advanced liberals
hold and seek to propagate, would have seen that the pope in
reality condemned only the errors which they themselves condemn,
and asserted only what they themselves really hold. He condemned
nothing which is not a simple logical deduction from the words of
the arch-tempter, the liar from the beginning and the father of
lies, addressed to our first parents. All the errors condemned in
the Syllabus are errors which tend to deny or obscure the divine
existence, the fact of creation, the authority of the Creator,
the supremacy of the divine or spiritual order, to undermine all
religion and morality, all civil government, and even society
itself; and to render all science, all liberty, all progress, and
all civilization impossible, as we have shown over and over again
in the pages of this Magazine.
{10}
The numbers who embrace in their fullest extent the extreme views
we have set forth, though greater than it is pleasant to believe,
are yet not great enough to give of themselves any serious alarm,
and hence many able and well-meaning men who have not the least
sympathy with them attach no great importance to them, and treat
them with superb contempt; but they are in reality only the
advance-guard of a much larger and more formidable body, who
march under the same drapeau and adopt the same counter-sign. The
Archbishop of Westminster, than whom we can hardly name an abler
or more enlightened prelate in the church, has said truly in a
late Pastoral,
"That the age of heresies is past. No one now dreams of
revising the teaching of the church, or of making a new form of
Christianity. For this the age is too resolute and consistent.
Faith or unbelief is an intelligible alternative; but between
variations and fragments of Christianity men have no care to
choose. All or none is clear and consistent; but more or less
is halting and undecided. Revelation is a perfect whole,
pervaded throughout by the veracity and authority of God, the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. To reject any of it is to reject
the whole law of divine faith; to criticise it and to remodel
it is to erect the human reason as judge and measure of the
divine. And such is heresy; an intellectual aberration which in
these last ages has been carried to its final analysis, and
exposed not only by the theology of the church but by the
common sense of rationalism. We may look for prolific and
antichristian errors in abundance, but heresies in Christianity
are out of date."
The great body of those outside of the Catholic communion, as
well as some nominally in it, but not of it, who are still
attached to the Christian name, adopt the watchwords of the
extreme party, and are tending in the same direction. Mazzini and
Garibaldi are heroes with the mass of Englishmen and Americans,
who wish them success in their anti-religious and anti-social
movements. The universal secular press, the great power in modern
society, with the whole sectarian press, has applauded the
nefarious measures of intriguing Italian statesmen, demagogues,
and apostates by which the Holy Father has been stripped of the
greater part of his temporal possessions, the church despoiled of
her goods, religious houses suppressed, and the freedom and
independence of religion abolished throughout the Italian
peninsula. The only non-Catholic voice we have heard raised in
sympathy with the pope is that of Guizot, the ex-premier of Louis
Philippe. Guizot, though a Protestant, sees that the papacy is
essential to the Catholic Church, and that the Catholic Church is
essential to the preservation of Christian civilization, the
maintenance of society and social order. Our own secular press,
so loud in its praise of religious liberty, applauds the Mexican
Juarez for his confiscation of the goods of the church in the
poor, distracted republic of Mexico. The sympathy of the world,
of the age, is with every movement that tends to weaken the power
of the church, the authority of religion, and even the authority
of the state. The tendency with great masses who believe
themselves Christians, a blind tendency it may be, is to
no-religion or infidelity, and to no-governmentism. It is this
fact that constitutes the danger to be combated.
The difficulty of combating it is very great. The mass of the
people are caught by words without taking note of the meaning
attached to them.
{11}
Where they find the consecrated terms of faith and piety, they
naturally conclude that faith and piety are there. But to a great
extent the enemies of Christianity oppose Christianity under
Christian names. It is characteristic of this age that infidelity
disguises itself in a Christian garb, and utters its blasphemy in
Christian phraseology, its falsehoods in the language of truth.
Satan disguises himself as an angel of light, comes as a
philanthropist, talks of humanity, professes to be the champion
of science, intelligence, education, liberty, progress, social
amelioration, and the moral, intellectual, and physical elevation
of the poorer and more numerous classes--all good things, when
rightly understood, and in their time and place. We cannot oppose
him without seeming to many to oppose what is a Christian duty.
If we oppose false intelligence, we are immediately accused of
being opposed to intelligence; if we oppose a corrupt and baneful
education, we are accused of being in favor of popular ignorance,
and lovers of darkness; if we oppose false liberty, or license
presented under the name of liberty, we are charged with being
the enemies of true freedom; if we assert authority, however
legitimate or necessary, then we are despots and the advocates of
despotism. The press opens its cry against us, and the age votes
us mediaeval dreamers, behind the times, relics of the past, with
our eyes on the backside of our heads, and the truth is drowned
in the floods of indignation or ridicule poured out against us.
Our success would be hopeless, if we could not rely on the
support of Him whose cause we seek to the best of our ability to
defend, and who after all reigneth in the heavens, and is able to
make the wrath of man praise him, and can overrule evil for good.
It is alleged that the church opposes democracy, and is leagued
with the despots against the people. The church herself leagues
neither with democracy nor with monarchy. She leaves the people
free to adopt the form of government they prefer. She opposes
movements pretendedly in favor of democracy only when they are in
violation of social order and opposed to legitimate authority,
and she supports monarchy only where monarchy is the law, and it
is necessary to uphold it as the condition of maintaining social
order, and saving civilization from the barbarism that threatens
to invade it. In the sixteenth century and the beginning of the
seventeenth century the contrary charge was preferred, and the
Church was condemned by the world on the ground of being hostile
to kingly government; for public opinion then favored absolute
monarchy, as it does now absolute democracy. We believe our own
form of government the best for us, but we dare not say that
other forms of government are not the best for other nations.
Despotism is never legitimate; but we know no law of God or
nature that makes democracy obligatory upon every people, and no
reason for supposing that real liberty keeps pace with the
progress of democracy. Democracy did not save France from the
Reign of Terror and the most odious tyranny, and it certainly has
not secured liberty and good order in Mexico. With us it is yet
an experiment and we can pronounce nothing with certainty till we
have seen the result of the crisis we are now passing through. We
owe to it a fearful civil war and the suppression of a formidable
rebellion, but the end is not yet. Still, there is nothing in our
form of government in discord with the Catholic Church, and we
firmly believe that, if maintained in its purity and integrity,
she would find under it a freer field for her exertions than has
ever yet been afforded her in the Old World.
{12}
At any rate, there is no room for doubt that the country needs
the church to sustain our political institutions, and to secure
their free and beneficial workings.
But the world does not gain what it seeks. It does not gain
inward freedom, freedom of soul and of thought. It is difficult
to conceive a worse bondage than he endures who feels that for
truth and goodness he has no dependence but himself. One wants
something on which to rest, something firm and immovable, and no
bondage is more painful than the feeling that we stand on an
insecure foundation, ready to give way under us if we seek to
rest our whole weight on it, and that our constructions, however
ingenious, can stand only as we uphold them with might and main.
The man with only himself for support, is Atlas bearing the
weight of the world on his shoulders in a treadmill. He is a man,
as we know by experience, crossing a deep and broad river on
floating cakes of ice, each too small to bear his weight, and
sinking as soon as he strikes it. He must constantly keep
springing from one to another to save his life, and yet, however
rapidly he springs, gains nothing more solid or less movable. The
world in its wisdom is just agoing to get on to something on
which it can stand and rest, but it never does. Its castles are
built in the air, and it spends all its labor for naught. All its
efforts defeat themselves. Its philanthropy aggravates the evils
it would redress, or creates others that are greater and less
easily cured. In seeking mental freedom, it takes from the mind
the light without which it cannot operate; in seeking freedom
from the king, it falls under the tyranny of the mob; and, to get
rid of the tyranny of the mob falls under that of the military
despot; disdaining heaven, it loses the earth; refusing to obey
God, it loses man.
All history, all experience proves it. Having rejected the
sacredness and inviolability of authority in both religion and
politics, and asserted "the sacred right of insurrection," the
world finds itself without religion, without faith, without
social order, in the midst of perpetual revolutions, checked or
suppressed only by large standing armies, while each nation is
overwhelmed with a public debt that is frightful to contemplate.
This need not surprise us. It is the truth that liberates or
makes free, and when truth is denied, or resolved into each one's
own opinion or mental conception, there is nothing to liberate
the mind from its illusions and to sustain its freedom. The mind
pines away and dies without truth, as the body without food. It
was said by one who spake as never man spake, that he who would
save his life shall lose it, and experience proves that they who
seek this world never gain it. "Ye shall not eat thereof, nor
touch it, lest ye die." This command, which Satan contradicts, is
true and good, and obedience to it is the only condition of life,
or real success in life. In seeking to be God, man becomes less
than man, because he denies the truth and reality of things. It
is very pleasant, says Heinrich Heine, to think one's self a god,
but it costs too much to keep up the dignity and majesty of one's
godship. Our resources are not equal to it, and purse and health
give way under the effort. Falsehood yields nothing, because it
is itself nothing, and is infinitely more expensive than truth.
Falsehood has no support, and can give none; whoever leans on it
must fall through. And if ever there was a falsehood, it is that
man is God, or independent of God.
{13}
The whole question between Rome and the world, turn it as we
will, comes back always to this: Is man God, or the creature of
God? He certainly is not God: then he is a creature, and God has
created him and owns him, is his Lord and Master. He, then, is
not independent of God, for the creative act of God is as
necessary to continue him in existence and to enable him to act,
to fulfil his destiny, or to attain his end or supreme good, as
it was to call him from nothing into existence. God is the
principle, medium, and end of our existence. Separation from God,
or independence of him, is death; for we live, and move, and have
our being in him, not in ourselves. The universe, when once
created, does not go ahead on its own hook or of itself without
further creative intervention; for the creative act is not
completed in relation to the creature, till the creature has
fulfilled its destiny or reached its end. God creates me and at
each moment of my existence as much and as truly as he did Adam,
and the suspension of his creative act for a single instant would
be my annihilation. So of the universe. He creates me, indeed, a
second cause and a free moral agent; but even in my own acts or
causation I depend on him as my first cause, as the cause of me
as a second cause, and in my own sphere I can cause or act only
by virtue of his active presence and concurrence. When I attempt
to act without him, as if I were independent of him, as our first
parents did in following the suggestions of Satan, I do not cease
to exist physically, but I die morally and spiritually, lose my
moral life, fall into abnormal relations with my Creator, and am
spiritually dead; for my moral and spiritual life depends on my
voluntary obedience to the law of all created life: "Ye shall not
eat thereof, or touch it, lest ye die."
Here is the basis of the divine dominion. God is sovereign lord
and proprietor because he is creator, and man and nature are the
work of his hands. Hence the Mosaic books insist not only on the
unity of God, but even with more emphasis, if possible, on God as
creator. The first verse of Genesis asserts creation in
opposition to emanation, generation, or formation: "In the
beginning God created the heavens and the earth." All through the
Old Testament, especially in the hagiographical books and the
prophets, there is a perpetual recurrence to God as creator, to
the fact that he has made the world and all things therein, and
hence the call upon all creatures to sing his praise, so often
repeated in the Psalms. Indeed, it was not so much by belief in
the unity of God as in the fact that God is sole and universal
creator, that the Jews were distinguished from the Gentiles. It
may be doubted if the Gentiles ever wholly lost the belief in the
existence of one God. We think we find in all heathen mythologies
traces of a recognition of one God hovering, so to speak, over
their manifold gods and goddesses, who were held to be tutelar
divinities, never the divinity itself. But the Gentiles, as we
have already said, had lost, and did in no sense admit, the fact
of creation. We find no recognition of God as creator in any
Gentile philosophy, Indian, Persian, Chaldean, Egyptian, Chinese,
Greek, or Roman. The Gentiles were not generally atheists, we
suspect not atheists at all; but they were invariably pantheists.
Pantheism is the denial of the proper creative act of God, or,
strictly speaking, that God creates substances or existences
capable of acting from their own centre and producing effects as
second causes.
{14}
The Jews were the only people, after the great Gentile apostasy,
that preserved the tradition of creation. God as creator is the
basis of all science, all faith, all religion; hence the first
article of the Creed: "I believe in one God, maker of heaven and
earth, and of all things visible and invisible." In this fact is
founded the inviolable right of the Almighty to govern all his
works, man among the rest, as seems to him good. We cannot deny
this if we once admit the fact of creation; and if we deny the
fact of creation, we deny our own existence and that of the
entire universe.
But the right to govern implies the correlative duty of
obedience. If God has the right to govern us, then we are bound
to obey him and do his bidding, whatever it may be. There is
nothing arbitrary in this, it is founded in the relation of
creator and creature, and God himself could not make it otherwise
without annihilating all creatures and ceasing to be creator. God
could not create existences without giving them a law, because
their very relation to him as his creatures imposes on them an
inflexible and invariable law, which, if created free agents,
they may, indeed, refuse to obey, but not and live. Here is the
whole philosophy of authority and obedience. We must not confound
the symbols employed in Genesis with the meaning they symbolize.
The command given to our first parents was simply the law under
which they were placed by the fact that they were creatures, that
God had made them, and they belonged to him, owed him obedience,
and could not disobey him without violating the very law of their
existence. They cannot but die, because they depart from the
truth of things, deny their real relation to God, and go against
the divine order, conformity to which is in the nature of the
case their only condition of life. So Rome teaches in accordance
with our highest and best reason. The world, listening to the
flattering words of Satan and the allurements of the flesh,
denies it, and says, "Ye shall not surely die;" you may sin and
live, may become free and independent, be as gods yourselves,
your own master, teacher, and guide. Hence the inevitable war
between Rome and the world, she striving to secure the obedience
of men and nations to the law of God, and it striving to maintain
their independence of the law, and to make them believe that they
can live a life of their own, which in the nature of the case is
not life, but death.
Other considerations, no doubt enter into the worship of God
beside the simple fact that he is our Creator, but that fact is
the basis of our moral obligation to obey him. This obligation is
obscured when we seek for it another basis, as in the intrinsic
worth, goodness, or excellence of God. No doubt, God deserves to
be adored for his own sake, to be loved and obeyed for what he is
in and of himself, but it is not easy to prove to men of the
world that they are morally bound to love and obey goodness.
These higher views of God which convert obedience into love, and
would enable us to love God even if he did not command it, and to
desire him for his own sake without reference to what he is to
us, may in some sense be attained to, and are so by the saints,
but there are few of us perfect enough for that. The law
certainly is an expression of the goodness and love of the
Creator, as is creation itself, but this is not precisely the
reason why it is obligatory.
{15}
It is a good reason why we should love the law and delight in it,
but not the reason why we are bound to obey it. We are bound to
obey it because it is the law of our Creator, who has the
sovereign right to command us, and hence religion cannot be
severed from morality. No act of religion is of any real worth
that is not an act of obedience, of submission of our will to the
divine will, or which is not a frank acknowledgment of the divine
sovereignty and the supremacy of the moral law. There must be in
it an act of self-denial, of self-immolation, or it is not a true
act of obedience, and obedience is better than any external
offerings we can bring to the altar.
Here is where the world again errs. It is ready to offer
sacrifices to God, to load his altars with its offerings of the
firstlings of flocks and herds, and the fruits of the earth, but
it revolts at any act of obedience, and will not remember that
the sacrifices pleasing to God are an humble and contrite heart.
It would serve God from love, not duty, forgetting that there is
no love where there is no obedience. The obedience is the chief
element of the love: "If ye love me, keep my commandments." We
show our love to the Father by doing the will of the Father.
There is no way of escaping the act of submission, and walking
into heaven with our heads erect, in our own pride and strength,
and claiming our beatitude as our right, without ever having
humbled ourselves before God. We may show that the law is good,
the source of light and life; we may show its reasonableness and
justness, and that there is nothing degrading or humiliating in
obeying it; but, whatever we do in this respect, nothing will
avail if the act of obedience be withheld. Till the world does
this, submits to the law, no matter what fine speeches it may
make, what noble sentiments it may indulge, what just convictions
it may entertain, or what rich offerings it may bring to the
altar, it is at enmity with God, and peace between it and Rome is
impossible.
God is in Christ reconciling the world to himself, but there can
be no reconciliation without submission. God cannot change, and
the world must. No humiliating conditions are imposed on it, but
it must acknowledge that it has been wrong, and that the law it
has resisted is just and right, and, above all, obligatory. This
is the hardship the world complains of. But what reason has it to
complain? What is demanded of it not for its good, or that is not
demanded by the very law of life itself? The world demands
liberty, but what avails a false and impracticable liberty? True
liberty is founded in justice, is a right, and supported by law.
We have shown, time and again, that the church suppresses no real
liberty, and asserts and maintains for all men all the liberty
that can fall to the lot of any created being. It demands the
free exercise of human reason. In what respect does the church
restrain freedom of thought? Can reason operate freely without
principles, without data, without light, without any support, or
anything on which to rest? What is the mind without truth, or
intelligence in which nothing real is grasped? We know only so
far as we know truth, and our opinions and convictions are worth
nothing in so far as they are false, or not in accordance with
the truth that we neither make nor can unmake, which is
independent of us, independent of all men, and of all created
intellects. What harm, then, does the church do us when she
presents us infallibly that truth which the mind needs for its
support?
{16}
Society needs law, and how does the church harm it by teaching
the law of God, without which it cannot subsist? Men need
government. What harm does the church do in declaring the supreme
law of God, from which all human laws derive their force as laws,
and which defines and guarantees both authority and liberty,
protects the prince from the turbulence of the mob, and the
people from the tyranny of the prince?
As sure as that man is God's creature and bound to obey God,
there is for him no good independent of obedience to the law of
God; and equally sure is it that obedience to that law secures to
him all the good compatible with his condition as a created
existence. The mystery of the Incarnation, in which God assumes
human nature to be his own nature, gives him the promise of even
participating in the happiness of God himself. This happiness or
beatitude with God in eternity is the end for which man was
created, and is included in the creative act of which it is the
completion or fulfilment. In estimating the good which is sure to
us by conformity to the divine order and obedience to the divine
law, we must take into the account our whole existence from its
inception to its completion in Christ in glory, and include in
that good not only the joys and consolations of this life, but
that eternal beatitude which God through his superabundant
goodness has provided for us, and remember that all this we
forfeit by obeying the law of death rather than the law of life.
We can fulfil our destiny, attain to the stature of full-grown
men, or complete our existence only by conforming to the divine
order, by adhering to the truth, and obeying the law of life.
Instead, then, of regarding the church as our enemy, as opposed
to our real good, we should regard her as our true friend, and
see in her a most striking proof of the loving-kindness of our
God. In her he gives us precisely what we need to teach us his
will, to make known to us the truth as it is in him, and to
declare to us in all the vicissitudes and complexities of life
the requirements of the law, and to be the medium of the gracious
assistance we need to fulfil them.
No good thing will God withhold from them that love him. And he
gives us all good in giving us, as he does, himself. Nor does he
give us only the goods of the soul. He that will lose his life in
God shall find it. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his
justice, and all these things"--the things which the Gentiles
seek after--"shall be added to you." They who lay up the most
abundant treasures in heaven have the most abundant treasures on
earth. The true principle of political economy, which the old
French Economists and Adam Smith never knew, is self-denial, is
in living for God and not for the world, as a Louvain professor
has amply proved with a depth of thought, a profound philosophy,
and a knowledge of the laws of production, distribution, and
consumption seldom equalled. "I have been young, and now I am
old, but never have I seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed
begging bread." No people are more industrious or more bent on
accumulating wealth, than our own, but so little is their
self-denial and so great is their extravagance that the mass of
them are, notwithstanding appearances, really poor. The realized
capital of the country is not sufficient to pay its debts. We
have expended the surplus earnings of the country for half a
century or more, and the wealth of the nation is rapidly passing
into the hands of a few money-lenders and soulless mammoth
corporations, already too strong to be controlled by the
government, whether State or General.
{17}
If it had not been for the vast quantities of cheap unoccupied
lands easy of access, we should have seen a poverty and distress
in this country to be found in no other. The mercantile and
industrial system inaugurated by the Peace of Utrecht in 1713,
and which is regarded as the crowning glory of the modern world,
has added nothing to the real wealth of nations. But this is a
theme foreign to our present purpose, and has already carried us
too far. We will only add that the true Christian has the promise
of this life and of that which is to come.
Now, no one can estimate the advantage to men and nations that
must have been derived and continue to be derived from the church
placed in the world to assert at every point the divine
sovereignty, and to proclaim constantly in a clear and ringing
voice that the Lord God omnipotent reigneth, and his law is the
law of life, of progress, and of happiness both here and
hereafter, the great truth which the world is ever prone to
forget or to deny. We ought, therefore, to regard her existence
with the most profound gratitude. She has done this work from the
first, and continues to do it with unabated strength, in spite of
so many sad defections and the opposition of kings and peoples.
Never has she had more numerous, more violent, more subtle, or
more powerful enemies than during the pontificate of our present
Holy Father, Pius the Ninth. Never have her enemies seemed nearer
obtaining a final triumph over her, and they have felt that at
last she is prostrate, helpless, in her agony. Yet do they reckon
without their host. The magnificent spectacle at Rome on the 29th
of last June of more than five hundred bishops, and thousands of
priests from all parts of the world, from every tongue and nation
on the earth, gathered round their chief, and joining with him in
celebrating the eighteen hundredth anniversary of the glorious
martyrdom of Peter, the prince of the apostles, whose succession
in the government of the church has never failed, proves that
their exultation is premature, that her veins are still full of
life, and that she is as fresh and vigorous as when she first
went forth from Jerusalem on her divine mission to win the world
to her Lord. The indication by the Holy Father of his resolve at
a near day to convoke a universal council, a grand assembly of
the princes of the church, proves also that she is still a fact,
a living power on the earth, though not of it, with whom the
princes of this world must count. Before her united voice,
assisted by the Holy Ghost, her enemies will be struck dumb, and
to it the nations must listen with awe and conviction, and most
of the errors we have spoken of will shrink back from the face of
day into darkness and silence. Faith will be reinvigorated, the
hearts of the faithful made glad, and civilization resume its
march, so long and so painfully interrupted by heresy,
infidelity, and the almost constant revolutions of states and
empires. We venture to predict for the church new and brilliant
victories over the world.
Heresy has well-nigh run its course. It is inherently
sophistical, and is too much for infidelity and too little for
religion. In no country has it ever been able to stand alone, and
it acquires no strength by age. The thinking men of all civilized
nations have come, or are rapidly coining, to the conclusion that
the alternative is either Rome or no religion, or, as they
express it, "Rome or Reason," which we showed last month is by no
means the true formula. The real formula of the age is, Rome or
no religion, God or Satan.
{18}
The attempt to support anything worthy of the name of religion on
human authority, whether of the individual or of the state, of
private judgment or of the Scriptures interpreted by the private
judgment of the learned, has notoriously, we might say
confessedly, failed. Old-established heresies will no doubt
linger yet longer, and offer their opposition to Rome; but their
days are numbered, and, save as they may be placed in the
forefront of the battle with the church, the active non-Catholic
thought of the age makes no account of them, and respects them
far less than it does Rome herself. They live only a galvanic
life. We are far from regarding the battle that must be fought
with the scientific no-religion or dry and cold unbelief of the
age as a light affair. In many respects the world is a more
formidable enemy than heresy, and the Gentilism of the nineteenth
century is less manageable than that of the first, for it retains
fewer elements of truth, and far less respect for authority and
law. It has carried the spirit of revolt further, and holds
nothing as sacred and inviolable. But it is always some gain when
the issue is fairly presented, and the real question is fairly
and distinctly stated in its appropriate terms; when there is no
longer any disguise or subterfuge possible; and when the
respective forces are fairly arrayed against each other, each
under its own flag, and shouting its own war-cry. The battle will
be long and arduous, for every article in the creed, from "Patrem
omnipotentem" to "vitam aeternam," has been successively denied;
but we cannot doubt to which side victory will finally incline.
Tertullian say, "the human heart is naturally Christian," and men
can not be contented to remain long in mere vegetable existence
without some sort of religion. They will, when they have nothing
else to worship, evoke the spirits of the dead, and institute an
illusory demon-worship, as we see in modern spiritism. The
Christian religion as presented by Rome, though it flatters not
human pride, and is offensive to depraved appetite or passion, is
yet adapted to the needs of human nature, and satisfies the purer
and noble aspirations of the soul. There is, as we have more than
once shown, a natural want in man which it only can meet, and, we
may almost say, a natural aptitude to receive it. Hence, we
conclude that, when men see before them no alternative but Rome
or no religion, downright naturalism able to satisfy nobody, they
will, after some hesitation, submit to Rome and rejoice in
Catholicity. Nature is very well; we have not a word to say
against it when normally developed; but this world is too bleak
and wintry for men to walk about in the nakedness of nature; they
must have clothing of some sort, and, when they are fully
convinced that they can find proper garments only in the wardrobe
of the church, they cannot, it seems to us, long hold out against
Rome or refuse submission to the law of life.
We here close our very inadequate discussion of the great subject
we have opened. Our remarks are only supplementary to the article
on Rome or Reason in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for September last, and
are intended to guard against any false inferences that some
might be disposed to draw from the doctrine we there set forth.
We hold, as a Catholic, the dogma of original sin, and that our
nature has been disordered by the fall and averted from God. We
have not wished this fact to be overlooked, or ourselves to be
understood as if we recognized no antagonism between this fallen
or averted nature and Rome.
{19}
Our nature is not totally depraved. Understanding and will, if
the former has been darkened and the latter attenuated by the
fall, yet remain, and retain their essential character; but
disorder has been introduced into our nature, and the flesh
inclines to sin; its face is turned away from God, and it stands
in need of being converted or turned to him. The church brings to
this disordered and averted nature whatever is needed to convert
it, heal its wounds, and elevate it to the plane of its destiny.
But after conversion, after regeneration, the flesh, "the carnal
mind," remains, as the Council of Trent teaches, and, as long as
it remains, there must be a combat, a warfare. This combat, or
warfare, is not, indeed, between reason and faith, revelation and
science, nor between nature and grace, but between the law of God
accepted and served by the judgment and will, by the inner man,
and the law of sin in our members, the struggle between holiness
and sin, an internal struggle, of which every one is conscious
who attempts to lead a holy life. We have not only wished to
recognize the fact of this struggle as an interior struggle in
the individual, but also as passing from the individual to
society, and manifesting itself in the perpetual struggle between
Rome and the world, which ceases, and can cease, only in
proportion as men and society become converted to God, and
voluntarily submissive to his law.
------
With Christ.
"Having a desire to be dissolved and be with Christ--
a thing by far the better."
To die and be with Christ! far better 'tis
Than all this world of sin and strife can give,
Whose highest boon to those who easiest live
Compares not with one moment of heaven's bliss!
And to earth's suffering ones, whose hearts are torn
With anguish, while their bodies writhe in pain,
What joyous sounds are these: "To die is gain!"
To leave a world where weary souls forlorn
In sinful murmuring wish they ne'er were born.
To be with Christ! O words of solemn power
To hush the heart-cry! let me hold them fast.
If haply I may reach thee, Lord, at last,
And, this strange world with all its sorrows past,
May learn the meaning deep of each sad, suffering hour!
------
{20}
The Managers Dilemma.
"I Tell you, child, you can do it; and I say you shall!"
The speaker was the fat hostess of a hotel in one of the
principal streets of Naples; the time was the summer of 1812. The
lady waddled back and forward with an air of importance, her
hands on her hips. The person she addressed was a lad apparently
sixteen years of age, and very tall and stout for his years. His
beardless chin and boyish features, combined with a shuffling
bashfulness in his deportment, did not tend to inspire confidence
in any great achievement to be expected from him.
"But, buona mia donna--" he began deprecatingly.
"I am a judge!" persisted the hostess. "Master Benevolo shall
find you a treasure, and the jewel of his company! Such a
company! The princess is magnificent! Did not the Duke of
Anhalt--swear she was ravishing in beauty as in acting, with eyes
like diamonds, and a figure majestic as Juno's?"
"Superb!" exclaimed the lad.
"And such an admirable comic actor; a figure that is one laugh,
and a wit like Sancho Panza's; a genius, too, for the pathetic;
he weeps to enchantment, and will bring tears to your eyes after
a convulsion of mirth. An unrivalled troupe! a coronet of
gems--wanting only an actor of tragedy!"
The boy sighed, and cast his eyes on the ground.
"And you must travel," pleaded the landlady. "You are not safe
here in Naples. You may be taken, and carried back to the
conservatorio."
This last argument had effect. The lad sprang to his feet.
"Back to school, to be punished for a runaway--when you might do
such wonders! Come, you are ready, I see. There is no time to be
lost."
She took the boy by the hand and led him into the grand salon of
the hotel. Here sat the manager of an Italian theatrical company,
in absolute despair. He and his troupe were to leave Naples in an
hour. For three days he had staid beyond his time, seeking what
the city did not afford--an actor of tragedy; and he was now
bitterly lamenting to his landlord the ill luck that would compel
him to depart for Salerno destitute of so important an adjunct.
"What shall I do?" cried the impresario, wringing his hands,
"without a Geronimo or a Falerio?"
"You may yet find an actor," suggested the good-natured host.
"He must drop, then, from the clouds, and at once! My friends at
Salerno have twice put off the performance, waiting for me. Saint
Antonio! to think of losing so much money!"
The corpulent hostess had entered the room, the bashful youth a
few paces behind her.
"I have found you a tragedian, Master Benevolo," she cried; "a
capital fellow. You have fatigued yourself running over Naples in
search of one--and he has been waiting for you here since last
evening."
"What do you mean!" exclaimed both manager and landlord.
{21}
"You shall have your tragedian. All the rest is my secret. Oh! he
is a great genius! If you had heard him last night! All the maids
were in tears. Had he a robe and poniard, he would have been
terrific. He sang droll songs, too, and made us laugh till my
sides ached. I should have told you of him before, but you went
out so early."
"At what theatres has he appeared?" asked the manager, much
interested.
"He has never been on the stage; but he will make his way. Such
genius--such passion! He has left home to embrace the
profession."
The impresario mused. "Let me see him," he said.
The landlady took the lad by the hand and pulled him forward. He
stood with eyes cast down, in the most awkward attitude.
"A mere boy!" exclaimed the disappointed director. "He--fit for
an actor!" And with a look of contempt he surveyed the youth who
aspired to represent the emperors of Rome and the tyrants of
Italian republics.
"Everything has a beginning!" persisted the dame. "Louis, come
forward, and show the maestro what you can do."
The overgrown lad hung his head bashfully; but, on further
urging, advanced a pace or two, flung over his arms the frayed
skirt of his coat to serve as a drapery, and recited some tragic
verses of Dante.
"Not bad!" cried the manager. "What is your name?"
"Louis," replied the lad, bowing.
"Louis--what?"
"Louis only for the present," interposed the hostess, with an air
of mystery. "You are not to know his family name. You see--he
left home--"
"I understand: the runaway might be caught. Let me hear him in
_Otello_."
Louis, encouraged, recited a brilliant tragic scene. The manager
followed his gestures with hands and head, and, when he had
ended, applauded loudly, with flashing eyes.
"Bravo! bravo!" he cried, rubbing his hands. "That is what I
want! You will make a capital Moor, set in shape a little! I
engage you at once, at fifteen ducats a month: and here is the
first month's pay in advance for your outfit--a suit of clothes
to make you look like a gentleman. Go, buy them, pack up to go
with us; and I will have a mule ready for you."
While the impresario made his preparations for departure, the
delighted hostess assisted Louis in his. He had spent two or
three days roaming about Naples before he came to the hotel, and
had some debts to pay. These liquidated, his bill paid at the
hotel, and a new suit purchased, nothing remained of his fifteen
ducats. In less than two hours the troupe was on its way out of
Naples.
At Salerno the manager had advertisements struck off, announcing
the _début_ of a new tragic actor--a wonderful
genius--presented to the public as a phenomenon--in a popular
part. Curiosity was soon excited to see him. In the evening the
theatre was crowded. The director walked about, rubbing his hands
in ecstasy, and counting the piles of gold as they accumulated.
Louis, arrayed in an emperor's costume of the middle ages, was
practising behind the scenes how to sustain the part of a
sovereign. A pretty young girl--one of the chorus--who may be
called Rosina, stood watching him, and commenting freely on his
performance.
{22}
"Oh! that will not do at all, your majesty!" she cried, as he
made an awkward movement. "What an emperor! This is your style!"
And she began mimicking his gestures so provokiagly that Louis
declared he would have his revenge in a kiss. He was presently
chasing her around the scenes, to the disorder of his imperial
robes.
The sound of voices and an unusual bustle startled him; he
fancied the curtain was going to rise, and called lustily for his
sword. But the noise was outside the private door of the theatre.
It was flung open, and the lad's consternation may be imagined
when he saw advancing toward him the vice-rector of his school,
followed by six _sbirri_. The manager was there, too,
wringing his hands with gestures of grief and despair. Louis
stood petrified, till the officer, laying a hand on his shoulder,
arrested him by an order from the King of Naples. The whole
company had rushed together, and were astonished to hear that
their tragedian was forthwith to be taken back to the
"Conservatorio clella Pieta dei Turchini," to be remanded to his
musical studies under the great master Marcello Perrino.
The emperor _in petto_ forgot his dignity, and burst into
tears; Rosina cried for sympathy, and there was a general murmur
of dissatisfaction.
The manager strove to remonstrate. "Such a genius--tragedy is his
vocation!" he pleaded.
"His vocation just now is to go back to school," said the
vice-rector gruffly.
"But, signer, you are robbing the public."
"Has not the graceless boy been robbing his majesty, who was
pleased to place him in the conservatorio after his father's
death?"
"He is in my service; I have paid him a month in advance."
"You were wrong to engage a raw lad whom you knew to be a runaway
from his guardians. Come, Louis!"
The _sbirri_ roughly removed the imperial robes from the
blubbering lad. The impresario was in an agony, for the assembled
audience began to give signs of impatience.
"Let him only perform in this piece," he urged.
"Away with him!" answered the vice-rector.
Louis wiped away his tears. "Dear Master Benevolo," he said, "I
will yet be revenged. I will be a tragedian in spite of them!"
"And my losses--my fifteen ducats cried the director.
"I will make them up, I promise you." The vice-rector laughed
scornfully, and the men forced the lad away. Rosina ran after
him, "Stay, Louis!" she cried, putting her handkerchief into his
hands, "You forgot this." Louis thanked her with a tender glance,
and put the keepsake in his bosom.
When the party had disappeared, the manager went to pacify his
impatient audience. He was consoled by the reflection that the
vagabond had left his trunk behind. It was very large and heavy,
and, before causing the lock to be broken next morning, Signor
Benevolo called some of his friends to make an inventory of its
contents. It was found filled with sand! The young
_débutant_ had resorted to this trick, that the servants at
the inns where they stopped might believe the trunk contained
gold and treat him with respect accordingly.
The impresario was in a towering passion. He railed at Louis,
showering on him abusive epithets as a cheat and an impostor. He
could only retaliate for the loss of his fifteen ducats by
writing him a letter full of furious invectives, assuring him
that so base a thief need never aspire to the honors of tragedy!
The letter was read quietly by Louis, who made no answer, but
applied himself diligently to his musical studies.
{23}
His progress was so rapid that his masters declared he bade fair
to rival Bohrer on the violoncello and Tulon on the flute. As a
reward for his efforts, a hall in the conservatorio was arranged
for the private representations of the pupils.
----
In the autumn of 1830, Ex-Manager Benevolo chanced to be in
Paris. The beautiful Rosina was then noted as an admired singer.
She had many conversations with the Italian, who was disgusted
with the French actors, and declared that the best days of tragic
art were past.
One day there was no small excitement at the announcement of the
tragic opera of _Otello_. It was given out that a new artist
of great reputation would appear at the Théâtre Italien. His
progress through the Italian cities had been a continued triumph.
On his first appearance in Paris the connoisseurs had been
determined to show him no favor. As he came on the stage, his
grand, imposing figure and good-humored countenance were
pre-possessing; but, when his magnificent voice rose swelling
above the orchestra, there was a burst of rapturous applause.
Powerful and thrilling, penetrating to the depths of pathos, that
voice carried all before it; and he was voted by acclamation the
first _basse-taille_ of the age.
"You _must_ hear him!" said Rosina, as the ex-manager
protested that he did not care for it. He would be sure to
condemn what pleased those fantastical Parisians.
"You must hear him in _Otello_!" persisted the fair singer.
"Here is an invitation for you, written by himself."
"Why should he have sent this to me?" asked the gratified
Italian.
"As a friend of mine," replied the singer, "he wished to show you
attention. You will go with me."
In the evening they went to the theatre. There was a thunderburst
of applause as the colossal form of the actor moved across the
stage. "A noble figure for tragedy!" exclaimed Benevolo. "Ha! I
should like him for the tyrant in _Anna Bolena!_" When the
superb tones of his voice, full of power, yet exquisite in
melody, filled the house with the rich volume of sound, the
Italian gave up his prejudices. In the deeper passion of the part
he was carried away by enthusiasm like the audience. "Stupendo!
Tragico!" he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, while the curtain
descended.
"You must speak with him!" insisted Rosina. And she drew Benevolo
through the door leading behind the scenes. The great artist came
to meet them. Benevolo gazed upon him in awe and astonishment;
then, recovering himself, faltered forth the expression of his
surprise and delight. It was "the king of tragedy" whom he had
the honor of greeting!
"I am rejoiced to see you at last, my good master Benevolo!"
cried the artist. "Tell me if you have really been pleased. Shall
I ever make a tragic actor?"
"You are wonderful--the first in the world!" cried the enraptured
ex-manager. "And Rosina says you are an Italian! I am proud of my
countryman!"
"Ah! mio fratello! but you had once not so good an opinion of me!
Do you not recognize your old acquaintance--the runaway Louis?"
Benevolo stared in astonishment.
"I have grown somewhat since the affair at Salerno," said the
artist, laughing, and clapping his stout sides. "Ah! I forgot;
you had good reason for being displeased with me.
{24}
The fifteen ducats--and that heavy trunk of mine--that gave you
trouble for nothing! It ought to have been ransomed long ago; but
I waited to do it with my pay as a tragedian. I wanted to prove
your prediction untrue! He drew out a paper from his pocket-book,
and presented it.
"Here is an order for twelve hundred francs."
Signor Benevolo stammered a refusal. He could not accept so large
a gift.
"Take it, friend. It is your just due! Principal and interest you
know. My fortune has grown apace with my _embonpoint_."
"You are a noble fellow!" cried the ex-manager, grasping his
hand. "Now, do me another favor, and tell me your real name. The
one you act under is assumed, of course!"
"No, it is the same--Lablache."
"Lablache! Are you a Frenchman, then?"
"My father was a Frenchman: he fled from Marseilles at the time
of the revolution. I was born in Naples. Are you satisfied?"
"I thought from the beginning," said Benevolo, "you were a
nobleman in disguise. I know you, now, for a monarch in art."
Lablache thanked him cordially. "Now you must come home and sup
with me, in the Rue Richelieu," he said. "I have invited a few
friends to meet you, and they will be waiting for us."
------
Translated from Le Correspondant.
Learned Women And Studious Women.
By Monseigneur Dupanloup.
[The following treatise by Monseigneur Dupanloup is given
entire, notwithstanding that some portions of it bear a more
direct application to French civilization than to our own. The
attentive reader will see that the fundamental principle on
which the argument rests applies to incomplete mental
development in every country; and those who take an interest in
foreign habits and manners will enjoy the lifelike pictures of
French society, so graphic, shrewd, and free from
exaggeration.--_Trans_.]
Dear Friend: Several months ago, in a volume [Footnote 1] of
letters addressed to men of the world concerning studies adapted
to their leisure hours, I published a few pages offering
suggestions also to Christian women living in the world upon
intellectual labor suitable for them. This advice I tried to
adapt and proportion especially to the exigencies of their mode
of life.
[Footnote 1: _Letters to Men of the World concerning
Studies suitable for them and Advice to Christian Women_,
Paris: Douniol.]
I endeavored to show how necessary it is for a woman to acquire
habits of serious thought; all the more so because modern
education seldom inculcates them; and I maintained that such
habits could easily find a place in the life of women of the
world.
{25}
I next indicated grave and noble studies, solid and interesting
courses of reading, historical, artistic, even philosophical,
but, above all, religious, to which they could devote themselves.
Then followed a few practical details concerning the method and
conditions of good study, useful reading, and serious
composition.
Various observations were addressed to me _à propos_ of this
publication; eager contradictions coming side by side with the
most favorable expressions of approbation. This did not surprise
me. In an age like ours, such counsel could hardly be given with
impunity. In the land of Molière an appeal to women to study, to
educate themselves, to cultivate letters and the fine arts, could
not be allowed to pass unreproved.
Allow me, then, to have recourse to the _Correspondant_,
that my various opponents may be answered at one stroke. The most
considerate and the most serious among them supported themselves,
not upon Molière, but, strange to say, upon M. de Maistre. It is
M. de Maistre, then, with the quotations made from his works and
the objections raised in his name, who demands my first
consideration.
I.
M. De Maistre's Opinion.
Some of M. de Maistre's letters to his daughters form a veritable
treatise upon the humble destiny of woman here below, and the
sumptuary laws that should regulate her acquirements and
education.
"A woman's great defect," he writes, "is being like a man, and to
wish for learning is to wish to be a man. Enough if a woman be
aware that Pekin is not in Europe, and that Alexander the Great
did not demand a niece of Louis XIV. in marriage."
Also M. de Maistre allows her in scientific matters to follow and
"understand the doings of men." This is her most perfect
accomplishment, her _chef-d'oeuvre_.
He permits women, moreover, to love and admire the beautiful; but
what he does not permit is, that they should themselves seek to
give it expression. When his eldest daughter, Mademoiselle Adele
de Maistre, avowed a taste for painting, and when the youngest,
Mademoiselle Constance, confided to her father her ardent love
for literary pursuits, M. de Maistre, in, alarm, taking shelter
behind the triple authority of Solomon, Fénélon and Molière,
declared that women should not devote themselves to pursuits
opposed to their duties; that a woman's merit lies in rendering
her husband happy, in educating children, and in making men;
that, from the moment she emulates man, she becomes an ape; that
women have never achieved a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of any kind;
that a young girl is insane to undertake oil-painting, and should
content herself with pencil-sketches: that, moreover, science is
of all things the most dangerous for women; that no woman must
occupy herself with science under pain of being ridiculous and
unhappy; and, finally, that a coquette is far easier to marry
than a scholar. In virtue of this last argument, which embraces
the preceding ones, M. de Maistre recommends them all to return
to their work-baskets, conceding, however, the consecration of a
few hours to study by way of distraction.
{26}
But let them beware of wishing to enlarge their intelligence and
undertake great things. They would be nicknamed _Dame
barbue_.
Moreover, "it is not in the mediocrity of education that their
weakness lies:" it is their weakness that makes "mediocrity of
education" inevitable. In one word, they are radically incapable
of anything great or serious in the way of culture.
Perhaps it would be presumption to contest assertions so firm and
uncompromising. I shall not attempt it. I shall beg leave to
inquire--for this is the most important point now--whether or
not these principles lead us logically and imperiously to the
conclusion of M. de Maistre; if a woman, "who would make her
husband happy, educate her children well, and not transform
herself into an ape in order to _emulate_ man," must
therefore renounce not only the exercise of all creative faculty
in art and literature, but also of serious self-culture, and turn
to her work-basket with no better consolation than the assurance
that "Pekin is not in Europe, and that Alexander did not ask in
marriage the hand of a niece of Louis XIV."
II.
The Question Fairly Stated.
Before grappling with a subject, one should clearly define its
significance.
Let us set aside the name of learned women, so strangely misused
since the days of Molière. We Frenchmen are too apt to settle
great questions with a jest; sending silly prejudices down to
posterity to be nourished and perpetuated for centuries with idle
railleries. In the first place, is there not a just distinction
to be made, lest we commit the error of confounding in the same
anathema studious women with learned women, cultivated women with
absurd women, women of sense, reflection, and serious habits of
application with pedants?
Is it not evident that Molière, in his _Femmes Savantes_,
attacked neither study nor education, but pedantry, as in his
_Tartuffe_ he attacked hypocrisy, not genuine devotion?
Did not Molière himself write this beautiful line?
"Et je veux qu'une femme ait des clartés de tout"
With these preliminary words, I enter on the question. The whole
theory of M. de Maistre is reduced to this assertion: that women
should confine themselves to their own domain and not invade that
of men. Agreed! but let us see what is man's peculiar domain. Is
man by divine right the sole proprietor of the domain of
intelligence? God has reserved to him physical force, and I agree
with M. de Maistre that, notwithstanding Judith and Joan of Arc,
women should not presume to bear arms or to lead armies. But is
intelligence measured out to them in the same exact proportions
and with the same limitations as physical strength? I have never
thought so. The pen seems to me as well placed in the hand of St.
Theresa as in that of M. de Maistre; and I select her name with
the intention of citing many more in the following pages, because
the name of St. Theresa alone suffices to refute the argument
that women should not write for the reason that they have never
shown superior ability in writing. St. Theresa is one of the
greatest, if not the greatest, prose-writer of Spain, and she
even cultivated poetry occasionally.
Beyond discussion, a woman's great merit, her incomparable honor,
lies in rearing her children wisely and in making men; as her
dearest privilege and her first duty lies in making her husband
happy. But precisely in order to make men, and to ensure the
virtue and happiness of her husband and children, a woman must be
strong in intelligence, strong in judgment and character,
assiduous, industrious, and attentive.
{27}
In the words of Scripture, that look, that beauty, that goodness,
which adorn and embellish a whole household, must be illumined
from on high; (_sicut sol oriens mundo, sic mulier??
[Transcriber's note: Illegible] bona species in ornamentum domus
ejus._) The hand that holds the distaff and manages household
matters should be guided by a head capable of conceiving and of
governing. The portrait sketched by Solomon is not that of a
woman engrossed solely with material life; it is that of an able
woman; and, if her children rise up and call her glorious and
blessed, it is because she has an elevated sense of the affairs
of life, a provident care for the future, and a solicitude for
souls; because she stands on a level with the noblest duties and
the most serious thoughts; in one word, because she is an
intelligent companion worthy of a spouse who sits at the gates of
the city upon the most exalted bench of justice.
I could quote other passages from Holy Scripture proving that
natural science, art, sacred literature, poetry, and eloquence
were not foreign to the education of Israelitish maidens or to
the career of Jewish women. Was it not the mother of Samuel who
proclaimed God the Lord of knowledge and the Giver of
understanding? Was it not Miriam, the sister of Moses, who taught
music and sacred canticles to the young Israelites?
But it is especially since the enunciation of the gospel that the
intellectual and moral dignity of woman has been elevated, and
that Christian women have taken so noble a place in human
society. What I demand is, that absurd prejudices, coarse names,
and worn-out jests should not drag them down from the exalted
rank assigned to them by the gospel into frivolity and
materialism.
Let me be clearly understood. I desire, above all, not _femmes
savantes_, but, for the sake of husbands, children, and
households, intelligent, attentive, and judicious women,
well-instructed in all things necessary and useful for them to
know as mothers, heads of households, and women of the world;
never disdainful of practical duties, but knowing how to occupy
not only their fingers, but their minds, understanding the
cultivation of the whole soul. And I add that we ought to dread
as disastrous evils those frivolous, giddy, self-indulgent women
who, in idleness, ignorance, and dissipation, seek for pleasure
and amusement; who are hostile to exertion and to almost every
duty, incapable of study or of continuous mental effort, and
therefore unfitted to exercise any important influence over the
education of their children, or over the affairs of their
household or of their husbands.
III.
On these conditions I willingly resign the name of learned woman,
claiming it for no one. And yet before laying it aside, I would
remark that ages more Christian than our own were far from
disdaining it. The disciple and biographer of the illustrious St.
Boniface plainly tells us that St. Boniface loved St. Lioba for
her solid erudition, _eruditionis sapientia._ This admirable
virgin, in whom the light of the Holy Ghost enhanced an
enlightenment laboriously acquired from study, united to purity
and humility (those virtues which preserve all things in a heart)
a knowledge of theology and canon law that became one of the
glories of the new-born German church. And, moreover, St.
Boniface, far from despising his spiritual daughter's efforts to
rise to intellectual pursuits, sometimes robbed the apostolate of
hours which he deemed well spent in correcting the literary
compositions and Latin verses of Lioba, and in answering her in a
similar style; poetic messages carried across seas by confessors
and martyrs.
{28}
And if, going back to earlier ages, we closely examine the
records of history, we find that, after the establishment of
Christianity, feminine names are constantly met with on the
literary monuments most revered by posterity; as, for instance,
the celebrated Hypatia, who had Clement of Alexandria for a
disciple; the illustrious St. Catharine, teacher of Christian
philosophy; and, again, St. Perpetua, who wrote the acts of her
own martyrdom and recorded the glory of her companions.
When peace was restored to the church, and the age of doctors
commenced, succeeding the age of martyrs, who were more
celebrated for the gravity of their minds and the extent of their
knowledge than the Paulas, the Marcellas, Melanias, and
Eustochiums, with many other saints and noble Christian women?
Remember St. Marcella, in whom St. Jerome found so powerful an
auxiliary against heresy; and St. Paula, who inspired St. Jerome
to undertake his noblest and most important works, the Latin
translation of the Bible from the Hebrew text, and a complete
series of commentaries upon the prophets.
Nothing is finer than St. Paula's letter to St. Marcella. There
we see all that Marcella had done to elevate the souls and the
intelligence of women and maidens who called her their mother;
there we comprehend the intelligence and the eloquence of St.
Paula. [Footnote 2]
[Footnote 2: We read with great interest in _The History of
St. Paula_, just published by M. l'Abbé F. Lagrange, those
chapters devoted to the studies in Holy Scripture of Roman
ladies in St. Jerome's school, and to those of St. Paula made
at Bethlehem, under the direction of the same saint.]
Who does not know what Theresa was in the following century to
St. Paulinus, whose reputation is as much the glory of Aquitaine
as the name of Ausonius? Who does not know that Elpicia (the wife
of Boëthius) composed hymns adopted by the Roman liturgy?
In the midst of barbarism education was one of the first
conditions imposed on Christian virgins. Those who evinced an
aptitude for literary pursuits were dispensed from manual labor,
according to the precept of St. Cesarius, that they might devote
themselves exclusively to intellectual work. In most monasteries
we hear of them engrossed in study, writing, translating,
copying, or deciphering without interruption.
St. Radegonde, not content with attracting to Poitiers one of the
last Roman poets, induced him to give so complete a training to
her nuns as to form among them writers who soon eclipsed their
master. Classic elegance and purity are revived in the writings
of Bandonovia. All the charm of Christian inspiration is revealed
in the hymn improvised by a nun of Poitiers at the moment of
Radegonde's death, and one of the earliest flowers of the new
poetic era blooms over the grave of this holy queen who so loved
letters.
The monasteries of England, Ireland, and France were nurseries
for erudite and devout women.
"It is proved beyond dispute by numerous and well-authenticated
witnesses," says M. de Montalembert, "that literary studies were
cultivated in female monasteries in England during the seventh
and eighth centuries, with no less assiduity and perseverance
than in communities of men; perhaps with even more enthusiasm.
Anglo-Saxon nuns did not neglect the occupations proper for their
sex. But manual labor was far from satisfying them.
{29}
They willingly left distaff and needle, not only to transcribe
manuscripts and adorn miniatures according to the taste of the
day, but still oftener to read and study holy books, the fathers
of the church, or even classic authors." [Footnote 3]
[Footnote 3: _Monks of the West_, vol. v. This fifth
volume, and the two preceding ones, written during a cruel
and persistent malady, astonish us by the powerful impulse,
the tenderness and loftiness of sentiment which they breathe;
showing how steadily a valiant, Christian soul can hold
itself erect amid the most grievous physical and moral
trials. These are books that I would gladly see in the hands
of everyone; today especially, when we are overwhelmed with a
malaria-tainted literature.]
St. Gertrude, under Dagobert's guidance, learned the Holy
Scriptures entirely by heart and translated them from the Greek.
She sent beyond seas to Ireland for masters to teach music,
poetry, and Greek to the cloistered virgins of Nivelle. From all
these glowing centres issued shining lights; as, for instance,
Lioba, foundress of the abbey of Richofsheim; Roswitha, and St.
Bridget. It was by St. Edwiga that the study of Greek was
introduced into the monastery of St. Gall. And the enlightenment
of the learned Hilda was so highly esteemed in the Anglo-Saxon
church that more than once the holy abbess, screened behind a
veil, was present at the deliberations of bishops assembled in
synod or council, who craved the advice of one whom they regarded
as especially illumined by the Holy Ghost.
It would make a list too long to record the examples of all the
women in whom sanctity was accompanied by a gift of luminous
science.
We may name here a daughter of William the Conqueror, Cecilia,
abbess of a monastery at Caen; the illustrious Emma, abbess of
St. Amand; and, above all, Herrade, who astonished her
contemporaries by learned cosmological works, comprising all the
science of her day.
In the twelfth century, St. Hildegarde received revelations
concerning the physical constitution of our globe, and wrote
treatises upon the laws of nature, anticipating modern science.
Nothing surpasses the elevation and nobility of intellect
revealed in the various works of this illustrious woman.
It was St. Elizabeth, of Thenawge, who wrote the admirable page
quoted in the logic of Père Gratry. St. Hildegarde and St.
Elizabeth both lived in monasteries on the banks of the Rhine,
where women wrote, painted, and worked; where they did wonderful
things, says Père Gratry.
"What can we say of St. Catharine of Siena, who shares the glory
of the great writers?" asks Ozanam.
M. de Maistre maintains that _a young girl is insane to think
of painting._ And yet saints have had this mania. St.
Catharine of Bologna was a celebrated miniaturist. She wrote
learned treatises and painted _chef-d'oeuvres_; she composed
sacred music and perfected musical instruments; even on her
death-bed she played on instruments whose conception and
execution belong to her. It is for this reason that she is
represented over altars holding the lyre or viola invented by
herself.
Following all these names claimed by the arts as well as by
literature comes that of St. Theresa, already cited above. Here
M. de Maistre is vanquished. Yes, genius has descended upon a
feminine intellect, endowing it with a gift as brilliant as any
that can be cited. One might dread the guilt of profanation in
using the words _chef-d'oeuvre_ and human genius in speaking
of those sublime pages penetrated with a divine light, those
marvellous echoes of heaven that stir our souls even on earth.
But where can we find the beautiful realized with more vividness,
more simplicity, more nature and grandeur?
{30}
If all these names have been the names of saints whose aim and
supreme inspiration was religion, why wonder? I have already said
that women had been elevated by Christianity, heart, soul, and
understanding. They owed to Christianity the homage of all the
gifts it had bestowed upon them, and that homage they rendered.
To complete this hasty outline of the history, not so much of
learned as of intelligent women, women of mind and heart, of
faith and Christian virtue, I will mention that, in times more
nearly approaching our own, Christina Pisani wrote admirable
memoirs of Charles V., in which we find great moral elevation as
well as a charming style.
Let me name, also, Elizabeth of Valois and Mary Stuart, who
carried on a Latin correspondence for several years concerning
the advantages of literary studies. Elizabeth Sarani, one of the
most religious painters of the Bolognese school in the
seventeenth century; Helena Cornaro, in the sixteenth century,
was made doctor at Milan, and died in the odor of sanctity. And
then what a charming writer was the Mère de Chaugy in the
beginning of the seventeenth century!
In conclusion, I will mention Mademoiselle de Légardière, who
wrote a work esteemed by M. Guizot as "the most instructive now
extant upon ancient French law." It was a woman, then, who
consecrated a life, in which severe labor and charitable actions
alone found place, to the execution of the first work that opened
the way to new discoveries of modern science, a work of
prodigious erudition, _The Political Theory of French Laws_.
This _savante_, for so we must call her, lived in an
isolated chateau, where her piety was an example to all who knew
her, and left a memory venerated by her countrywomen.
Many other examples could be cited to reestablish the epithet
_learned woman_; but I promised to resign it, and resign it
I do quite willingly.
M. de Maistre concludes his dissertation by saying: "Women have
never created masterpieces!" Does he mean to assert that their
intellectual efforts have been, and that they always will be,
sterile? We have seen, and history proves, to what point the
exertions and the acquirements of women have contributed to the
preservation of ancient literature. It is a hard measure to expel
them from the ship they have helped to rescue from the storms of
barbarism. Moreover, one need not create masterpieces to prove
the possession of talent. God sends dew to little flowers as well
as to great trees. Humble works may receive the fecundity of a
good action. The success of our adversaries must be our
encouragement. If women of talent have done so much mischief,
then Christian women must struggle on the same ground. There are
a great many books, and one book more is but a drop in the
ocean--true! All are not destined to distinction and
immortality. Some must console a few souls only, and, like daily
bread, meet the day's requirements, without enduring until the
morrow.
"If you work for God and for yourself," says St. Augustine, "the
better to heed the utterance of the Word within you, there will
always be a few beings who will understand you."
These words are an encouragement for all humble works, for all
faithful efforts, that, while developing the faculties received
from God, know not to what purpose they are destined. Let each
one cultivate her natural faculties. Intelligence is one of the
noblest of gifts, and in the field of the father of the family no
laborer must stand unoccupied, useless, without toil and without
recompense.
{31}
But, it may be argued, most of the examples brought forward prove
only that women are especially fitted for Christian learning. I
recognize the fact. Inspiration, descending into their souls,
rises again more directly toward God. Their talents must be
intimately allied with virtue, and shine forth like those pure
rays that are filled with the light and warmth of the centre
whence they emanate.
But, alas! one must recognize also the fact that women born with
talents and for works of the first order have too often never
found this supreme source. M. de Maistre, after discharging his
unjust spleen against Madame de Staël, calling her discourteously
"Science in petticoats, and an impertinent _femmelette_"
whose works he qualifies as "gorgeous rags," confesses, finally,
in one of those impetuous contradictions so familiar to him, that
Madame de Staël needed only the torch of truth to raise her
"immense abilities" to the highest grade. "If she had been a
Catholic," he says later, "she would have been adorable instead
of being famous." What would he have said of the female writers
of our own day?
What intellectual ruins! What grief it is that talents like those
of Madame de ---- and Madame ---- should be lost to the good
cause!--souls that in their fall bear still the impress of the
divine ray; crumbling temples that seem to be struggling to rise
from their ruins, uttering from the depths of their desolation
plaints like these:
"O my greatness! O my strength! you have passed like a
storm-cloud; you have fallen upon the earth to ravage it like a
thunderbolt. You have smitten with barrenness and death all the
fruits and all the blossoms of my field. You have made of it a
desolate arena, where I sit solitary in the midst of my ruins.
O my greatness! O my strength! were you good or evil angels?
"O my pride! O my knowledge! you rose up like burning
whirlwinds scattered by the simoom through the desert; like
gravel, like dust you have buried the palm-trees, you have
troubled and exhausted the water-springs. And I sought the
stream to quench my thirst, and I found it not; for the
insensate who would cut his way over the proud peaks of Horeb
forgets the lowly path that leads to the shadowy fountain. O my
pride! O my knowledge! were you the envoys of the Lord? were
you spirits of darkness?
"O my religion! O my hope! you have swept me like a fragile and
wavering bark over shoreless seas, through bewildering fogs,
vague illusions, dimmest images of an unknown country; and
when, weary with struggling against the winds, and, groaning,
bowed down beneath the tempest, I asked you whither you led me,
you lighted beacons upon the rocks to show me what to avoid,
not where to find safety. O my religion! O my hope! were you a
dream of madness, or the voice of the living God?"
No; these impulses toward heaven, this need of God, this
strength, this pride, this greatness, were not bad angels; they
were great and noble faculties, sublime gifts. But they should
not have been deluded! They should not have been misled into
vanity and falsehood! They should have been employed for good
ends, and not turned into spirits of darkness.
{32}
IV.
Duty.
The rights of women to intellectual culture are not merely
rights, they are also duties. This is what makes them
inalienable. If they were only rights, women could sacrifice
them; but they are duties. The sacrifice is either impossible or
ruinous.
This is the point of departure for all I have to say. I declare
unhesitatingly that it is a woman's duty to study and educate
herself, and that intellectual labor should have a place reserved
among her special occupations and among her most important
obligations.
The primordial reasons of this obligation are grave, of divine
origin, and absolutely unanswerable; namely:
In the first place, God has conferred no useless gifts; for all
the things he has made there is a reason and an aim. If the
companion of man is a reasonable creature; if, like man, she is
made in the image and likeness of God; if she, too, has received
from her Creator the sublimest of gifts, understanding, she ought
to make use of it.
These gifts, received from God for an especial purpose, must be
cultivated. Scripture tells us that souls left to waste, like
fallow ground, bring forth only wild fruits, _spines et
tribulos_. And God did not make the souls of women, any more
than the souls of men, to be shifting, barren, or unhealthy soil.
Moreover, every reasonable creature is to render to God an
account of his gifts. Each one in the judgment day will be dealt
with according to the gifts he has received and the use he has
made of them.
God has given us all hands, (which, according to the
interpreters, signify prompt and intelligent action,) but on
condition that we do not bring them to him empty. Again, he has
categorically explained his intentions in the parable of the
talents, where he declares that a strict account must be rendered
to him, talent by talent. I do not know a father of the church or
any moralist who has ever asserted that this parable did not
concern women as well as men. There is no serious distinction to
be made. Each must give an account of what he has received; and
good human sense, like good divine sense, plainly indicates that
one sex has no more right than the other to bury or to waste the
possessions granted by Heaven to be employed and increased.
In short, I say with St. Augustine, no creature to whom God has
confided the lamp of intelligence has a right to behave like a
foolish virgin, letting the oil become exhausted because she has
neglected to renew it; letting that light die out that was to
have enlightened her path and that of others too, if only, as in
the case of some wives and mothers, that of her husband and
children.
The generality of books relating to the merits, the destinies,
and the virtues of woman, far from considering her as a being
created in the image of God, intelligent, free, and responsible
to her Creator for her actions, treat of her as a possession of
man, made solely for him, and whose end he is. In all these
books, a woman is only a blooming creature meant to be adored,
but not respected--a being essentially inferior whose existence
has no other aim than to secure the happiness of man, or bend to
his most frivolous purposes; dependent, above all, upon man, who
alone is her master, her legislator, and her judge--absolutely,
as if she had no soul, no conscience, no moral liberty; as if God
were nothing to her; as if he had not endowed her soul with
cravings, faculties, aspirations, in one word, with rights that
are at the same time duties.
{33}
The world declaims, and with reason, against the futility of
women, against their love of approbation, and what is called
their coquetry. But is not this futility produced and propagated
by the fear of making them learned, of too fully developing their
intelligence?--as if such a thing were possible, as if that true
development through which one better understands duty, and learns
to calculate consequences, could be injurious. Are not women who
have serious tastes obliged to hide them or make excuses for them
by every means in their power, as if they were concealing a
fault?
Or if, indeed, a woman is allowed to educate herself, it is only
within very restricted limits, and merely, according to the
wishes of M. de Maistre, that she may understand the conversation
of men, or that she may be more amusing, and set off her trilling
talk in a more piquant fashion by mingling it with odds and ends
of wisdom. With such a dread does the learned woman inspire idle
and frivolous men who will neither work themselves nor let any
one else work.
In plainer terms still: does not the present system of education
create and foster coquetry and a love of admiration, by making
man the only end of woman's destiny? It is vain to tell her that
she is destined for one alone, and that all others should be to
her as if they existed not. This is perfectly true from a
Christian point of view, which embraces at once all rights and
all duties; but apart from Christian virtue, when that one proves
tedious, vicious, and absolutely unworthy of affection, and when
temptation presents itself under the traits of another, a
superior being, (or one who seems to be superior,) for whom alone
she believes herself created, how, I ask, can you persuade her to
fly from the latter and live only for the former? Imprudent and
fatal guide that you are, you have taught her that she is an
incomplete being, who cannot suffice to herself, who must lean
upon the superiority of another; and then you complain because,
when she meets this support, this other and truer half of
herself, she clings to it, and cannot fly from the fatal
attraction! Undeniably she violates the holiest of obligations;
but have you not yourselves been blind and guilty? Are you not so
still?
I have no hesitation in asserting that only Christian morality
can teach a woman with absolute and decisive authority her true
rights and her true duties in their necessary correlation.
Until you have persuaded a woman that she is first created for
God, for herself, for her own soul, and in the second place for
her husband and children, to value them next to God, with God,
and for God, you will have done nothing either for the happiness
or the honor of families.
Of course, husband and wife are two in one, and their children
are one in them. But, if God is not the foundation of this
providential union, Providence will be avenged, and the union
dissolved. This is the misfortune, almost always irreparable,
that so often meets our eyes. [Footnote 4]
[Footnote 4: Does the reader believe these warnings uncalled
for in American society? We once explained to a Frenchman the
system in vogue in many of our States, of divorce followed by
a second marriage. "Ah!" said he, "in France we call that a
_liaison_" _Trans_.]
This excessive absorption of the _personality_ of a wife
into her husband's existence was useful, perhaps, for the
preservation of the antique matron. Such moral and intellectual
restrictions were reasonable, perhaps, at a period when duty had
no sanction sufficiently strong. The seclusion of the gynaeceum
may have served to preserve the domestic circle from frightful
disorder.
{34}
But a Christian woman is conscious of a different destiny. For
her gynaeceum and harem are useless. She loves the being to whom
God has united her with a tenderness and devotion rarely met with
in pagan times, if one may judge by the eulogiums lavished on
those who approached most nearly the standard we see realized
every day. The Christian woman regards herself as her husband's
companion, as his assistant in earthly as in heavenly things,
_socia, adjutorinm;_ as bound to console him and make his
happiness; but she thinks, too, that they should help each other
to become better, and that, after having educated together new
_elect_, they should share felicity together through all
eternity. For such destinies, a woman's education cannot be too
unremitting, too earnest, or too strong.
The contrary system rests upon a pagan appreciation of her
destiny, or, as has been said with reason, upon the idleness of
men who wish to preserve their own superiority at small expense.
The pagan conception consists in believing women to be merely
charming creatures, passive, inferior, and made only for man's
pleasure and amusement. But, as I have already said, Christianity
thinks differently. In Christianity a woman's virtue, like a
man's, must be intelligent, voluntary, and active. She must
understand the full extent of her duties, and know how to draw
conclusions from divine teaching for herself, her husband, and
her children.
This prejudice against the intellectual development of women is
one of the most culpable inventions of the eighteenth century,
that age of profligacy and impiety. The Regent and Louis XV. have
fostered it more than Molière, as they have created more
prejudices against religion than _Tartuffe_. It was useful
to all unprincipled husbands to have wives as worthless as
themselves, who should be incapable of controlling their
disorderly lives.
A superior woman obliges her husband to depend upon her. He is
forced to submit to the control of an intelligent spirit, and
does not feel free to follow his own caprices. This is why
vicious husbands need ignorant wives.
Molière struck a blow as severe at frivolity, in the
_Précieuses Ridicules_, [Footnote 5] as at pedantry in the
_Femmes Savantes_. The eighteenth century retained merely a
prejudice convenient to itself, which the regency established as
a law, and finally licentious men surrendered the honor of their
familie rather than find in a wife an inconvenient judge, a
living conscience, an ever-present reproach. They preferred to
have wives as vain and frivolous as themselves, and to make of
marriage a contract in which fortunes and titles only were
considered, and where affection on either side went for nothing.
The world saw with affright the corruption that speedily engulfed
French society.
[Footnote 5: It is also to be observed that Molière's learned
women had only the affectation and not the reality of science,
just as the _précieuses_ merely affected the fine language
and manners of the court. The former were ignorant women
playing the part of _savantes_ the latter provincial women
aping Paris fashions.]
Why did not M. de Maistre, who saw the remains of this corruption
and the chastisements it had merited, understand that the
degraded position assigned to women was one of its causes, and
that prejudice against the intellectual elevation of women was
the work of vice?
V.
The Dangers of Repression.
The very nature of things speaks plainly enough. Human nature in
all its faculties demands instruction, enlargement,
enlightenment, elevation.
{35}
From my own observation I must assert that nothing is more
dangerous than smothered faculties, unanswered cravings,
unsatisfied hunger and thirst. Thence comes the perversion of
passions, created for noble ends, but turned against truth and
virtue. Thence issue those distorted, crooked, and perverse ways
into which we are drawn by an ignorance incapable of choice,
judgment, or self-restraint: _conversi dirumpent vos_, says
the sacred writer. There lies the secret of many falls, many
scandals, or, at least, of much wretched levity among women! If
these rich and ardent powers had been cultivated, we need not now
deplore their ruin; we should not have to sigh over the pitifully
incorrect intellectual standard, the mental weakness of so many
women of distinguished nature, called to be ornaments to the
world and to do honor to their families, but of whom education,
checked in its development, has made elegant women perhaps, at
thirty years of age, but frivolous, commonplace and useless.
Surely no one can seriously contradict me in these assertions.
Again, and this is a very important consideration:
M. de Maistre would make a woman humble and virtuous in the
aridity of her occupations, without anything to raise and console
her beyond the knowledge "that Pekin is not in Europe," and so
on.
This is impossible. She will not remain in this humble sphere. If
we do not give her intellectual interests to recreate her from
the material duties, often overwhelming, that weigh her down, she
will reject these very duties, which humiliate her _when they
come alone_, and seek relief from _ennui_ in frivolity.
Do not we see this every day? Let us not deceive ourselves.
The duties of the mistress of a household, ever recurring with a
thousand matter-of-fact details--the responsibilities of domestic
life are often wearisome and excessively wearisome. Where shall a
woman find consolation? who will give a legitimate impulse to her
sometimes over-excited imagination? Who will offer to her
intelligence the rightful satisfaction it demands, and prevent
her from feeling that she is a mere domestic drudge?
I have no hesitation in saying--and how many experiences have
contributed to fortify my conviction!--that there are times when
piety itself does not suffice! Work, and sometimes very serious
intellectual work, is required. Drawing and painting are not
enough, unless the painting be of a very elevated character. What
the hour calls for is a strong and firm application of the
understanding to some serious work, literary, philosophical, or
religious. Then will calmness, peace, serenity be restored. Let
us acknowledge the truth. Rigid principles and empty occupations,
devotion combined with a purely material or worldly life, make
women destitute of resources in themselves, and sometimes
insupportable to their husbands and children.
But allow a woman two hours of hard study every day, during which
the faculties of her soul can recover their balance, perplexities
assume their true proportions, good sense and judgment resume
their sway, excitement subside, and peace reenter the soul: then
she will lift up her head once more; she will see that the
intellectual life to which she aspires, in accordance with a
craving implanted in her being by God himself, is not denied to
her. Then she will be able to fall on her knees and accept life
with its duties, and bless the divine will.
{36}
This is the fruit of genuine work performed in the presence of
God. It renders her soul submissive, sometimes more so than
prayer itself. It restores her to order and good sense,
satisfying within her a just and noble desire.
I have sometimes heard mothers say that they dreaded for their
children faculties overstepping ordinary proportions, and that
they should endeavor to repress them. "What use are they?" it is
said: "How can a place be found for these great abilities in that
real life, with its narrow, cramped limits, which begins for
women at the close of their earliest youth?" These remarks have
secretly shocked me. What! would you check the expansion of that
fairest of divine works, a soul where God has implanted a germ of
ideal life? You respect this gift in men, provided that it be
employed in practical life, and that it serve to make money or
create a social position. But, since the utility of great gifts
is less lucrative among women, they had better be repressed! Then
lop off the branches of the plant that craves too much air and
room and sunlight; check the redundant sap. But the plant was
intended to be a great tree, and you will make of it a stunted
shrub. Take care lest the mutilation do not kill it utterly while
torturing it. To extinguish a soul designed by God to shine is to
bury therein the seed of an interior anguish that you will never
cure, and which may exhaust the soul with vague, exaggerated
aspirations. There is no torture comparable to the sense of the
beautiful when it cannot find utterance, to the interior agony of
a soul which, perhaps unconsciously, has missed its vocation.
That word, expressive of a call from on high, of a solemn and
irresistible claim, applies to women as well as to men, to the
ideal life as much as to the external life. The soul is a thought
of God, it has been said. There is a divine plan with regard to
it, and our exertions or our languor advance or retard the
execution of that plan, which exists none the less in God's
wisdom and goodness, and must appear one day as our accuser if we
fail to execute it.
And to secure its accomplishment, the development of the whole
soul, mind, and heart is necessary.
It is difficult to discover in advance to what God destines his
gifts; but none the less true is it that he destines them to an
especial end, and that this providential vocation, faithfully
answered, turns aside the dangers we dread to meet in its
fulfilment.
Individual natures should be consulted, that we may develop them
according to their capacities. I would not create factitious
talents by a culture which nature does not demand, but neither
would I leave uncultivated those she has bestowed. Nothing is
more dangerous for a woman than incomplete development,
half-knowledge, a half-talent that shows her glimpses of broader
horizons without giving force to reach them, makes her think she
knows what she does not know, and fills her soul with trouble and
bewilderment, combined with a pride that often betrays itself in
sad misconduct. When equilibrium is not established between
aspiration and the power to realize it, the soul, after making
fruitless struggles to attain its ideal, becomes discontented
with common life, and, craving some excitement of mind and
imagination, seeks it in emotions and pleasures always dangerous
and often culpable.
If you do not direct the flame upward, it will feed upon the
coarsest earthly aliment. A superior person once said to me: "In
art, mediocrity is to be above all things feared. A great talent
escapes many dangers. The impetus once given, one must reach the
goal; otherwise, who can say how low one may fall?"
{37}
Terrible examples of this I have seen, showing me what becomes of
smothered faculties and of a rich nature rendered abortive.
[Footnote 6]
[Footnote 6: I know a woman endowed with a creative faculty
which her education has tended to crush. One feels in her
incomplete and suffering nature a sort of interior discord.
Ill at ease with herself, she seeks excitement in dress and
in frivolous distractions. People attribute these defects to
her artistic nature. On the contrary, she would not suffer if
she possessed the plenitude of her faculties. She has not
been allowed to cultivate fully the talent bestowed by God;
she has never arrived at the genuine power of production or
reached the repose of legitimate interior satisfaction.]
VI.
Fatal Results of Ignorance and Levity in Women.
We complain of the vanity of women, of their luxury and coquetry;
but for what else do we prepare them, what else do we inculcate
in their education? We leave them no other resource on earth. Far
from elevating, developing, strengthening, and ennobling them, we
dissipate, enervate, and debase them; nor am I speaking of the
most fatal kind of debasement. Far from forming in them a taste
for serious things or even for subjects worthy of interest, we
teach them to ridicule those who have such tastes. We reduce them
to coquetry, gossip, every kind of mediocrity and _ennui_.
The world is positively irritated against those who sometimes
remind women what they are in the estimation of God, what they
are capable of doing, what they owe to God, to society, to
France, to their husbands and sons, and to themselves; against
those who dare to assert that it is for them, daughters of that
Eve to whom humanity owes the chastisement of toil, to accept and
make others accept this fruit, which, though perhaps a little
bitter, is expiatory, honorable, and salutary; that it is for
them to follow its holy practices from infancy, and, later, to
inspire in others a taste for it, or, at least, courage to endure
it; that it is for them to speak that noble language of reason
and of faith which calls labor the primordial law of humanity, at
once a dominion and a reward.
The world is angry with those who teach women that they should
use the gift of _influence_ with which they are endowed, not
to become queens of the ball-room, and shine beneath the
candelabra of a drawing-room or behind foot-lights, but to become
in their own homes skilful and patient advocates of everything
noble, just, intellectual, and generous; not to _futilize_,
if I may so express myself, the spirits of men, already too
inclined to futility, but to remind them constantly that life is
composed of duties, that duty is serious, and that happiness is
only found in the performance of duty.
Instead of this, what are they? Stars of a day, meteors too often
fatal to the repose, the fortune, and the honor of families. We
may say that these women who have the brilliancy and the passing
influence of comets exercise also their sinister power. Instead
of enervating them with nonsense, tell them that they will not
always remain twenty years old, and that they will soon need
other resources than their own beauty and caprices. Tell them
that, even supposing they can always rule their husbands so
easily, this sophistical authority will never gain a hold upon
their children; and yet it is a woman's true aim, her first duty,
often, alas! her sole happiness, to possess influence over her
children and _especially over her sons_. But to obtain that,
she needs not only goodness, tenderness, and patience, but
reason, reflection, good sense, and enlightenment. To obtain
these, real instruction, attentive study, serious education are
necessary.
{38}
But there are few women who are capable of rendering solid
service to their husbands and children.
"As a usual thing," wrote to me a woman of the world, of very
general interests, but exceedingly intelligent--"as a usual thing
we know nothing, absolutely nothing. We can talk only about
dress, fashions, or steeple-chases--nonsense all of them! A woman
knows who are the famous actors and horses of the day; she knows
by heart the _personnel_ of the opera and the Variétés; the
stud-book is more familiar to her than the _Imitation_; last
year she voted for _La Tonque_, this year for
_Vermouth_, and gravely assures us that _Bois-Roussel_
is full of promise; the grand Derby drives her wild, and the
triumph of _Fille de l'Air_ seems to her a national victory.
She can tell who are the best dressmakers, what saddler is most
in vogue, what shop is most frequented. She can weigh the
respective merits of the equipages of Comte de la Grange, Duc de
Morny, and M. Delamarre. But, alas! turn the conversation to a
matter of history or geography; speak of the middle ages, the
crusades, the institutions of Charlemagne or St. Louis; compare
Bossuet with Corneille, Racine with Fênélon; utter the names of
Camoëns or Dante, of Royer-Collard, Frédéric Ozanam, Comte de
Montalembert, or Père Gratry; the poor thing is struck dumb. She
can only amuse young women and frivolous young men; incapable of
talking of business, art, politics, agriculture, or science, she
cannot converse with her father-in-law, with the curé, or any
other sensible man. And yet it is a woman's first talent to be
able to converse with every one. If her mother-in-law visits
schools and poor people, and wishes to enroll her in charitable
associations, she understands neither their aim nor their
importance, for compassion and kindness of heart do not suffice
in a certain class for the execution of good works. To acquire
influence and give to a benefit its true worth, its whole moral
significance, one needs an intelligence only to be acquired by
study and attentive reflection."
And, now, I must go further, and indicate the fatal results of
the present condition of things to domestic life, to society, and
to religion; and I will tell the entire truth.
I know, I have seen, and thanked God in seeing, the sway
exercised in her family by a Christian wife and mother; the
pursuits introduced under her guidance; the ideas, at first
indignantly rejected, adopted to please her; thoughts of
religion, of charity, of devotion, resignation, and forgiveness;
but more rarely, I must confess, principles of industry.
It is a painful fact that education, not excepting religious
education, rarely gives a serious taste for study to young girls
or young women. Envoys from God to the domestic hearth, guardians
of the holy traditions of faith, honor, and loyalty, women, even
devout Christian women, seem to be the adversaries of work
whether for their husbands or their children, but especially for
their sons. I have seen women who found it difficult not to
regard the time given to study as stolen from them. Is this for
want of intelligence or aptitude? I think not. I attribute this
prejudice, first, to the education we give them, light,
frivolous, and superficial, if not absolutely false; and,
secondly, to the part assigned to them in the world, and the
place reserved for them in families, and even in some Christian
families.
{39}
We do not wish women to study; they do not wish those about them
to study. We do not like to see them employed; they do not like
to see others employed, and they succeed only too well in
preventing their husbands and children from working. This is an
immense misfortune, a most fatal influence. It is useless to say
to men, "Work, accept offices, occupy your time." While women
seek to destroy the effect of our advice, it will never produce
results. So long as mothers advise their daughters not to marry
men in office; so long as the young wife uses her whole art to
disgust her husband with employment, and the young mother fails
to inculcate in her children the necessity of self-culture, of
training the mind and talents as one cultivates a precious plant,
so long will the law of labor remain, with rare exceptions,
unobserved.
In the present stage of customs and manners, home life being what
it is, women only can effectively protect a spirit of industry;
make it habitual; inculcate, foster, facilitate, and even enforce
it upon those around them; early preparing the way for it,
rendering it possible and easy, according to it esteem,
encouragement, and admiration.
Now, on the contrary, children are placed as soon as possible
_en pension_; that is the word; or for the boys a tutor is
appointed, for the girls a governess. The mother, out of love of
amusement, deprives herself as early as possible of the supreme
happiness of bestowing upon her children the first gleam of
intellectual and spiritual life--she who gave them corporeal
existence. The children then go to college or to a convent, and
what becomes the mother's chief care? That they should not work
too hard! If there is a tutor or governess, the case is far
worse. The mother often appears to be the born adversary of both,
bent upon finding fault, upon alienating her children from them,
and extorting privileges, walks, exemptions, and incessant
interruptions. The only dream of this weak and blind mother, her
only idea of _occupation_ for her son, is to plan hunting
parties for him, gatherings of young people, hippodromes, plays,
watering-places, and balls, where she follows him with her eyes,
enchanted with his triumphs in society, which should perhaps
rather make her sigh. No longer daring to be vain for herself,
she is vain for him. What defects does she blame? An ungraceful
gesture, an unrefined expression, or the omission of some
courtesy. She never says to him: "Aim at higher things; cultivate
your mind; learn to think, to know men, things, yourself; become
a distinguished man; serve your country; make for yourself a
name, unless you have one already, and in that case be worthy to
bear it."
Few mothers give such counsel to their children--still less,
young wives to their husbands. They seem to marry in order to run
about in search of amusement or of the principle of perpetual
motion. Country places, city life, baths, watering-places, the
turf, balls, concerts, and morning calls leave not a moment's
rest for them day or night. Willingly or unwillingly, the husband
must share this restlessness. He yawns frequently, scolds
sometimes, but no matter for that; he must yield, longing for the
blessed moment when he can shake off the yoke and take refuge at
his club. The young wife employs every gift of art and nature,
everything that God bestowed upon her for better purposes, grace,
beauty, sweetness, address, fascination, to make him yield. Oh!
that she would employ half these providential resources to prove
to her husband that she would be proud to be the wife of a
distinguished man; that she longs to see him cultivated, clever,
worthy of his name, worthy one day to be held up as an example to
his son; to persuade him either to take some office, or to live
upon his estates and exercise a righteous influence, protecting
elective places, gaining the confidence and esteem of his
fellow-citizens, setting a noble example, and thus serving God
and society!
{40}
But far from behaving thus, if the poor husband ventures to take
up a book and seek repose from the whirlwind he is condemned to
live in, madam makes a little face, (considered bewitching at
twenty, but one day to be pronounced insufferable;) she flutters
about the literary man, the rhetorician, the scholar, retires to
put on her hat, comes back, seats herself, springs up again,
flits back and forth before the mirror, takes her gloves, and
finally bursts out into execrations against books and reading,
which are good for nothing except to making a man stupid and
preoccupied. For the sake of peace the husband throws down his
book, loses the habit of reading, suffers gradual annihilation by
a conjugal process, and, having failed to raise his companion to
his own level, sinks to hers.
Here we have a deplorable vicious circle. So long as women know
nothing, they will prefer unoccupied men; and so long as men
remain idle, they will prefer ignorant and frivolous women. Men
in office are no less persecuted than others. Many women torment
a magistrate, a lawyer, a notary, making them fail in exactitude
and in application to business, instead of encouraging a strict
and complete fulfilment of duty. They consider punctuality a bore
and assiduity insufferable. When they succeed in accomplishing
the neglect of an appointment or of some important occupation,
one would think they had achieved a victory. The case is worse
still for certain careers generally adopted by rich men or by
those whose families were formerly wealthy, such as the army and
navy. An officer must remain unmarried, or marry a girl without
fortune. Otherwise, in discussing the marriage, the first thing
demanded is a resignation. Every young lady of independent
fortune wishes her husband to _do nothing_. In view of this
ignorant prejudice, this conjugal ostracism, even sensible
mothers hesitate about recommending their sons to adopt careers
which will make marriage possible to them only at the expense of
a noble fortune; or else they say in words too often heard: "My
son will serve for a few years, and then resign. A married man
_cannot pursue a career_."
And young men are asked to work with this perspective before
them! How can one love a position which is to be abandoned on
such or such a day in accordance with a caprice? What zeal, what
emulation, what ambition can a man have who is to leave the
service at twenty-five or twenty-eight years of age, when he is
perhaps captain of artillery or lieutenant of a ship, that is to
say, when he has worked his way through the difficulties that
beset every career at its outset?
I have known mothers fairly reduced to despair at seeing a son,
just on the point of attaining an elevated position, forced to
renounce the thought merely in accordance with the
_exigence_ of a young girl and the blindness of her mother,
who ought to foresee and dread the inevitable regrets and
inconveniences of idleness succeeding to the charm of an occupied
life, of the monotony of a _tête-à-tête_ coming after the
excitements of Solferino, or the perpetual _qui vive_ of our
Algerian garrisons, or the adventurous and almost constantly
heroic life of the navy.
{41}
It is the duty of an intelligent Christian wife or mother to
point out the dangers of idleness and stultification; the social
and intellectual suicide resulting from standing aloof from every
office and all occupation; the political and religious necessity
of occupying responsible places, distinguishing one's self in
them, and holding them permanently in order to exercise one's
influence in favor of morals and religion. This is a vital matter
which will never be understood until mothers teach it with the
catechism to their little children. This is the commentary which
every mother and every catechist must give, in explaining the
important chapter on sloth, one of the seven deadly sins. And the
same ideas must be inculcated in instructing their daughters
until they are twenty years old; teaching them to be reasonable
and capable, showing them the evil consequences of idleness in a
young husband, the difficulty of amusing him all day long, of
pleasing without wearying him, of averting _ennui_,
ill-humor, and monotony. And let the teacher never fail to add
the truth so often proved that it is impossible to induce a son
to work after having dissuaded his father from working. Of
course, there are moments of pain in an occupied life. It is hard
to see a husband embark for two or three years, going perhaps to
Sebastopol or to Kabylia. But it is sadder still to see a husband
bored to death, and thinking his wife tedious, his home
unbearable, his affairs drudgery; and this is not uncommon. I
have heard wives who had consented to necessary separations say
that the trial had its compensations; that the consciousness of
duty fulfilled was a source of inestimable satisfaction; that the
agony was followed by a joy that obliterated the memory of
suffering; that as the time of return drew near, as the regiment
or the ship appeared in sight, they experienced a happiness
unknown to other women. It must be so; God leaves nothing
unrewarded; every sacrifice has its compensation, every wound its
balm. I am told that the most admirable households are to be
found in our seaport towns, our great manufacturing centres, and
even in our large garrison towns in spite of the bustle,
agitation, and dissipation reigning there. I can easily believe
this--every one is busy in such places. A husband who has spent
the day in barrack or factory (still more, one who has been at
sea a long time) thirsts for home, longs to be again by his own
hearth, enjoying domestic life. The wife on her side, separated
for several hours from her husband, reserves for him her most
cheerful mood and her pleasantest smile. She saves him from the
thousand annoyances of the day, the household perplexities, the
little embarrassments of life, the children's romping. The little
ones run to meet their father, and recreate him after his work
with caresses and prattle. This is the way in which men enjoy
children; as a necessity of every day and all day, they dread
them.
But without rising so high, I ask simply what can be more
agreeable, even for a husband who spends his life in hunting or
anywhere else out of his own house, than to find on coming home
his wife cheerful and good-tempered, because after getting him a
good dinner she has amused herself with painting a pretty
picture, or studying with genuine interest a little natural
history, or trying some experiment in domestic chemistry, or even
solving a problem in _géométrie agricole_, instead of
finding her languid and melancholy, a _femme incomprise_,
with some novel or another in her hand.
{42}
If I persist in preaching industry to men and women, it is for
very urgent reasons, not only domestic and political, but social.
Who does not see that we verge on socialism at present? The
masses will not work, they detest labor. Salaries have been
raised again and again; for many trades they go beyond necessity,
and so the workman, instead of giving six days in the week to his
trade, gives but four, three, or even two days. It is for the
higher classes who are supposed to understand their duties and to
feel the import of their responsibilities, it is for them to
reinstate labor in popular estimation. In this as in all other
things, example must come from above; for here, as in religion
and morals, the higher classes owe to society and to their
country some expiation. The eighteenth century, with its
corruptions, its scandals, and its irreligion, hangs upon us with
the weight of a satanic heritage. Like original sin, these errors
have been washed in blood; it is the history of all great errors.
It remains for us to expiate the idleness, the inaction,
inutility, annihilation to which we have hitherto surrendered
ourselves, setting a fatal example to those around us.
Our generation must be steeped in labor. There and only there is
to be found our safety, and mothers must be convinced of this
truth. The mother is the centre of home, everything radiates from
her--on one condition, that she is a mother worthy of the name
and mission--and such mothers are rare.
We know what is in general the education of women. Add to it the
indulgence and weakness of parents, the species of idolatry they
have for their daughters, the premature pleasures lavished upon
young girls, the pains taken to praise them, to adorn them from
their earliest infancy, and afterward to show them off and make
them shine in a sort of matrimonial exhibition. How can we hope
to find earnest mothers of families among those whose youth has
been spent in balls, _fetes_, and morning visits? Alas! it
is not possible. Reasonable ideas rarely come to them until age
or misfortune has withdrawn their surest means of influence.
And the greatest sufferers from this calamity are society and
religion; it cannot be otherwise. A little drawing, a little more
music, enough grammar and orthography to pass muster, sufficient
history and geography to know Gibraltar from the Himalaya and to
recognize Cyrus as King of Persia, but not enough to avenge noble
memories outraged or to rectify erroneous estimates; of foreign
languages a slight smattering, enough to enable one to read
English and German novels, but not to appreciate the glorious
pages of Shakespeare, Milton, or Klopstock; no literature,
nothing of our great authors, unless a few fables of La Fontaine
and perhaps a chorus out of Esther learned in childhood; of
religious knowledge a sufficiency to allow of being admitted to
first communion, not enough to answer the most vulgar objections,
the most notorious calumnies, not enough to understand one's
position and duties, to impose silence on the detractors of
religion, or the adversaries of reason and Christian evidence, to
refute the grossest sophistry, to lead back to faith and holy
practices a young husband or perhaps an aged father; with such an
education what influence can a young woman exercise?
If the poor young creature so insufficiently prepared by
education never reads, or reads only romances, where will she
find arms to defend her against error and blasphemy? In spite of
sincere piety, she must, useless and timid soldier that she is,
desert the holy cause of God and truth for fear of compromising
it by an ignorant defence.
{43}
And yet it is a noble cause, and one that belongs especially to
her, for it is the cause of the weak and defenceless, and only
asks in its service a sincere conviction, a devout heart, and a
little knowledge. But the knowledge is wanting. Because she has
acquired neither a habit of reflection nor of seeking in good
books necessary information, she must be silent, and, while God
and his faith are outraged in her presence with impunity, drop
her eyes upon her worsted work and sigh.
Yes, sigh--that is right; and sigh not only for the poor men who
read such wretched books and intoxicate themselves with vile
poisons, but also for the fact that there is no one to open their
eyes, to lead these misled hearts back into the right path, or,
at least, to excite a doubt in their perverted minds and warped
consciences; no mother, sister, daughter, wife, no intelligent,
enlightened, educated woman to fulfil woman's essential mission.
No one else can do the work. If women are not the first apostles
of the home circle, no one else can penetrate it. But they must
render themselves thoroughly capable of fulfilling their
apostleship. Nowadays, when all the world reasons or rather
cavils, when everything is discussed and proved, when even light
and life must be demonstrated, it is necessary that women should
participate in the general movement. To speak without reserve--in
the face of a masculine generation who graft on to the
_hauteurs_ which especially belong to them feminine
indifference, affectation, idleness, frivolity, and
weakness--women must show themselves serious, thoughtful, firm,
and courageous. When men copy their defects, it behooves them to
borrow a few manly virtues. "It is time," nobly says M. Caro,
"that minds possessed of any intellectual claims awoke to full
vitality. Let every being endowed with reason learn to protect
himself against literary evil-doers and to repulse their attacks
upon God, soul, virtue, purity, and faith."
To Be Continued.
--------
In Memoriam.
When souls like thine rise up and leave
This Earth's dark prison-place,
'Tis foolishness to grieve:
Or think thou dost thy life regret,
And would return if God would let
Thy feet their steps retrace.
'Tis he who ends thy banishment,
And by an angel's hand has sent
A merciful reprieve.
--------
{44}
The Early Christian Schools and Scholars. [Footnote 7]
[Footnote 7: _Christian Schools and Scholars_; or,
Sketches of Education from the Christian Era to the Council
of Trent. By the author of _The Three Chancellors_, etc.
Two vol. London: Longmans, Green & Co.]
The history of the schools and scholars of the early ages of the
church is not only interesting as forming an important chapter in
the history of the church itself, but is full of most remarkable
facts and valuable suggestions bearing on the as yet apparently
unsolved problem of education. It is replete with matter well
worthy the profound attention of all who consider the proper
training of youth one of the gravest and most important of public
questions; and one which, in this age of advanced enlightenment,
still remains the subject of many crude and conflicting opinions.
Not only do we recommend its perusal to the Catholic teacher, who
is manfully overcoming the peculiar obstacles presented in our
unsettled community, as a source of consolation and
encouragement; but we call it to the notice of those gentlemen
who spend so much of their time during summer vacations debating
on the quantity and quality of discipline necessary to enforce
the time-honored authority of the teacher, and in endeavoring to
define the exact minimum of moral training required to be
administered to the secular student to fit him for the proper
discharge of the duties of life. We do this in all sincerity; for
with this latter class of persons we are not inclined to find too
much fault. Many of them are men of intelligence and good
intentions; but, groping as they are in utter darkness, and
bringing to their deliberations a lamentable ignorance of the
essential principles of Christian education, it is not wonderful
that their counsels should be divided, and their labors as
unprofitable as that of Sisyphus. Disguise it as we may, it
cannot be doubted that the state colleges and schools of our
country, after a very fair trial, have not answered the
expectations of even those who profess themselves their warmest
admirers. There is a feeling in the public mind, as yet partially
expressed, that there is something lacking in our method of
dealing with the ever-constant flood of young hearts and minds
which is daily looking to us for direction and guidance. It is
becoming more and more painfully apparent that the mere intellect
of the children who attend our public institutions is stimulated
into unnatural and unhealthy activity, while their moral nature
is left wholly uncultivated and undeveloped. Conducted, as such
institutions must necessarily be, by persons unqualified or
unauthorized to administer moral instruction, it cannot, of
course, be expected that the souls for a time entrusted to their
care can be fortified by wise counsels and that moral discipline
which was considered in past ages and in all nations as the
fundamental basis of all Christian education.
Even in a worldly sense, it ought to be a source of our greatest
solicitude that the generation which is to hold the honor and
integrity of the nation in its keeping should be schooled in the
principles of justice and rectitude upon which all true
individual and national greatness must depend. If, then, we have
exhausted the wisdom of the present, with all its examples before
our eyes, to no good purpose, let us turn reverently to the
experience of the past, and see if we cannot find something fit
for meditation in the varied pages of the history of the
Christian church, in her struggles against ignorance and false
philosophy.
{45}
From the very beginning the church had to contend against three
distinct elements, positively or negatively, opposed to her
teachings. In the East, as then known, what was called the Greek
civilization, superimposed on the Roman, denied all particular
gods while worshipping many, and culminated either in refined
atheism or the deification of man himself: proud of its
disputants, its arts and literature, it affected to feel, and
perhaps actually felt, a contempt for the simple doctrines of
Christianity, accompanied, as they were, by self-denial, poverty,
and lowliness. Over continental Europe and many of its islands
the wave of Roman conquest had swept irresistibly and receded
reluctantly, leaving behind it the sediment of an intelligence
which served only to nourish the latent weeds of ignorance and
paganism; while in the far West existed a people with a peculiar
and, in its way, a high order of civilization, untouched, it is
true, by Roman or Greek pantheism, but completely shut out from
the light of the gospel.
To overcome the scattered and diversified opposition thus
presented, to overturn false gods and uproot false opinions, to
bend the stubborn neck of the barbarian beneath the yoke of
Christian meekness, and to mould whatever was brilliant and
intellectual in mankind to the service of the true God, was the
task assumed by the church through the means of education.
During the first three centuries of our era schools were
established at Alexandria, Jerusalem, Edessa, Antioch, and other
centres of Eastern wealth and learning; of these, that at
Alexandria, founded by St. Mark, A.D. 60, was the most
celebrated, and had for its teachers and scholars some of the
most learned men of the period. They were catechetical in their
nature, and at first were confined to oral instructions on the
chief articles of the faith and the nature of the sacraments; but
in process of time their sphere of usefulness was greatly
enlarged, and the character of the studies pursued in them
assumed a wider and higher tone, till not only dogmatic theology
and Christian ethics, but human sciences and profane literature,
were freely taught. Thus we read that, toward the close of the
second century, St. Pantaeus, a converted Stoic of great
erudition, and Clement of Alexandria, who is said to have
"visited all lands and studied in all schools in search of
truth," taught in the school of St. Mark, with an eloquence so
convincing, and a knowledge of Grecian philosophy so thorough,
that multitudes of Gentiles flocked to hear them, astonished to
find the doctrines of the new faith expounded in the polished
language of Cicero, and the very logic of Aristotle turned
against the pantheistic philosophy of Greece. Their successor,
the celebrated Origen, whose reputation has outlived all the
attacks of time, in a letter to his friend St. Gregory, gives us
some idea of the course of instruction pursued in his time, in
this school, in regard to the study of the human sciences. "They
are to be used," he writes, "so that they may contribute to the
understanding of the Scriptures; for just as philosophers are
accustomed to say that geometry, music, grammar, rhetoric, and
astronomy, all dispose us to the study of philosophy, so we may
say that philosophy, rightly studied, disposes us to the study of
Christianity.
{46}
We are permitted, when we go out of Egypt, to carry with us the
riches of the Egyptians wherewith to adorn the tabernacle; only
let us beware how we reverse the process, and leave Israel to go
down into Egypt and seek for treasure; that is what Jeroboam did
in olden time, and what heretics do in our own." Here we find
expressed, at so early a day, the beautiful idea of the church
respecting education; that enduring pyramid which she would build
up, whose base is human science, and whose apex is the knowledge
of God.
The episcopal seminaries, intended exclusively for the training
of ecclesiastics, were coeval with, if not anterior to, the
catechetical schools, for we find the germ of the system in the
very earliest apostolic times. They originally formed but part of
the bishops' households; and the students were taught by him
personally, or by his deputy. When the community life became more
general and the number of ecclesiastical pupils increased, the
seminaries assumed more extensive proportions, the school being
held in the church attached to the bishop's house, but the
scholars still living under his roof. Great care was always
manifested by the early fathers of the church in the moral and
intellectual training of ecclesiastical students. Thus, Pope St.
Siricius, in his decretal, A.D. 385, to the Bishop of Tarragona,
lays down the following rules to be observed in preparing
candidates for the priesthood. He orders that they shall be
selected principally from those who have been devoted to the
service of the church from childhood. At thirty years of age they
are to be advanced through inferior orders to subdiaconate and
diaconate, and after five years thus spent they may be ordained
priests. In several provincial councils held in the early
centuries we find the greatest stress laid on the importance of
the careful culture of seminarians, and the second council of
Toledo, A.D. 531, fixes the ordination of subdeacons at twenty,
and of deacons at twenty-five years of age. As to the course of
studies pursued, besides the reading of the Scriptures, the
Psalter, and a knowledge of the duties of the holy offices,
Latin, Greek, and generally Hebrew were taught, together with the
liberal sciences, and sometimes even law and medicine.
Thus did the church gradually but firmly lay the foundation of
her system. First, by giving to the adult neophyte such
instruction as befitted his age and condition, to enable him to
become a worthy member of her fold; and next, by providing, under
the direct inspection of each bishop, a school where children,
disciplined in his household, taught from his mouth and by his
example lessons of piety, humility and self-control, and armed
with all the resources of sacred and profane learning, were at
mature years sent forth to convert a gentile world, and in turn
become teachers of men.
While the catechetical schools were flourishing in the East and
the episcopal seminaries assuming form in Spain and Gaul, the
bloody persecutions which prevailed intermittingly at Rome
retarded for a long time education in that city. Many of her
first citizens, it is true, regardless alike of family
considerations and imperial edicts, were to be daily found by the
side of her humblest bondmen, listening, through the gloom of the
catacombs, to the teachings of the gospel; and to this day their
places can be pointed out beside the rough hewn seat of their
teachers. The Roman pontiffs also labored in their own dwellings
to educate their young priests, many of whom, like St.
Felicitanus, passed only from their care to testify their
devotion to the faith by a glorious martyrdom.
{47}
When the Emperor Constantine was converted, the palace of the
_Laterni_ became the residence of the popes, and here was
established the Patriarchium, or seminary, which for several
centuries gave so many distinguished occupants to the chair of
Peter. The schools of the empire were also thrown open to the
Christians, who largely availed themselves of their superior
advantages to become acquainted with the old authors. But the
professors of the imperial academies were but semi-christianized,
and, though conforming outwardly to the new order of things, they
retained not a little of their old ideas and customs. Hence, we
find a variety of opinions entertained by contemporary
authorities as to the propriety of Christians studying in them.
In most cases, however, where the danger of contamination was not
imminent, or where, as in the case of Victorinus, the
academicians were _bona-fidè_ Christians, the practice was
permitted, so eager were the fathers to encourage learning.
Tertullian was of opinion that, while Christians could not
lawfully teach in the schools with pagans, they might be
listeners, without, however, taking part in idolatrous
ceremonies. St. Basil, who studied for a time in them, and who
was a devoted lover of classical learning, entertained much the
same views, comparing the student to a bee who sucks honey out of
the poisoned flower. St. Chrysostom, who cannot be accused of any
antipathy to education in all its most elegant branches, but who
had in his own person experienced the dangers which beset the
young Christian in the academies, after great deliberation, and
with evident reluctance, decided against the public schools as
then conducted. His words have a significant sound, even in these
days. He writes:
"If you have masters among you who can answer for the virtue of
your children, I should be very far from advocating your
sending them to a monastery. On the contrary, I should strongly
insist on them remaining where they are. But, if no one can
give such a guarantee, we ought not to send our children to
schools where they will learn vice before they learn science,
and where, in acquiring learning of relatively small value,
they will lose what is far more precious, their integrity of
soul. ... 'Are we, then, to give up literature?' you will
exclaim. I do not say that; but I do say that we must not kill
souls. ... When the foundations of a building are sapped, we
should seek rather for architects to reconstruct the whole
edifice, than for artists to adorn the walls. In fact, the
choice lies between two alternatives a liberal education, which
you may get by sending your children to the public schools, or
the salvation of their souls, which you secure by sending them
to the monks. Which is to gain the day, science or the soul? If
you can unite both advantages, do so, by all means; but, if
not, choose the most precious."
The character of the academies must have soon changed for the
better; for, when Julian some time after closed them to the
Christians, ostensibly with a view to the purity of morals, but
actually to deprive Christian students of the benefit of any
education, St. Gregory, who quickly saw through the Apostate's
designs, protested in the strongest terms against the injustice.
"For my part," he says, "I trust that every one who cares for
learning will take part in my indignation. I leave to others
fortune, birth, and every other fancied good which can flatter
the imagination of man.
{48}
I value only science and letters, and regret no labor that I have
spent in their acquisition. I have preferred, and ever shall
prefer, learning to all earthly riches, and hold nothing dearer
on earth next to the joys of heaven and the hopes of eternity."
The decree was afterward revoked by the Emperor Valentinian at
the request of St. Ambrose, and the academies gradually fell into
decay; and, growing dim in the light of the new Christian
foundations of other countries, finally ceased to be objects of
discussion.
Perhaps the greatest good that resulted from the evils complained
of by St. Chrysostom was the establishment of the Benedictine
order; an organization destined to exercise for centuries a
controlling influence over the educational system of Christendom.
In the year A.D. 522, a poor solitary named Benedict, while
engaged at his devotions in the grotto of Subiaco, was visited by
two Roman senators, who desired him to take charge of the
education of their sons, Maurus and Placidus. He consented, and
other children of the same rank, whose parents feared the
contagion of the imperial schools, were soon after placed in his
care. For their government he established a rule, and from this
apparently slight foundation sprang the numberless monasteries
which were the custodians and dispensaries of learning in the
middle ages. In 543, St. Maurus carried the Benedictine rule into
Gaul, where under his charge and that of his successors
monasteries multiplied with great rapidity. We have seen that at
first this illustrious order was designed only for the education
of the children of the rich, who were to be instructed "_non
solum in Scripturis divinas, sed etiam in secularibus
litteris;_" but so great did its reputation become that, in a
short time, we find the doors of its schools thrown open to all
classes.
It was not, however, in the polished circles of the cities of
Greece and her colonies, nor even in the future centre of
Christendom, that the church was destined to achieve her most
substantial triumphs. The civilization of the East, long in a
state of decay, waned with the decline of the Empire, and its
opulent cities and elaborate literature became part of the
_débris_ of the colossal ruins of that once stupendous
power. The soil in which the seeds of education had been planted
by St. Mark and St. Basil, Origen and Cassian, was already
exhausted, and incapable of producing those hardy plants and
gigantic trees which defy time and corruption. We must,
therefore, look to Western Europe as the proper field wherein
were to be sown the germs of a more enduring growth.
The monastic system, more or less defined, was introduced into
Gaul long before the advent of St. Maurus, and the education, not
only of monks, was attended to with care, but of the laity also.
From the earliest times we find traces of the exterior schools
attached to the monasteries for the training of children not
intended for a clerical life. The rules of Saints Pachominus and
Basil, then generally followed, were careful to provide that
children should be taught to read and write, and instructed in
psalmody and such portions of the Holy Scriptures as were suited
to their comprehension. They were to live in the monastery and be
allowed to sit at table with the monks, who were strictly
cautioned not to do or say anything that could disedify their
young minds. With a tenderness truly paternal, the young scholars
were allowed a separate part of the building for themselves, and
plenty of time for amusement.
{49}
On the subject of punishment, we recommend the following advice
of St. Basil to modern teachers, believing that juvenile human
nature is much the same now as it was sixteen or seventeen
centuries ago. "Let every fault have its own remedy," says this
experienced teacher, "so that, while the offence is punished, the
soul may be exercised to conquer its passions. For example: Has a
child been angry with his companion? Oblige him to beg pardon of
the other and to do him some humble service; for it is by
accustoming him to humility that you will eradicate anger, which
is always the offspring of pride. Has he eaten out of meals? Let
him remain fasting for a good part of the day. Has he eaten to
excess and in an unbecoming manner? At the hour of repast, let
him, without eating himself, watch others taking their food in a
modest manner, and so he will be learning how to behave at the
same time that he is being punished by his abstinence. And if he
has offended by idle words, by rudeness, or by telling lies, let
him be corrected by diet and silence."
The early Gallican bishops showed as great a desire to encourage
learning among their clergy as did those of Spain, and were never
tired of enforcing the necessity of the attentive study of the
Scriptures and the cultivation of letters, even in religious
houses occupied by women. The result of this zealous spirit is to
be found in the establishment of the schools of Tours and Lyons,
Grinni and Vienne, the abbey of Marmontier and the more famous
one of Lerins, which produced thousands of missionaries, and such
scholars as Apollinaris of Lyons, Maumertius, the author of
_The Nature of the Soul_, and the poets, Saints Prosper and
Avitus. The "Academy of Toulouse," of disputatious memory, is
claimed to have had a very ancient origin, but was probably not
in existence until the sixth century.
But the first period of literary culture on the continent of
Europe was fast drawing to a close. At the end of the fifth
century heresy and schism; the converted Ostrogoths of Northern
Italy were subdued by the semi-paganized Lombards; the Roman
empire existed but in name; and civil war broke out in Gaul,
desolating her fields and laying in ruins her churches and
schools. Darkness succeeded light, and anarchy and barbarism
prevailed on both sides of the Alps. But the cause of Christian
learning was not lost. Driven from the mainland, the Christian
scholars had already taken refuge in the adjacent islands, where
they rekindled their torches, and kept them burning with an
effulgence unknown in the palaces of kings or the schools of the
empire. The providence of God, which permitted the ravages of war
and heresy to prevail for a time in Gaul, Spain, and Italy,
ordained that a newer and more secure asylum should be provided
for the handmaid of the faith, whence were to issue, when the
storm passed over, of hosts of zealous and learned men to
reconquer for the church her desolated and darkened dominions.
Ireland and England were destined to be this asylum, and, even
humanly speaking, no choice could have been more propitious. The
qualities which distinguished the people of these islands, and
which characterize them even at this day, admirably adapted them
for missionary life. The Anglo-Saxon genius, mollified by contact
with the more imaginative mind of the Briton, developed a strong,
unconquerable will, great tenacity of purpose, vast powers of
cooperation, and a capacity for solid attainments; while the
Celts of the sister island, who had never known a conqueror,
exhibited the indomitable zeal of a free-born people united to an
insatiable love of learning and fine arts, and a subtility of
mind which easily grasped the most beautiful and abstruse dogmas
of Christian philosophy.
{50}
The earliest monastic schools of England were destroyed by the
Saxon invaders about the middle of the fifth century, and what
remained of their teachers were driven with the remnant of the
Britons into the mountains of Wales. Yet even before the invasion
many of her youth found their way to the continent, and there
obtaining an education, returned to their native country to teach
their compatriots. Thus St. Ninian, who had studied at Rome under
Pope St. Siricius and had visited Tours, established his
episcopal seminary and a school for the neighboring children at
Witherne, in Galloway, about the beginning of that century. He
was, says his biographer, St. Aelred, "assiduous in reading." St.
Germanus of Auxerre and St. Lupus of Troyes followed in 429, and
established at Caerleon, the capital of the Britons, seminaries
and schools, in which they lectured on the Scriptures and the
liberal arts. Stimulated by their example, monastic schools
sprang rapidly into existence, the most successful of which were
those at Hentland; Laudwit, among whose first scholars was the
historian Gildas; Bangor on the Dee, in which, according to Bede,
there were over two thousand students; Whitland, where St. David
studied; and Llancarvan, founded by St. Cadoc. This latter saint
was educated by an Irish recluse named Fathai, who was induced to
leave his hermitage in the mountains to take charge of the school
of Gwent, in Monmouthshire.
We must not be surprised to find an Irish teacher at that early
period in Wales; for already the wonderful exodus of Irish
missionaries and teachers had commenced. The twenty years'
missionary labors of St. Patrick and his disciples had literally
converted the entire people of Ireland, and, following the
lessons taught him at Tours, Rome, and Lerins, that saint studded
the island with seminaries and monastic schools. His own, at
Armagh, founded A.D. 455, doubtless formed the model upon which
the others were built. "Within a century after the death of St.
Patrick," says Bishop Nicholson, "the Irish seminaries had so
increased that most parts of Europe sent their children to be
educated there, and drew thence their bishops and teachers." So
numerous, indeed, were the schools of Ireland founded by the
successors of St. Patrick that it is impossible even to enumerate
their names in the limits of an article. The most celebrated were
those of Armagh, which at one time furnished education to seven
thousand pupils; Lismore; Cashel; Aran, "the Holy;" Clonard, the
_alma mater_ of Columba the Great; Conmacnois; Benchor, of
which St. Bernard speaks in such terms of admiration; and
Clonfert, founded by St. Brendan the navigator. When we remember
the disturbed condition of the continent during the sixth and
seventh centuries, and the almost profound peace which prevailed
in Ireland during that time, we cease to be astonished at the
influx of foreigners which thronged her schools. St. AEngus
mentions the names of Gauls, Romans, Germans, and even Egyptians
who visited her shore; and St. Aldhelm of Westminster, in the
seventh century, rather petulantly complains of his countrymen
neglecting their own schools for those of Ireland. "Nowadays," he
remarks, "the renown of the Irish is so great that one sees them
daily going or returning; and crowds flock over to their island
to gather up, not merely the liberal arts and physical sciences,
but also the four senses of Holy Scripture and the allegorical
and tropological interpretation of its sacred oracles."
{51}
As to the course of study pursued in the Irish monastic schools,
there is reason to believe that not only were theology, grammar,
that is, languages, and the physical sciences taught, but poetry
and music also received special attention. The bardic order were
the first to embrace Christianity, and their love for those two
beautiful arts was proverbial. Latin and Hebrew were studied, but
the sonorous language of Homer and Cicero seems to have been most
in favor, probably on account of its remarkable resemblance, in
euphony at least, to the vernacular Gaelic. Mathematics and
astronomy ranked first on the list of the sciences, and
geography, as far as then known, must have been familiar to St.
Brendan and his adventurous companions.
But, as we have said, the missionary labors of the Irish had
already commenced. Obedient to a law beyond human control, the
pent-up zeal of the people had burst its boundaries and
overflowed Europe. Of the devoted men destined to roll back the
tide of paganism, the first in point of greatness, if not in
time, was St. Columba, the founder of the schools of Iona, A.D.
563. Amid all the Irish missionaries, this saint stands out in
the boldest relief. Of proud lineage and dauntless spirit,
passionately fond of books, yet sharing willingly with his monks
the toils of the field, we fancy we can almost see his tall,
austere figure stalking amid the unknown and unheeded perils of
the barbarous Hebrides and the mountains of North Britain, with
his staff and book, overawing hostile chiefs and princes by his
very presence, and winning the hearts of the humble shepherds by
his sweet voice and gentle demeanor. "He suffered no space of
time," says Adamnan, "no, not an hour to pass, in which he was
not employed either in prayer, or in reading or writing, or
manual work."
Leaving Ireland forging the weapons of spiritual and intellectual
combat, and the Albanian Scots to the care of Columba and his
monks, we turn again to England, which, with the exception of
Wales, was up to the end of the sixth century sunk in the
grossest paganism. In the year 596, when, to use the words of
Pope Gregory, "all Europe was in the hands of the barbarians,"
that pontiff conceived the idea of converting the Saxons of
England. He accordingly despatched St. Augustine and some monks
from Monte Cassino, lately reduced to ruins. St. Augustine
brought with him a Bible, a psalter, the gospels, an apocryphal
lives of the apostles, a martyrology, and the exposition of
certain epistles and gospels, besides sacred vessels, vestments,
church ornaments, and holy relics. He forthwith established a
seminary and school at Canterbury, which afterward attained great
celebrity. But the schools of Lindisfarne, founded by St. Aiden,
A.D. 635, eclipsed all lesser luminaries. Aiden was a worthy
descendant of Columba, and brought to his task all the learning
and discipline of Iona. "All who bore company with Aiden," says
the Venerable Bede, "whether monks or laymen, were employed
either in studying the Scriptures or in singing psalms. This was
his own daily employment wherever he went." In the south of
England, Maidulf, also an Irish missionary, founded the schools
of Malmsbury; Wilfred, a student of Lindisfarne, the abbey and
school of Ripon, introducing the Benedictine rule into England;
while Archbishop Theodore, a native of Tarsis, and Adrian,
described as a "fountain of letters and a river of arts,"' gave a
wonderful impetus to the study of letters in Canterbury.
{52}
These latter added to St. Augustine's library the works of St.
Chrysostom, the history of Josephus, and a copy of Homer. The
studies pursued at Canterbury consisted of theology, Latin and
Greek, geometry, arithmetic, music, mechanics, astronomy, and
astrology. The most illustrious pupil of the early schools of
Canterbury were St. Aldhelm, who was thoroughly familiar with the
classical authors, himself a writer of no mean order, and who
afterward became teacher at Malmsbury; St. Bennet Biscop, who
founded schools at Monk Wearmouth, Yarrow, and various other
places, endowing them with valuable books which he had collected
on the continent. He first introduced the use of glass in
England.
In the school at Yarrow, Bede commenced his studies. This
extraordinary man, besides attending to his duties as a
missionary and teacher, found time to compose forty-five books on
the most diverse subjects, including commentaries on the Holy
Scriptures, works on grammar, astronomy, the logic of Aristotle,
music, geography, arithmetic, orthography, versification, the
computum or method of calculating Easter, and natural philosophy,
besides his _Ecclesiastical History_ and _Lives of the
Saints_. He was well versed in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew
languages, and, for his success in reducing the barbarous
Anglo-Saxon tongue to something like grammatical rules, he has
been justly styled the father of the English language. For the
immense knowledge which he displayed in his various writings, he
was indebted, doubtless, to the valuable libraries collected by
St. Bennet, who, like a true son of Iona, seized upon a book
whenever or wherever an opportunity was afforded. At the
beginning of the eighth century, the schools of York attained
general notoriety under the management of Egbert, who taught the
seven liberal sciences, chronology, natural history, mathematics,
and jurisprudence. Here Alcuin, the adviser and friend of
Charlemagne, received his first lessons.
Nor are we to suppose that the great schools above mentioned
occupied the entire attention of the hierarchy of England. On the
contrary, every bishop had his own seminary; and every monastery,
of which there were hundreds in the seventh and eighth centuries,
had its _interior_ or claustral, and its _exterior_
school for the education of the children of its neighborhood. In
England, as elsewhere, wherever a monastery was built, no matter
how remote the situation or how barren the soil, people flocked
round it not only to hear the gospel preached, but to learn the
mechanical arts and the laws of agriculture. Besides this, parish
priests, or, as they were called in the Anglo-Saxon, "mass
priests," were obliged to open and sustain parochial free schools
for the children of the peasantry and serfs.
It is acknowledged by all writers, no matter how sceptical they
may be on other points, that the church was the first to raise
woman to her true place in society. In pagan times woman was
treated much the same as she now is in Mohammedan countries, and
only the very vilest of the sex enjoyed any freedom of speech or
action; but Christianity not only threw its aegis around her, but
provided for her education with a care only second, if indeed not
fully equal, to that bestowed on ecclesiastics.
{53}
We find by the correspondence between St. Boniface and his
relative Lioba, that the nuns of England at that time understood
and could write the Latin language, and were well versed in the
Scriptures and the writings of the fathers. Nunneries were, in
fact, in the middle ages almost as numerous as monasteries, and
in their sphere as powerful agents in the advancement of religion
and education.
By the close of the eighth century England had reached the zenith
of her first period of literary glory. Not only were her people
thoroughly instructed according to their degree and rank, but the
island abounded in saints and scholars, many of whom, like those
of Ireland, went forth, from time to time, to repay to benighted
Europe a portion of the debt contracted two centuries earlier.
It were an interesting study, if space permitted, to trace the
divergent paths pursued by Irish and English scholars on the
continent, in what may be called their initial campaigns against
ignorance. We find the Irish invading France, Switzerland, Italy,
and even Spain, while the Anglo-Saxons, with a like affinity for
race and habits, preferred the northern part of Europe, the
cradle of their ancestors. St. Columbanus, whose rule, next to
that of St. Benedict, was the most generally adopted in the
continental monasteries, founded the schools of Luxeuil in
Burgundy and of Bobbio in Italy; St. Gall, one of his companions,
laid the foundation of the famous schools of that name in
Switzerland; St. Cathal of Lismore became the patron saint of
Tarentum, and Donatus and Frigidan were bishops of Fiesole in
Tuscany and Lucca.
St. Winifred, or, as he was afterward called, Boniface, the first
great English missionary to the continent, achieved great
successes in the north about 723, and, being desirous of training
up a native priesthood to perpetuate his works, invited several
of his countrymen to Germany to take charge of the seminaries of
the different bishoprics he had founded. Among those who accepted
the invitation were his two nephews, one of whom, Willibald,
established a college at Ordorp. The seminary of Utrecht owes its
origin to one of his earliest pupils, Luidger, a direct
descendant of Dagobert II., who also built several seminaries and
monastic schools in Saxony. Another of St. Boniface's students,
Strum, laid the foundation of the celebrated abbey and school of
Fulda in 744; and, to complete the work of regeneration, thirty
nuns were brought over from England, who established religious
houses innumerable, and introduced among the rude Germans the
learning and refinement which marked the nunneries of their
native land. St. Boniface, having been appointed papal legate and
vicar with jurisdiction over the bishops of Gaul and Germany,
applied several years of his life to the reformation of abuses
and the establishment of strict rules of life among the clergy of
both countries. To this end we are told that in every place where
he planted a monastery he added a school, not only for the
benefit of young monks, "but in order that the rude population by
whom they were surrounded might be trained in holy discipline,
and that their uncivilized manners might be softened by the
influence of humane learning." His grand work having been
accomplished, he resigned his delegated powers, resumed his
missionary life, and, with nothing but his "books and shroud,"
proceeded to Friesland, the scene of his first labors, where he
suffered martyrdom in 755. This saint was a devoted friend to
education, and that portion of the decrees of the council of
Cloveshoe, held in 747, in which the subject of learning is
treated, is ascribed to his pen.
{54}
The council ordered that "bishops, abbots, and abbesses do by all
means diligently provide that all their people incessantly apply
their minds to reading; that boys be brought up in the
ecclesiastical schools, so as to be useful to the church of God;
and that their masters do not employ them in bodily labor on
Sundays."
While Germany was being reclaimed from its primitive barbarism,
Gaul, which had given so many missionaries to the Western
Islands, was not neglected. For more than two hundred years this
country, once so fertile in pious men and learned institutions,
was the theatre of the most frightful disorders, consequent on
domestic wars and foreign invasions. There were but few
monasteries surviving, but even these were true to the design of
their founders, and in them learning, to use the eloquent remark
of the Protestant historian, Guizot, "proscribed and beaten down
by the tempest that raged around, took refuge under the shelter
of the altar, till happier times should suffer it to appear in
the world." But a memorable epoch had arrived in the history of
France. In 771 Charlemagne became monarch of all the Franks, and
by his extraordinary military successes and political wisdom soon
made himself master of the entire continent north of the
Pyrenees. But great as were his conquests in the field, his
victories in the cause of letters in France were more splendid
and far more durable. Under his long and brilliant sway the evils
of previous centuries were swept away; churches were restored,
monasteries rebuilt, seminaries and schools everywhere opened.
Like all great practical men, the Frankish monarch knew admirably
well how to choose his assistants when grand ends were to be
reached, and in this instance he selected Alcuin of York as his
agent in restoring to his dominions religious harmony and
Christian education. The result showed the wisdom of his choice,
for to no man of that day could so herculean a task be assigned
with better hope of its execution. Trained in the schools of
York, then among the best in England, he united to a solid
judgment profound learning and an energy of mind as untiring as
that even of his royal patron. The Palatine school, though in
existence previous to the reign of Charlemagne, was placed under
the charge of Alcuin, and the emperor and various members of his
family became his first and most attentive pupils. It consisted
of two distinct parts: one, composed of the royal family and the
courtiers, followed the emperor's person; the other necessarily
stationary, in which were educated young laymen as well as those
intended for the cloister; Charlemagne, himself setting the
example of diligent study, managed to acquire, amid the turmoil
of war and the labors of the cabinet, a considerable knowledge of
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, the liberal sciences and astronomy, of
the latter of which he seems to have been particularly fond.
The first step taken by Alcuin was the correction of the copies
of the Holy Scriptures, which had become almost unintelligible
from the accumulated errors of former transcribers. This he
succeeded in doing about the year 800. He next turned his
attention to the multiplication and replenishing of libraries. "A
staff of skilful copyists was gradually formed, and so soon as
any work had been revised by Alcuin and his fellow-laborers, it
was delivered over to the hands of the monastic scribes."
{55}
The capitulars of Charlemagne in relation to civil affairs and
municipal laws mark him as one of the ablest statesmen of any
age, and are peculiarly his own; but those on education are so
comprehensive, and of so elaborate a nature, that we cannot help
thinking them the fruits of Alcuin's suggestions, embodying, as
they do, in an official form the precise views so often expressed
by him in letters and lectures. By these decrees monastic schools
were divided into _minor_ and _major_ schools, and
public schools, which answered to the free parochial schools of
England. In the minor schools, which were to be attached to all
monasteries, were to be taught the "Catholic faith and prayers,
grammar, church music, the psalter, and computum;" in the major
schools, the sciences and liberal arts were added; while in the
public schools, the children of all, free and servile, were to
receive gratis such instruction as was suitable to their
condition and comprehension. Those monks who, either from neglect
or want of opportunity, had not acquired sufficient education to
enable them to teach in their own monasteries, were allowed to
study in others in order to become duly qualified for the duty
imposed on them. A more complete system of general education
could not well be devised nor more rigidly carried out.
Alcuin ended his well-spent life in 804, and Charlemagne ten
years later; but their reforms lived after them, and were
perpetuated in succeeding reigns with equal vigor, if not with
equal munificence. Theodulph, Bishop of Orleans, not only
established schools in every part of his large diocese, but
compiled class-books for the use of their pupils; the diocese of
Verdun was similarly supplied by the Abbot Smaragdus; Benedict of
Anian, reformed the Benedictine order, and like Leidrade, was a
zealous teacher and a great collector of books; and Adalhard, the
emperor's cousin, became, as it were, the second founder of Old
Corby.
During the ninth and tenth centuries, so fruitful of scholars in
every part of Europe, the monastic schools may be said to have
reached their highest development. Of those north of the Alps we
may mention Fulda, Old and New Corby, Richneau, and St. Gall,
though there were a great many others of nearly equal extent and
reputation.
Fulda, as we have seen, was founded by Strum, a pupil of St.
Boniface, who adopted the Benedictine rule. After its founder,
its greatest teacher was Rabanus, a pupil of Alcuin, who assumed
the charge of the school about 813. His success in teaching was
so great that it is said that all the German nobles sent their
sons to be educated by him, and that the abbots of the
surrounding monasteries were eager to have his students for
professors. He taught grammar so thoroughly that he is mentioned
by Trithemius as being the first who indoctrinated the Germans in
the proper articulation of Latin and Greek. His course embraced
all sacred and profane literature, science, and art; yet he still
found time to compose, and afterward, when Archbishop of Mentz,
to publish his treatise _De Institutione Clericorum_. Among
his pupils were Strabo, author of the _Commentaries on the Text
of Scripture_; Otfried, called the father of the Tudesque, or
German literature; Lupus, author of _Roman History_; Heinie,
author of the _Life of St. Germanus_; Regimus, of Auxerre;
and Ado, compiler of the _Martyrology_. While those great
scholars were teaching and writing, it is worth our while to
inquire what the lesser lights of the monastery were doing. Here
is the picture:
{56}
"Every variety of useful occupation was embraced by the monks;
while some were at work hewing down the old forest which a few
years before had given shelter to the mysteries of pagan
worship, or tilling the soil on those numerous farms which to
this day perpetuate the memory of the great abbey in the names
of the towns and villages which have sprung up on their site,
other kinds of industry were kept up within doors, where the
visitor might have beheld a huge range of workshops, in which
cunning hands were kept constantly busy on every description of
useful and ornamental work, in wood, stone, and metal. It was a
scene not of artistic _dilettanteism_, but of earnest,
honest labor, and the treasurer of the abbey was charged to
take care that the sculptors, engravers, and carvers in wood
were always furnished with plenty to do. Passing on to the
interior of the building, the stranger would have been
introduced to the scriptorium, over the door of which was an
inscription warning copyists to abstain from idle words, to be
diligent in copying books, and to take care not to alter the
text by careless mistakes. Twelve monks always sat here,
employed in the labor of transcribing, as was the custom at
Hirsauge, a colony sent out from Fulda in 830, and the huge
library which was thus gradually formed, survived till the
beginning of the seventeenth century, when it was destroyed in
the troubles of the Thirty Years' War. Not far from the
scriptorium was the interior school, where studies were carried
on with an ardor and a largeness of views which might have been
little expected from an academy of the ninth century. Our
visitor, were he from the more civilized south, might well have
stood in mute surprise in the midst of these fancied
barbarians, whom he would have found engaged in pursuits not
unworthy of the schools of Rome. The monk Probus is perhaps
lecturing on Virgil and Cicero, and that with such hearty
enthusiasm that his brother professors accuse him, in
good-natured jesting, of ranking them with the saints.
Elsewhere disputations are being carried on over the Categories
of Aristotle, and an attentive ear will discover that the
controversy which made such a noise in the twelfth century, and
divided the philosophers of Europe into the rival sects of the
nominalists and realists, is perfectly well understood at
Fulda, though it does not seem to have disturbed the peace of
the school. To your delight, if you be not altogether wedded to
the dead languages, you may find some engaged on the uncouth
language of their fatherland, and, looking over their
shoulders, you may smile to see the barbarous words which they
are cataloguing in their glossaries; words, nevertheless,
destined to reappear centuries hence in the most philosophical
literature of Europe." [Footnote 8]
[Footnote 8: _Christian Schools and Scholars_, pp.
205-206.]
The school of Old Corby owed its reputation not only to its royal
abbot, but also to its master, Pachasius Radpert, who, like
Strabo, was of humble origin, and was indebted to the nuns of
Soissons for an education. He was one of the most remarkable
scholars of the age, and the author of several books in prose and
verse. His most famous pupil was Anscharius, the first teacher at
New Corby, in Saxony, founded by monks of the parent house in
822, and afterward a missionary to Denmark and Archbishop of
Hamburg. The two Corbys, founded on the same plan, long vied with
each other in the erudition of their masters, the multitude of
their students, and the rarity and number of their books.
But the monastery and schools of St. Gall surpassed in extent and
variety of studies all their contemporaries. For the benefit of
those who affect to believe that the monasteries of the middle
ages were nests of slothfulness and ignorance, as well as for the
beauty of the sketch itself, we transcribe the following
description from the author before us, premising that it is a
faithful condensation of Ekkehard's account of this celebrated
house, of which he was one of the inmates:
"The first foundation of St. Gall's belongs, indeed, to a date
far earlier than that of which we are now treating: it owed its
origin to St. Gall, the Irish disciple of St. Columbanus, who,
in the seventh century, penetrated into the recesses of the
Helvetian mountains and there fixed his abode in the midst of a
pagan population. Under the famous abbot, St. Othmar, who
flourished in the time of Pepin, the monks received the
Benedictine rule, and from that time the monastery rapidly grew
in fame and prosperity, so that, in the ninth century, it was
regarded as the first religious house north of the Alps.
{57}
It is with a sigh of irrepressible regret, called forth by the
remembrance of a form of beauty that is dead and gone forever,
that the monastic historian hangs over the early chronicles of
St. Gall. It lay in the midst of the savage Helvetian
wilderness, an oasis of piety and civilization. Looking down
from the craggy mountains, the passes of which open to the
southern extremity of the lake of Constance, the traveller
would have stood amazed at the sudden apparition of that vast
range of stately buildings which almost filled up the valley at
his feet. Churches and cloisters, the offices of a great abbey,
buildings set apart for students and guests, workshops of every
description, the forge, the bakehouse, and the mill, or,
rather, mills, for there were ten of them, all in such active
operation that they every year required ten new millstones; and
then the houses occupied by the vast numbers of artisans and
workmen attached to the monastery; gardens, too, and vineyards
creeping up the mountain slopes, and beyond them fields of
waving corn, and sheep specking the green meadows, and, far
away, boats busily plying on the lake and carrying goods and
passengers--what a world it was of life and activity; yet how
unlike the activity of a town! It was, in fact, not a town, but
a house--a family presided over by a father, whose members were
all knit together in the bonds of common fraternity. I know not
whether the spiritual or social side of such a religious colony
were most fitted to rivet the attention. Descend into the
valley, and visit all the nurseries of useful foil, see the
crowds of rude peasants transformed into intelligent artisans,
and you will carry away the impression that the monks of St.
Gall had found out the secret of creating a world of happy
Christian factories. Enter their church and listen to the
exquisite modulations of those chants and sequences, peculiar
to the abbey, which boasted of possessing the most scientific
school of music in all Europe; visit their scriptorium, their
library, and their school, or the workshop where the monk
Tutilo is putting the finishing touch to his wonderful copper
images and his fine altar-frontals of gold and jewels, and you
will think yourself in some intellectual and artistic academy.
But look into the choir, and behold the hundred monks who form
the community at their midnight office, and you will forget
everything save the saintly aspect of those servants of God,
who shed abroad over the desert around them the good odor of
Christ, and are the apostles of the provinces which own their
gentle sway. You may quit the circuit of the abbey, and plunge
once more into the mountain region which rises beyond the reach
of its softening, humanizing influence. Here are distant cells
and hermitages with their chapels, where the shepherds come for
early mass; or it may be that there meets you, winding over the
mountain paths of which they sing so sweetly, going up and down
among the hills, into the thick forests and the rocky hollows,
a procession of the monks, carrying their relics, and followed
by a peasant crowd. In the schools you may have been listening
to lectures in the learned and even in the Eastern tongues; but
in the churches, and here among the mountains, you will hear
those fine classical scholars preaching plain truths in
barbarous idioms to a rude race, who, before the monks came
among them, sacrificed to the evil one, and worshipped stocks
and stones.
"Yet, hidden away as it was among its crags and deserts, the
abbey of St. Gall's was almost as much a place of resort as
Rome or Athens, at least to the learned world of the ninth
century. Her schools were a kind of university, frequented by
men of all nations, who came hither to fit themselves for all
professions. You would have found here not monks alone, and
future scholastics, but courtiers, soldiers, and the sons of
kings. The education given was very far from being exclusively
intended for those aspiring to the ecclesiastical state; it had
a large admixture of the secular element, at any rate, in the
exterior school. Not only were the sacred sciences taught with
the utmost care, but the classic authors were likewise
explained: Cicero, Horace, Virgil, Lucan, and Terence were read
by the scholars, and none but very little boys presumed to
speak in anything but Latin. The subjects for their original
compositions were mostly taken from Scripture and church
history, and, having written their exercises, they were
expected to recite them, the proper tones being indicated by
musical notes. Many of the monks excelled as poets, others
cultivated painting and sculpture, and other exquisite and
cloistral arts; all diligently applied to the grammatical
formation of the Tudesque dialect and rendered it capable of
producing a literature of its own. Their library in the eighth
century was only in its infancy, but gradually became one of
the richest in the world. They were in correspondence with all
the learned monastic houses of France and Italy, from whom they
received the precious codex now of a Virgil or a Livy, now of
the sacred books, and sometimes of some rare treatise on
medicine or astronomy.
{58}
They were Greek students, moreover, and those most addicted to
the cultivation of the Cecropian muse were denominated the
'Fratres Ellencini.' The beauty of their native manuscripts is
praised by all authors, and the names of their best
transcribers find honorable mention in their annals. They
manufactured their own parchment out of the hides of the wild
beasts that roamed through the mountains and forests around
them, and prepared it with such skill that it acquired a
peculiar delicacy. Many hands were employed on a single
manuscript. Some made the parchment, others drew the fair red
lines, others wrote on the pages thus prepared; more skilful
hands put in the gold and the initial letters, and more learned
heads compared the copy with the original text--this duty being
generally discharged during the interval between matins and
lauds, the daylight hours being reserved for actual
transcription. Erasure, when necessary, was rarely made with
the knife, but an erroneous word was delicately drawn through
by the pen, so as not to spoil the beauty of the codex. Lastly
came the binders, who enclosed the whole in boards of wood,
cramped with ivory or iron, the sacred volumes being covered
with plates of gold and adorned with jewels."
The English missionary scholars of the eighth century were
followed in the ninth by their Irish brethren in even greater
numbers. St. Bernard, in his _Life of St. Malachi_, notices
this learned invasion, and Henry of Auxerre declares that it
appeared as if the whole of Ireland were about to pass into Gaul.
Virgil, Bishop of Saltzburg, was not only a learned man, but an
ardent promoter of education. Clement, who succeeded Alcuin as
scholasticus of the Palatine school, was an excellent Greek
linguist. Dungal, his companion, opened an academy at Pavia, and
finally died at Bobbio, to which he bequeathed his valuable
classical library. Marx and his nephew Moengall settled at St.
Gall in 840, where the latter became master of the interior
school, and introduced the study of Greek; and finally Scotus
Erigena appeared in the literary firmament, like a comet in
brilliancy, and as portentous of dire strifes and contests.
Erigena, who first came into notoriety by his translation of
_Dionysius the Areopagite_, was unquestionably the most
erudite man of his time, powerful in argument and exceedingly
subtle in discussion, with a perfect knowledge of the learned
languages, science, and the profane literature of both ancients
and moderns. His great gifts, however, were sadly marred by
extravagant vanity and a pugnacity which brought him into
collision with nearly every contemporary of note. He wrote many
books, in which he advanced opinions more remarkable for their
boldness and originality than for soundness; and finally, his
writings having been condemned by several provincial councils, he
was obliged to retire from the Palatine school, of which he had
enjoyed the direction for many years under Charles the Bald.
Let us now return to the country of St. Boniface and of Alcuin,
which we left at the beginning of the ninth century, in the
plenitude of its intellectual greatness. What a change has taken
place in seventy-five years! Churches, monasteries, and schools
in utter ruin; the weeds growing rank over broken altars; the
reptile crawling undisturbed where worked the busy hands of a
thousand monks; and the solitude of the once noisy school
disturbed only by the flutter of the bat or the screech of the
night owl. The fierce Northmen, the barbaric executors of the
Huns and Vandals, had been over the land, and desolation
everywhere marked their foot-prints. "The Anglo-Saxon Church,"
says Lingard, "presented a melancholy spectacle; the laity had
resumed the ferocious manners of their pagan forefathers; the
clergy had grown indolent, dissolute, and illiterate; the
monastic order was apparently annihilated."
{59}
When Alfred had crushed the Danish power at the battle of
Ethandun in 873, and, like a wise prince, proposed to revive
learning in his kingdom, he could not find one ecclesiastic south
of the Thames who understood the divine service, or who knew how
to translate Latin into English. Nevertheless, this king, justly
surnamed the Great, resolutely set himself to work, and, with the
help of the West British scholar, Asser, Grimbald of Rheims, John
of Old Saxony, and other foreign monks, effected many useful
reforms, and to a limited extent provided the means of education
for his benighted subjects, setting the example himself by
diligent and persevering study. He commenced to learn Latin at
thirty-six, and left after him several works, principally
translations from that language.
The grand designs of Alfred were not carried out in his lifetime.
Their execution was reserved for St. Dunstan, a pupil of some
poor Irish monks who had settled in the ruins of the old abbey of
his native town, Glastonbury, and supported themselves by
teaching the children of the neighboring peasantry. How strange a
coincidence that the countrymen of Columba and Aidan were again
to be the instruments, under Providence, of bringing back to
England the light of the gospel, and all that adorns and
beautifies life. St. Dunstan's reforms were of the most sweeping
nature; he introduced the Benedictine rule in all its strictness,
not only at Glastonbury, but in every monastery he restored or
established; and, despairing of effecting any good through the
medium of the secular clergy, he unhesitatingly turned them
adrift, and proceeded to create a new and more intelligent body
out of the young men who surrounded him: an exercise of authority
the right to which he derived from his position as primate and
apostolic legate. Of the assistants of St. Dunstan in his work of
reorganization, the most active were St. Ethelwold, a close
student not only of classics, but of Anglo-Saxon, in which
language he composed several poems; AElfric, author of several
school-books in Latin and Anglo-Saxon, and translator of Latin,
German, and French; Abbo of Fleury came to England and taught for
him in the school of Ramsey; and the monks of Corby, mindful, no
doubt, of their ancient origin, sent him some of their best
students, well versed in monastic discipline. From this time
forth England, despite the occasional inroads of the Danes and
the Norman conquest, advanced steadily in educational progress
until the blight of the "Reformation" long after threw her back
into ignorance and unbelief.
Britain was not the only country which suffered from the greedy
and ubiquitous sea-kings. Ireland, France, Italy, even to the
suburbs of Rome, were ravished by those barbarians during the
tenth century. In some countries, as in Italy and Ireland, they
were eventually expelled or subdued; in others, like France, they
made a permanent lodgment, and were strong enough to dictate
terms to kings. Wherever they appeared, they seem to have been
actuated by the same diabolical lust of plunder and murder, the
monasteries and schools being special objects of hatred, and
favorite places where their ferocity could be gratified at little
risk of opposition. Even the Saracens, taking courage from the
distractions of the times, took possession of accessible points
on the French coast, and added to the general disorder.
{60}
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the tenth century is
generally considered the darkest intellectual epoch in our era.
Germany perhaps was the only country comparatively free from
those disturbing causes, and, under the protection of a line of
sagacious kings, the cause of learning, if it did not advance
with rapid strides, certainly did not retrograde. That country
continued to produce great teachers like Adelberon, Bennon,
Notker, and Gerbert, afterward Pope Sylvester II., and to sustain
such schools as St. Gall's, Richneau, and Gorze.
With the opening of the eleventh century we begin to perceive the
gradual decay of the monastic schools, the rise of scholasticism
and the university system, and the consequent evils resulting
from the teachings of irresponsible and sceptical professors.
Heretofore Christian education went hand in hand with religion;
the priest who celebrated the divine mysteries in the morning
taught his assembled pupils during the day; religion became more
beautiful, clothed, as she was, in the garments of science and
art; and education was ennobled by losing its selfishness and
pride in its contact with the faith; humility, order, and
obedience marked the scholar, and disinterestedness and a deep
sense of the greatness of his calling distinguished the master.
Teaching with the monks was a sacred duty, a means by which they
might gain salvation and "shine like stars for all eternity;"
with the scholastics of the eleventh and succeeding centuries it
became a profession like that of law or medicine, in the exercise
of which money and notoriety could be gained, opponents silenced,
and, as was too often the case, vanity gratified and senseless
applause won from the unthinking multitude. The school ceased to
be a holy retreat, and the professor's chair was converted into a
rostrum from which the most absurd and illogical dogmas were
fulminated, alike dangerous to religion, morals, and good
government. In the statement of abuses presented to the Council
of Trent in 1537-63 by the commission appointed by Paul III., it
is declared that "it is a great and pernicious abuse that, in the
public schools, especially in Italy, many philosophers teach
impiety;" and it is a well-recognized fact in history that, from
the time the universities adopted the study of the Roman civil
law, to the exclusion almost of ecclesiastical and common law,
they became the strongest bulwarks of despotic power, and the
pliant tools of absolute princes.
It is true that the change was gradual and almost imperceptible
to its friends and enemies; but, when we come to compare the wild
vagaries of Berengarius, the eloquent but empty harangues of
Abelard, the scepticism of Erasmus, and the revelries which
disgraced such universities as Oxford and Paris, with the moral
spirit and peaceful calm that brooded over the monasteries of St.
Gall, Fulda, and Glastenbury, we can at once perceive to what
monstrous excesses the mind of man is prone when unrestrained by
religion. Many of the old-established monastic schools continued
to flourish, and new ones, like that of Bec and the college of
St. Victor's at Paris, became celebrated. Men distinguished for
piety and learning were numerous during the middle ages,
notwithstanding the growing tendency toward irreligion and
heresy; among whom may be mentioned such theologians as St.
Thomas and Anselm, scholars like Lanfranc and Thomas à Kempis,
great doctors like St. Bernard and John Duns Scotus, devotees of
science such as Albertus Magnus and Roger Bacon, authors of the
calibre of William of Malmsbury, and the almost inspired writer
of the _Following of Christ_, St. Bonaventure, and Peter the
Venerable.
{61}
But the schools of Europe, notwithstanding the examples and
exhortations of those illustrious divines, continued in their
downward tendency toward materialism. The introduction of Eastern
books of philosophy, due to the returned crusaders, the Arabic
symbolism and pretended magic of some of the Spanish schools,
and, finally, the fall of Constantinople and the dispersion of
Greek scholars over Europe: all had their peculiar and decided
influence on the manners and views of the generations which
immediately preceded the Council of Trent. Seminaries had
entirely disappeared, so that ecclesiastical education could only
be obtained in the dissolute and noisy universities, and it
became the fashion with the _dilettanti_ of the great cities
to ridicule and underrate the quiet teachings of the country
monasteries.
The Council of Trent, mindful of the welfare of the children of
the church, took the first great step toward the correction of
those abuses. By its eighteenth chapter, twenty-seventh sessions,
it reestablished the seminaries in every diocese in Christendom,
giving to each bishop authority over the professors, and making
the expense of educating ecclesiastics a charge on the faithful.
In accordance with this decree, an unwonted degree of activity
was observable in Europe. Provincial councils took steps to
enforce it in their special localities; saints, like Charles of
Borromeo, became champions of genuine Christian education, and
the Dominicans, the Franciscans, and the illustrious order of the
Jesuits vied with each other in their devotion to its interests,
and became the inheritors of the glories of the monks of Saints
Benedict and Columbanus.
In looking back for fifteen centuries, and perusing the long and
brilliant catalogue of those holy teachers who, through danger,
degradation, and defeat, never allowed their minds to swerve from
the even tenor of their way; who cared as tenderly for the soul
and intellect of the poor young barbarian as for the nursling of
a palace; who despised death, and braved alike the fury of the
savage and the wrath of princes, that they might win souls to God
and develop the God-given gift of human genius; we are lost in
astonishment at the ignorance or mendacity, or both, of some
modern writers who unblushingly repeat and exaggerate the slander
of the post-"Reformation" writers against the monks of the middle
ages. With a history like that of the _Christian Schools and
Scholars_ before us, so fruitful in incidents and so
suggestive of moral lessons, we are equally at a loss to account
for the tenacity with which people, otherwise sensible, cling to
the idea of education divorced from moral instruction. Whatever
is great in the past, personally or nationally
considered--whatever was pure, unselfish, and heroic, is due, and
only due, to the monk-teachers of the Christian church. They were
not only the custodians of the books which we now prize so much,
but they were the conservators of arts, science, and literature,
and the originators and discoverers of most of the useful
inventions which now adorn life and make men more civilized, and
bring them nearer to their Creator. They were not only all this,
but they were, as soldiers of the church, the guardians of
civilization itself, and without them the darkness that
enshrouded the world would have been as perpetual as the causes
which produced it were active, and, against any other power,
irresistible.
--------
{62}
Our Lady.
"Ancilla Domini."
The Crown of creatures, first in place,
Was _most_ a creature; is such still:
Naught, naught by nature--all by grace--
The Elect one of the Eternal Will.
She was a Nothing that in Him
A creature's sole perfection found;
She was the great Rock's shadow dim;
She was the Silence, not the Sound.
She was the Hand of Earth forthheld
In adoration's self-less suit;
A hushed Dependence, tranced and spelled,
Still yearning toward the Absolute.
Before the Power Eternal bowed
She hung, a soft Subjection mute,
As when a rainbow breasts the cloud
That mists some mountain cataract's foot.
She was a sea-shell from the deep
Of God--her function this alone--
Of Him to whisper, as in sleep,
In everlasting undertone.
This hour her eyes on Him are set:
And they who tread the earth she trod
With nearest heart to hers, forget
Themselves in her, and her in God.
II.
MATER FILII.
He was no Conqueror, borne abroad
On all the fiery winds of fame,
That overstrides a world o'erawed
To write in desert sands his name.
No act triumphant, no conquering blow
Redeemed mankind from Satan's thrall:
By _suffering_ He prevailed, that so
His Father might be all in all.
{63}
His Godhead, veiled from mortal eye,
Showed forth that Father's Godhead still,
As calm seas mirror starry skies
Because themselves invisible.
Thus Mary in "the Son" was hid:
Her motherhood her only boast,
She nothing said, she nothing did:
Her light in His was merged and lost.
III.
Nazareth; or, The Hidden Greatness
Ever before his eyes unsealed
The Beatific Vision stood:
If God from her that splendor veiled
Awhile, in Him she looked on God.
The Eternal Spirit o'er them hung
Like air: like leaves on Eden trees
Around them thrilled the viewless throng
Of archangelic Hierarchies.
Yet neither He Who said of yore,
"Let there be light!" and all was Day,
Nor she that, still a creature, wore
Creation's Crown, and wears for aye,
To mortal insight wondrous seemed:
The wanderer smote their lowly door,
Partook their broken bread, and deemed
The donors kindly--nothing more.
In Eden thus that primal Pair
(Undimmed as yet their first estate)
Sat, side by side, in silent prayer--
Their first of sunsets fronting, sat.
And now the lion, now the pard,
Piercing the Cassia bowers, drew nigh,
Fixed on the Pair a mute regard,
Half-pleased, half-vacant; then passed by.
Aubrey De Vere.
Feast Of The Assumption, 1867.
--------
{64}
Our Boy-Organist.
What He Saw, And What Came Of It.
"How was it, doctor, that you first thought about it?"
Well, I suppose I had better tell you the whole story. It may
interest you. Just twenty years ago, on a bright Sunday morning,
I was hurrying along the road home to Tinton, hoping to be in
time to hear the sermon at church. My watch told me that I should
be too late for the morning prayer. Happening to look across the
fields, I was surprised to see little Ally Dutton, our
boy-organist, running very fast over the meadows, leaping the
fences at a bound, and finally disappear in the woods. "What
could possibly take our organist away during church time?
Surely," thought I, "the minister must be sick. And, being the
village doctor, I hurried still faster.
"But what could take our boy-organist in that out-of-the-way
direction at such an hour, and in such haste? Is it mischief?" I
asked myself. But I banished that thought immediately, for Ally
had no such reputation. "There must be something wrong, however;
for he ran so fast, and Ally is such a quiet, old-fashioned lad.
The minister is ill, at any rate," said I to myself, "or Ally
would not be absent." Contrary to my expectations, I found the
minister preaching as usual. I do not recollect any thing of the
sermon now except the text. Rev. Mr. Billups, our minister, had a
fashion of repeating his texts very often, sometimes very
appropriately, and sometimes not. It was Pilate's question to our
Lord: "What is truth?" You will see, after what happened
subsequently, that I had another reason for remembering it
besides its frequent repetition. The sermon ended, the hymn was
sung, but the organ was silent. The silence seemed ominous. I
cannot explain why; perhaps it was one of those strange
presentiments of disaster, but I fancied our boy-organist dead. I
loved Ally very much, and my heart sank within me as I looked up
through the drawn choir-curtains, and missed his slight little
form, perched up as he was wont to be, on a pile of books so as
to bring his hands on a level with the key-board, trolling forth
his gay little voluntary as the congregation dispersed after
service. I missed his voice in the hymn, too; those clear,
ringing tones which were far sweeter to me than any notes that
musical instrument ever breathed. I was so filled with this
presentiment of coming evil that I did not dare to ask any one
the cause of his absence. "Pooh!" said I to myself, "there is
nothing in it. I saw him but just now alive, and well enough, if
I may judge from the way he cleared those fences and the
swiftness of his footsteps as he ran across the meadows." I
thought no more of it until a messenger came two or three days
afterward to my office and said:
"Will you please, doctor, come down to the widow Button's? Ally
is sick."
"I will come immediately," said I to the messenger. "We shall
lose our boy-organist," said I to myself. And so we did; but not
as you suppose. Ally became--but I must not anticipate.
{65}
I found our much loved boy-organist in a high fever. "He has been
constantly raving all night," said his mother, in answer to my
inquiries, "about what he has seen. There has been something
preying on his mind lately," she continued. "He has been very sad
and nervous, and I fear it has helped to make him ill."
In a tone of command, which I find will often elicit a direct
answer from patients whose minds are wandering, I said to him:
"Ally, answer me directly, sir; what did you see?"
With his eyes still staring at the ceiling he answered in a
wondering manner, "God!"
I was sorely perplexed what further question to ask, but,
thinking to lead him on gradually to some more reasonable answer,
as I thought, I asked, "Where?"
"The kneeling people and the priest," he replied dreamily. "And
Jesus said, Neither do I condemn thee." And here he burst into
tears. Then the remembrance of the last Sunday morning came back
to my mind, and I knew what had taken Ally across the fields, and
what he had seen. He was so faint and weak, his pulse fluttered
so unsteadily, that I feared the worst, and the anxious,
searching look of the mother read my tell-tale countenance. She
began to weep violently.
"Mother!" cried Ally.
"Yes, my child," she responded quickly, and bent over and kissed
him.
"Don't cry, mother. God will not let me die till I know what is
true, first."
"That is a strange remark," thought I, "for a boy like him to
make. What can he mean?"
"My darling Ally," said the widow, "you do know what is true. You
always say what is true."
"Why should they say it isn't true, then?" asked Ally.
"What isn't true, my dear?" "God!" answered the boy, turning his
eyes upward to the ceiling again, and looking, as it were, at
some object miles away, "and the kneeling people, and the priest.
It's true, and no lie. This is my body, this is my blood." And he
joined his hot and feverish little hands together as if in
prayer.
"Don't trouble about this," said I to the weeping mother. "I know
what it is. He has been down to Mike Maloney's, in the Brook
woods, and seen the Catholic Mass. Don't refer to it again just
now. I will give him some composing medicine. But I wish," I
added, "that this had not happened. It only tends to weaken him."
Presently I noticed him playing with his fingers on the coverlet
as if he were playing the organ. I thought to take advantage of
this, and said:
"Ally, my boy, get well soon, now, and let us have a grand
voluntary on the organ--one of your very best."
"For God, for Mass, for the kneeling people and the priest," he
murmured.
"Oh! never mind the Mass," said I, "that's nothing to you."
Turning his eyes suddenly upon? me, he cried:
"O doctor! it seems everything to me. I never can forget it. How
could anybody ever forget they had seen Mass. Could you?"
"That I can't say, Ally," I replied; "for I never saw it."
"Never saw it! Why, I've seen, it."
"Often?" I asked.
"Well--I saw it--_one_ Sunday, anyway," answered Ally, with
the air of one who had never been anywhere else all his life.
"What was it like, Ally dear?" asked the mother.
"Like heaven, mother, if the angels had only been there."
{66}
"Angels!" said I contemptuously. "Pretty place to find angels, in
Mike Maloney's shanty! Why, it's like a stable."
Again Ally's eyes went up to the ceiling, and, while his fingers
nervously played an invisible organ on the coverlet, he began to
sing, so plaintively and sadly that it quite unmanned me:
"He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all,
And his shelter was a stable,
And his cradle was a stall.
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Saviour holy."
The widow and I stood watching and listening long after he had
ceased singing. In a few moments a lucid interval occurred, and,
noticing me, he said:
"Doctor, why can't we have Mass in our church? Oh! wouldn't I
like to play the organ for it always till I died!"
"We couldn't have Mass, Ally," I replied, "because it is only
Catholic priests who can say Mass."
"Is it? I know I'd like to play the organ forever and ever for
the Mass; but I'd rather be a priest. Oh! a thousand, thousand
times rather!" And his pale, sad face lighted up with an
unearthly glow.
Seeing I could not divert his mind from the subject, and fearing
to continue a conversation which excited him so much, I quietly
gave directions to his mother, and left. I had little hopes of
Ally's recovery, but his words made a deep impression on my mind:
"_God will not let me die till I know what is true, first_."
"What truth can he mean?" thought I. "Can he have imagined he
does not know the true religion? What can have made him think
that our Episcopal Church is not true? What strange fancies will
get into some children's heads! I should be sorry to lose Ally,
but I'd rather see him die, I think, than grow up to be a Roman
Catholic. Ugh! and a priest too, perhaps, who knows? God forbid!"
Revolving these disagreeable thoughts in my head as I went down
the street, I met Mr. Billups, our minister. We shook hands, or
rather I shook Mr. Billups's hand while he shook his head, a
manner of his that gave him a general doubting air, somewhat
puzzling to strangers.
"Mr. Billups," said I, "do you know that Ally Button is ill?"
"No, I did not hear it," he replied, emphasizing the word
_did_, as much as to say, "But I hear it now." Although the
negative accompaniment with his head would seem to imply that he
did not quite believe it.
"Yes, and very ill too," I added. "If his mind becomes calmer
than it is, I think it might do good just to drop in and see him.
I fear he has been under some bad influences lately."
"You astonish me, not to say grieve me," rejoined Mr. Billups.
"Ally was always a good, pious boy, and one of our head boys, as
you are aware, in the Sunday-school."
"I mean," said I, "that he has been reading or hearing something
about Catholics and their Mass, and other things; and it really
has made a deep impression on his mind, which ought to be
effaced; that is," I added, "in case he recovers, which I fear is
doubtful."
"Of course, of course, which ought to be effaced," repeated he.
"Not a doubt of it. I remember, now, Mrs. White, his
Sunday-school teacher, telling me that he had asked her in class
what the sixth chapter of St. John meant. I hope he has not been
reading that chapter of the Bible _too_ attentively, for it
is calculated, I am sorry to say, to make a deep, very deep, not
to say, in regard to the popish Mass doctrine, a most alarming
impression upon the mind, especially of a boy like Ally."
{67}
"Well, if you see him," said I, not much relishing this opinion
about the Bible being in favor of Catholic doctrines, "you can
manage to bring the subject up, and easily explain its true
meaning to him."
"Yes, oh! yes! easily explain its true meaning to him," again
repeated Mr. Billups after me, yet looking rather puzzled, as I
thought, and doubtful of success; but perhaps it was only his
manner that gave me that impression. "Would to-morrow, think you,
do, doctor?" he continued, after a pause, "I am quite busy, just
now."
"Better," I replied, "much better; Ally is very low at this
moment." I do not know what made me say it, but Ally's words came
suddenly to my mind again, and I added confidently: "He will not
die just yet. He will surely be better to-morrow."
I bade Mr. Billups good-morning, not at all satisfied. "The sixth
chapter of St. John! the sixth chapter of St. John!" I went on
repeating to myself. Strange! I have never read that chapter with
any thought of the doctrine of Catholics. And yet, to judge from
what the minister said, it might trouble the mind, even of a
child. As I waited in the parlor of a sick lady whom I went to
visit before returning home, I could not refrain from turning
over the leaves of a large family Bible on the centre-table, and
finding the chapter in question. I had not time, however, to read
many verses before I was summoned to the sick-chamber. Attention
to my professional duties drove the subject from my mind during
the rest of the day, and I retired to rest considerably exhausted
and fatigued.
"Now for a good sleep," said I to myself, "and a quick one, for I
shouldn't wonder if I were called up to Ally again before
morning." But I could not sleep. Tossing to and fro in the bed, I
began to question myself about the cause of my sleeplessness; I
soon found it. The thought of Ally had revived the memory of that
sixth chapter of St. John. "Well," said I, "I will remove the
cause by just getting up and reading it, and there will be an end
of it. Then I shall sleep." So I rose and lit my lamp, got out my
Bible, and there, half-dressed, read the troublesome chapter. As
I reflected upon what I was doing, I felt more like a thief, a
midnight robber, or some designing villain laying plans for
murder or housebreaking, than as an honest Christian reading his
Bible; for was I not allowing myself to do what was calculated to
make a deep, not to say an alarming impression on my mind, that
the Catholic religion was true, and the Protestant religion
false?
Now, without vanity I say it, few people know their Bibles better
than I did, and, although I must have read that identical chapter
many times, it seemed to me that I had never read it before. I
thank God for that midnight perusal of my Bible.
One thing I then and there determined, for private reasons of my
own, which was, to be on hand at Mrs. Button's when the minister
called; and there I was. Ally was a good deal better and
brighter. After some commonplace remarks, Mr. Billups said to
Ally:
"You are fond of reading your Bible, are you not, my dear child;
and would you not like me to read a little of the Word to you?"
"Oh! yes, sir," answered the boy eagerly.
"I will read for you, then," continued Mr. Billups, producing a
Bible from his pocket, "a most beautiful and instructive passage
from St. John's gospel, commencing at the sixth chapter."
{68}
He said this in such a church-reading tone that Mrs. Dutton
instinctively responded as far as "Glory be"--but, discovering
her mistake, covered it up with a very loud cough. Mr. Billups
read the chapter, but quite differently from the manner in which
I had read it; slowly and distinctly where I had read rather
quickly, that is, from the beginning to the fiftieth verse; and
quickly where I had read slowly, from that verse to the end.
"That's very beautiful, and very strange," said Ally pensively,
as the minister paused at the end of the chapter. "But, Mr.
Billups, is it all true?"
"The Bible, my dear Ally ought to know, is all true," replied Mr.
Billups.
"And did Jesus give his flesh and blood, as he said he would?"
asked Ally.
"Yes, my child," answered Mr. Billups, "he certainly made all his
promises good."
"I wish I knew where," said Ally inquiringly. "I asked Mrs.
White, and she said she didn't know, and that I asked too many
questions."
"When he died on the cross, and shed his blood for our
salvation," said the minister solemnly, closing the Bible, and
looking at me as if he would say: "There's an end of the whole
matter: you see how easily I have explained it to him." Ally did
not, however, seem so easily satisfied.
"But where can we get it to eat and drink?" asked he. "Jesus said
we must eat and drink it."
Mr. Billups again glanced at me with a look which I interpreted
to mean, "I fear he has been reading this _too_
attentively," and then said:
"You partake of it by faith, my child, but you do not really eat
it."
"I must _believe_ I eat it, and don't eat it after all,"
said Ally explanatorily.
"Yes--no--not precisely," replied Mr. Billups, with some
confusion of manner, and coughing two or three short little
coughs in his hand. "We eat the communion bread, and drink the
communion wine, and then we believe we partake, by faith, of the
body and blood of the Saviour."
"But, then," asked Ally, pushing the difficulty, "don't we eat
and drink what we _believe_ we eat and drink?"
"H'm, h'm," coughed the minister, shifting uneasily in his seat.
"We believe--we think--in short, as I was about to remark, we
have faith in Jesus Christ as our blessed Saviour."
"But don't eat his flesh nor drink his blood?" added Ally.
"Not at all, not at all," replied Mr. Billups decidedly.
"Then I can't see what the Bible means," said Ally, scratching
his head in a disappointed manner: "Except ye eat the flesh of
the Son of Man, and drink his blood, ye cannot have life in you."
"My dear, de-ar child," cried Mr. Billups, quite distractedly,
"what _can_ you have been reading to put this in your head?"
"Only the Bible, sir," replied Ally simply, "what you have read
just now, sir, and the story of the Last Supper; and I heard
Pompey Simpson say it was all true."
"Pompey Simpson," returned Mr. Billups, "is a negro, and I am
sorry," he continued, turning to me, "I should say both grieved
and shocked, to add, doctor, one of those misguided beings
groping in the darkness of Roman idolatry, whose numbers are
increasing to an alarming extent in our country. Have nothing to
do with Pompey Simpson, my dear," again addressing Ally, "or who
knows you might be led away to become a Romanist?"
{69}
An event which Mr. Billups's head intimated at that moment to be
too deplorable to be expressed. "Yes, one of those emissaries of
giant Pope, described so truthfully in Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_, as you remember. Do not go near them, Ally, for my
sake, for your mother's sake, for the sake of the church of your
baptism, or they will make you like unto them, an idolatrous
worshipper of the host; which, as you have never seen it, I will
tell you, is only a piece of bread. You see what ignorant,
deluded people these Catholics must be. Just to think of it--to
worship a piece of bread!"
"But the Catholic is the old church and the first one, Pompey
said," rejoined Ally, "and the old church ought to know. Besides,
I--I--saw it myself."
"Saw it yourself!" exclaimed Mr. Billups, his hair fairly
standing upright with horror. "My organist dare to enter a popish
Mass-house!" And he frowned very severely at the widow.
"It was only Mike Maloney's," said Ally deprecatingly. "And the
priest in his beautiful robes, and the people all kneeling
around, didn't look mistaken, sir; and I felt so sure that God
was there," continued Ally, trembling, "that I'm all the time
thinking about it. Somehow I can't drive it out of my mind."
"Your son, madam," said the minister, turning to Ally's mother,
"_must_ drive this out of his mind. It would be a fearful
calamity, madam, to have a child whom you have reared, and, I may
add in behalf of the vestry of our church, an organist, whose
salary we have paid, fall into the toils of the man of sin. It
would be well to curb the inquiring mind of your son, madam, and
restrain his wandering footsteps; because, if he is permitted to
worship at a foreign altar, he can no longer exercise the
position of--in short--perform on the organ of our church.
Good-morning." And he rose abruptly, and left the house.
All this nettled me. I had hoped he could easily explain the
doubts in the boy's mind, not to mention my own, and it
exasperated me to see him have recourse to such base means to
silence these doubts, instead of using kindly Christian counsel
and teaching. To deprive Ally of his situation, and the widow of
the support which his salary gave, would be, I knew, to inflict a
heavy loss upon them. Unwilling to depart and leave the widow and
son without some comfort, and yet not knowing what to say, I went
to the window and looked out, flattening my nose against the
glass in a most uncomfortable state of mind, and presenting a
spectacle to the passers-by which must have impressed them with
the conviction of my being subject to temporary fits of
derangement. As I stood there, I heard Ally say to his mother:
"Don't cry, mother. I won't be a Catholic if it isn't true. But
it's better to know what's true than to play the organ or get any
salary, if it's ever so big. Isn't it, mother?"
I assented to this sentiment so strongly with my head that I
nearly put my nose through the window-pane, an action that
elicited a strong stare for my supposed impudence from the two
Misses Stocksup, daughters of the Honorable Washington Stocksup,
who happened to be passing the house at that moment.
"So it is, my dear," answered the widow. "But I'm afraid, my
darling, you are only fancying something to be true that is not
true."
"Doctor!" cried Ally, appealing to me, "isn't it true? Oh! it
must be true!"
{70}
"I can't say I believe it is," I replied, "but I'm very much
afraid it is."
"Afraid!" exclaimed Ally, "what makes you afraid?"
Poor Ally! He could little comprehend how much it would cost him
or me to say we believed it to be true. Excusing myself with all
sorts of bungling remarks, I left the house, my mind torn by many
conflicting doubts and emotions. Ally slowly, very slowly
recovered. In the mean time a new organist, a poor man with a
dreadful asthma, as I recollect, had taken his place. Deprived of
the aid which his salary afforded them, the widow and Ally found
it hard to live.
The minister, it seems, related to his wife what had taken place
at Ally's sick-bed, and it soon got bruited about that both Ally
and his mother were going to turn Catholics. They soon left the
village, and I did not hear of them until several years after. As
for myself, it was not long before I took Ally's way across the
fields to Mike Maloney's shanty, and now you know how I first
came to think about it.
"What became of Ally?"
Well, I'll tell you. One day I happened to be in the city of
Newark. It was the festival of Corpus Christi, and crowds were
flocking to St. Patrick's cathedral to assist at the grand
ceremonies that were to take place. At the gospel the preacher
ascended the pulpit, and what was my surprise to recognize in the
person of the youthful priest my dear boy-organist, Ally Dutton.
He took for his text these words, "This is my body, this is my
blood," and preached a powerful and eloquent sermon. After the
services were concluded I went to the presbytery to call upon
him, but he did not recognize me; so I said:
"Allow me, reverend sir, to thank you for your beautiful sermon.
This doctrine of the real presence which you Catholics hold is a
wonderful and a very consoling doctrine; and what is more, _I
am rather afraid it is true_."
"Afraid!" answered Ally, smiling. "That reminds me of a dear old
friend of mine who once said the same thing, but he was not long
overcoming his fears."
"And the dear old friend is sorry now," added I, looking at him
closely, "that it was even so long as it was."
"Doctor!"
"Ally!"
As I knelt to crave the blessing of our quondam boy-organist, now
a priest of the holy Catholic church, he caught me in his arms
and folded me in a warm embrace.
------
{71}
Translated from les Etudes Religieuses, etc., etc.
The Martyrs of Gorcum.
I.
We hear it sometimes asked, "Why does the Catholic Church have so
many canonizations, jubilees, and religious displays?" We pity
those who speak in this way, for they do not seem to understand
the destiny of the church. If the church, connected as she is
with the advance of the human race, has her interests to look
after in the revolutions which agitate the world; if, in order to
defend her rights which are attacked or are not recognized, she
is obliged occasionally to interfere in the struggles which arise
between men, this is but one aspect of her history, though it
seems to be the only one which impresses superficial and
unthinking minds. At the same time that she shows this exterior
action of catholicity, there is wrought in her heart a mysterious
work, which reveals the divine illuminations of the faith. It is
an admirable exchange, a divine intercourse between heaven and
earth--the world offering to heaven its supplications, its
atonements, the heroic virtues of its saints, and the merits of
its martyrs; heaven bestowing upon the world its aid for the
combat, its abundant graces, the seeds of sanctity. At certain
eventful periods, when greater perils call forth more generous
sacrifices and more earnest appeals to heaven, the mystery of
this inward life of the church shines forth in marvellous events,
which overturn all preconceived human opinion, and confound the
wisdom of the world. We see, then, a throne, which remains firm
without any apparent support, and on this throne an old, helpless
man, who holds all the powers of revolution in check; we see a
society, against which are unchained all anarchical passions,
face the storm which threatens to overwhelm it, proclaim its
proscribed doctrines without fear, lead nations which had
wandered into the paths of naturalism back to the fold of the
church, and maintain its independence against the coalition of
tyrannies.
Has a pontificate ever shown this divine spectacle of the
struggle of spiritual forces with the powers of materialism
better than that of Pius IX.? To the increasing oppression of
vice the pope does not cease to oppose the miracles of virtue and
the fruits of grace which distinguish the elect of God. To the
insolent cries of error he replies by the calm affirmation of
eternal truth. The assaults of impiety he resists only by the
prayers of pure souls, by the intercession of those saints to
whom he has granted the honors of veneration, and by the aid of
the Blessed Virgin, whose conception he has proclaimed
immaculate. So, when a voice, disturbing the harmony of our love
and gratitude, was lately heard to ask the ill-timed question,
"_Why so many saints?_" what was the reply of the pontiff,
in whom his faithful children venerate the wise man of the
gospel, drawing from his treasure in opportune time the old good
and the new? "They reproach me," said he, with his accustomed
sweetness, "for making too many saints, but I cannot promise to
correct this fault. Have we not more need than ever of
intercessors in heaven, and models of religious virtue in the
world?"
{72}
In 1852, a distinguished prelate, who has since entered into the
repose of the Lord, Mgr. de Salinis, pointed out to the faithful
of the diocese of Amiens, in announcing a jubilee, the
supernatural character which distinguishes the acts of Pius IX.
"You do not ask," he wrote, "the reason of the munificence which
lavishes upon you favors which at other times go forth but rarely
from the treasure of the church. It suffices for us to know that
the Vicar of Jesus Christ receives light from above which is
given only to him. He who holds the keys of the kingdom of heaven
can alone tell the time when it is good to spread over the earth
the waves of divine mercy. He who directs the bark of the church
through the storms of this world can question the winds, and
discover in the horizon the signs which warn him to urge on the
journey of the ship. He who is the common father of all
Christians alone knows the needs of his immense family. His
glance, which watches over every place that the sun shines
upon--his solicitude, which embraces all evil and all virtue--his
heart, which feels all the sorrows of the Spouse of Christ--his
prayers, in which are summed up all the prayers of the church,
the particular inspiration which God reserves for him who holds
his place on earth--all these reveal to him, so far as is
necessary, the proportion which should exist between grace and
misery." [Footnote 9]
[Footnote 9: _Charges, Pastoral Instructions, and Various
Discourses of Mgr. de Salinis._ Paris, Vaton. 1856.]
This is the reply that should be made to these _petite
génies_ who presume to criticise the holy see, and put the
counsels of their mean diplomacy in the place of the inspirations
of God. Do these men, whose minds are so enlightened, not see
that they are in the presence of an administration of
supernatural power? Do they not suspect the strength of the
church militant ranged about its chief, and praying with him for
the assistance of the church triumphant? Do they not witness the
pious eagerness of the people to venerate, to invoke, and to
imitate the new patrons which are given them?
The eyes of all the obedient children of the church are now
turned toward Rome. The Catholic world, in a rapture of faith and
piety, is united to the pilgrims of the holy city, to the
bishops, and to the bishop of bishops, celebrating the triumph of
Peter, always living and reigning in his successor, applauding
the glory of the legion of the blessed, that the churches of
Poland, of Spain, of the Netherlands, of Italy, of France, and of
Japan have given to the church of Rome, their common mother, and
to the church of heaven, the lasting city of the elect.
We should have liked, if our space and time allowed, to say
something of the many beautiful subjects that this happy time
suggests; the coming, the episcopate, and the martyrdom of St.
Peter at Rome, the lives and virtues of the saints proposed for
our veneration. We should have taken pleasure in retracing the
sweet picture of that humble child of the people who represents
France in this illustrious group of the Blessed; of that little
shepherdess of Pibrac, whose name will henceforth be popular in
the fatherland of Genevieve and Joan of Arc. [Footnote 10] But
who among us has not heard of Germaine Cousin, her poor and
suffering life, her angelic virtues, the marvellous favors due to
her intercession? And who can add to the glory of this young
saint, who, in addition to the honor of being placed upon our
altars, has had such a historian as M. Louis Veuillot and such a
panegyrist as the Bishop of Poitiers?
[Footnote 10: _Vie, Vertus et Miracles de la B. Germaine
Cousin, bergère. Par M. Louis Veuillot. Paris, Palmé. OEuvres
de M. l'Eveque de Poitiers_, t. ii. p. 109.]
{73}
We propose, then, to follow those saints who are at present less
known among us, but which in the future must not be strangers. It
is a page in the history of the church which should be made
prominent, and in devoting our time to it we are sure of
obtaining the approbation of him whom God has given us to be at
once our Father and our Master.
II.
We are aware that even the name of the martyrs of Gorcum was
until recently quite unknown to the greater part of the learned.
Modern historians are not accustomed to eulogize the merits of
the victims of schism and heresy. But the church never forgets
her children who have perished in the cause of God; and God
himself takes care of his servants by multiplying miracles over
their tombs. These nineteen martyrs of Gorcum, who suffered for
the faith on the 9th of July, 1572, were placed in the ranks of
the blessed by Clement X. in 1675, and since that time they have
always been held in the greatest veneration in Belgium and
Holland. It is now almost three years since our Holy Father,
yielding to one of those inspirations of which his life is full,
felt the desire that the supreme honors of the church should be
paid to these noble champions of Jesus Christ; and January 6th,
1865, the day of the Epiphany, his holiness caused a decree to be
read in his presence, ordering the proceedings to be instituted
for their solemn canonization. The preamble of the decree
deserves notice, it says: "Born of the blood of Jesus Christ and
nourished with the blood of martyrs, the Catholic Church will be
exposed to bloody persecutions until the end of the world. And it
is not without a marvellous design of divine Providence that the
cause of these illustrious victims of the Calvinistic heresy of
the sixteenth century is taken up and completed in these unhappy
days, when heretics and false brothers are recommencing a war, an
implacable war, against Jesus Christ, against his holy church,
and against this holy apostolic see." The Holy Father expressed
the same thought in a discourse which followed the promulgation
of the decree. "The Most High," said he, "has reserved for this
time the glorification of these Holland martyrs, to prove to our
century, full of scorn or indifference for the revealed faith and
plunged in the grossest materialism, that the memory of the
martyr is never forgotten in the church of Jesus Christ, that
there are always men ready to shed their blood for that faith,
and a supreme authority which is always ready to recognize their
merits."
The object of the sovereign pontiff is not uncertain; it is to
call the attention of the world to the fact of the continual
recurrence of martyrs in the church; to cite these heroes, who
have sealed the faith with their blood, as an example and a
witness; such has been the special aim in canonizing the martyrs
of Gorcum. Far be it from the holy church to stifle the voice of
blood which has flowed from the veins of her children for
nineteen centuries! This blood, shed in every land from the most
barbarous to the most cultivated, bears witness everywhere that
the mother of martyrs is also the faithful spouse of Jesus
Christ.
{74}
The Catholic Church is peculiarly a _witness_, while the
sects about us are founded on negation and doubt. Our blessed
Lord was the first witness, and the truth of his testimony he has
sealed on the cross and in his cruel passion; the apostles were
witnesses to him who had sent them and the doctrine they were
bidden to teach; they have gone to give their testimony to the
Good Master; and now their faith and prayers sustain their
children even to the extremities of the earth, making them gladly
choose to die sooner than deny that faith which cost the Son of
God his life. This illustrious testimony of blood has never
ceased from the day of Calvary up to the present nineteenth
century; the succession of martyrs is like the church herself,
for it knows no limits of time or space; they are dying today in
Cochin-China and Corea, as they have died in Japan in former
years, as they have died in Europe, when Protestantism swept over
that fair portion of the flock of Christ, and as millions died in
the Roman Empire under the pagan Caesars. Look at what Rome
offers to-day to the world: a noble army of martyrs gathered
about Saints Peter and Paul, the victims of Nero, the valiant
soldiers of such fearless chiefs; the B. Josophat, Archbishop of
Polotsk, slain by followers of the Moscovite schism; B. Peter of
Arbues, murdered by Jews in the church of Saragossa; our nineteen
martyrs of Gorcum, the victims of the assassins of Calvinism; and
two hundred and five who sweetly yielded up their lives for the
faith in Japan.
Schism and heresy are always ready to conceal the blood which
stains so many pages of their annals, and to hide the crimes
which dishonor their ancestors. But, if the living are silent,
the dead are now speaking to us from their tombs; the victims of
Protestantism have risen from their graves to bear witness to the
truth. We cannot thank Pius IX. too much for proposing for the
veneration of the church these champions of the faith, who have
fallen so gloriously in the struggles of modern society, and on
the same battle-field, as it were, where we continue to engage
the foes of our holy mother, the church. Nor can we praise the
historians enough who have consecrated their talent to the sacred
work of writing the account of these persecutions, and showing
forth to Catholic and Protestant the glorious record of these
martyrs of the sixteenth century. The time has now come to count
our slain, that the remembrance of their fortitude may awake
Christian faith and zeal in our souls.
The three centuries that have passed since the impious Luther
first dared to raise the standard of revolt against the holy
church bear a resemblance to the first centuries of the Christian
era. To-day Protestantism is ready to fall to pieces; it is the
"sick man" among the religions of the world, as Turkey is among
the nations; it is the time to present the well-meaning souls
that its myriad sects embrace with a clear view of its origin,
and of what it now teaches in its closing years. The
reestablishment of the hierarchy in England and Holland, the
restoration of the episcopal see of Geneva, the beatification of
F. Canisius, the third centennial anniversary of the council of
Trent, and several other acts of the holy see show us the unity
of the Catholic Church compared with the disorganization of the
Protestant sects, which are now, we can truly say, without faith
or law. We should take care that those who have been misguided
should know the violent means the so-called reformers used to
establish their opinions.
{75}
Their origin was stained with the blood of the faithful, and they
have completed their course by adopting atheism. Such has been
the sad story of Protestantism; a destiny that must ever be the
fate of those who oppose the teaching of the church that our Lord
has bidden to convert the nations.
Vainly do Protestants attempt to evade the shameful acts of the
first "reformers" by showing its own scars and framing a list of
martyrs. No wounds are glorious while the cause they sustain is
an iniquity; and heresy can never be justified in its rebellion
against the church of Christ. If its apologists tell us that
revolution is necessary in order to get liberty, we deny this
theory of the end sanctifying the means, of a bad end sanctified
by unjust means. Let heretics not speak of their martyrs. A
martyr is one who witnesses, not one who protests; a man who
dies, not to sustain a passionate and obstinate denial, nor in
defence of speculative opinions and personal ideas, but as a
witness to seal the traditional teaching, to confirm the faith
which is sustained by unexceptionable evidence. A martyr is not a
conspirator, an instigator, and upholder of civil war; he lives
without reproach, defends the truth without fanaticism, suffers
without vain exaltation, and dies without anger; his memory is
irreproachable before God and man. Would that heresy could point
to such heroes! We are only too proud and happy in presenting to
our friends and foes the picture of such men, in whose holy hands
the church has put the palm of martyrdom.
III.
In the Low Countries more than elsewhere, Protestantism has
concealed from its posterity its sanguinary and tyrannical
instincts. It has perfidiously taken advantage of the national
sentiment and appears clothed in the cloak of liberty. How many
consider Philip II. a monster, the Duke d'Alba an executioner,
and that they are solely responsible for all the blood shed in
the Low Countries? But the time has come when we should no longer
allow ourselves to be duped by hypocritical declamations against
Catholic reprisals. They who have first taken arms and begun the
war are held responsible for the blood that is shed.
One of the most learned students of modern history, Baron
deGerlache, said, in opening the congress of Malines, on August
24th, 1864: "The history of the sixteenth century, written by
Protestants and copied by Catholics, needs to be rewritten from
beginning to end, from the real statement of the facts, which are
contained in the archives of the church. Then Protestants will
appear as they really are, such as they are now in Ireland and
elsewhere, aggressive, violent, intolerant, inaugurating
persecution when they are powerful enough, and demanding liberty
when they are weak." These words sum up the history of the
pretended reform, acting its double part, the farce of liberty
and the tragedy of blood, according to the number of its
partisans.
The seventeen provinces had unfortunately prepared their country
for the introduction of Protestantism; their nobility was immoral
and their people poorly instructed in their religion, strongly
attached to worldly goods, impatient of the control of the
church, while continual wars kept the people in a state of
excitement, and even the very geographical position of the
country and its commercial relations contributed to open the way
to the new and, as yet, unknown religion.
{76}
The church could not oppose the rapid growth of heresy; there
were but four episcopal sees in the whole territory; and,
although the colleges and abbeys were rich and numerous, they
were subservient to the civil power. The church could neither
guard them from the error, nor act with energy when it had
obtained a foothold in the land. Charles V., who was aware of the
seditious and anarchical character of the "reform," put forth in
vain all the severities of the law against its preachers; he
could not check the torrent. Error can scarcely be repressed by
force when it meets no opposition in the conscience, and when it
has already gained a part of a people.
The severity of Charles V., while it did not prevent the increase
of the heresy, at least kept the dissenters from forming a sect
powerful enough to menace the church or the state. Philip II.
added nothing to the edicts of his father. And this despot, this
tyrant, even made concessions to them that are to be regretted.
Three thousand Spanish troops were in the Netherlands at that
time, and they were sufficient to hold the rebels in check; but,
when they protested against the presence of these soldiers,
Philip recalled them to Spain. Cardinal Granvelle aided the
regent, Margaret of Parma, with his counsel: they protested
against this able and worthy minister, and Philip gave him his
dismissal. Everything served as a pretext for the disturbers; the
hypocritical and ambitious Prince of Orange, William of Nassau,
the chief of the leaders who had taken the name of Gueux,
[Footnote 11] spread discontent and insurrection on every side.
[Footnote 11: _Gueux_, beggars. The origin of the word
is as follows: Three hundred Calvinistic deputies were sent
to Margaret of Parma to protest against the measures of the
government. She became much alarmed at this demonstration,
when Count Barleymont said, "_Ce ne sont que gueux_,"
(they are only beggars,) alluding to the meanness of their
appearance. This imprudent remark was overheard and at once
adopted by the insurgents as their title. See Bouillet's
_Dictionnaire Universel d'Histoire et de Geographie_,
article Gueux.]
He found fault with all the measures that the government took and
all that he accused it of wishing to take. The creation of
fourteen new bishoprics by the king with the consent of the pope
was looked upon as an outrageous act of tyranny. At last the
government was unarmed, the victims had been sufficiently worked
upon by their leaders, and the Catholics were completely
intimidated: the rage of the sects was now let loose to pervert
and destroy the fair fabric that God had raised in the land. We
shall not attempt to describe the hideous saturnalias of the
"reform;" we leave that to Protestant authors, to Schiller, to
Schoel, to Prescott. We cite from the latter a few lines to give
our readers an idea of what learned Protestants say of their
ancestors: "The work of pillage and devastation was carried on
throughout the country. Cathedrals and chapels, convents and
monasteries, whatever was a religious house, even the hospitals,
were given up to the merciless reformers. Neither monk nor
religious dared to appear in their habit. From time to time,
priests were seen fleeing with some relic or sacred object that
they desired to preserve from pillage. To the violence they did,
they added every outrage that could express their scorn for the
faith. In Flanders, four hundred churches were sacked. The ruin
of the cathedral of Anvers could not be repaired for less than
four hundred thousand ducats. ... One becomes sad in seeing that
the first efforts of the reformers were always directed against
these monuments of genius, erected and made perfect under the
generous protection of Catholicism; but, if the first steps of
the reform have been made on the ruins of art, the good it has
produced in compensation cannot be denied, in breaking the chains
that bound the human mind and opening to it the domains of
science, to which until then all access had been refused." The
readers know how much this _compensation_ is worth.
{77}
And now may we ask, if it be true that Philip took too severe a
vengeance for these outrages, if the Duke of Alva followed the
rebels with an unreasonable severity, if all that is said of them
be multiplied a hundred times, is there a single argument in
favor of that liberty of conscience which makes its way at the
sword's point? Catholicism has never hesitated to disavow and
condemn all violence, and every _coup d'état_ done in her
name; she has always separated from politicians who pretend to
defend her in any other way than she demands; no "compensation"
can disarm her justice against criminal abuses which are excused
for "state reasons." The "reform" which does not feel itself
innocent ventures to proclaim an anathema which falls upon its
own doctrines and disciples. It is more easy for their historians
to turn the anger of posterity upon "the sallow tyrant before
whom the people were filled with terror," or upon the executor of
his vengeance, "the ogre thirsting for human flesh." Such authors
as M. Quinet find material here for their eloquence, (?) and
subjects for such articles as suit the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_. But history will pay but little attention to these
melodramatic effusions. What esteem can scholars demand when they
deliberately calumniate governments and nations in order to
conceal the heinous crimes perpetrated in the name of free
thought; or pamphlet-writers who industriously circulate the
silly stories of the inquisition, and have not a word, a single
word of blame for the sectarians who have covered Europe with
blood and ruins?
To those who desire to know, without seeking far, the judgment of
history upon these facts and persons, we counsel the reading of
Feller, whose opinions always bear the stamp of truth. "The
severity of the Duke of Alva--or, if you wish, his hardness, or
even his inhumanity--was legal, and conformed most scrupulously
to judicial proceeding, and forms a striking contrast with the
chiefs of the rebellion and their tools, whose cruelties had no
other rule than fanaticism and caprice. William of Marck, for
example, the _des Adrets_ of the Low Countries, murdered in
a single year (1572) more peaceable citizens and Catholic priests
than the Duke of Alva executed rebels in the whole course of his
administration." [Footnote 12] To support his statements, Feller
quotes three or four works which recount the atrocities of the
Protestants. We shall content ourselves with a statement of the
death of our nineteen martyrs, which happened in this same sad
year, 1572, and by the orders of this same William of Marck, one
of the most abominable of the wretches who figured in the
revolution of the sixteenth century. In this single example we
shall see the barbarous fanaticism of the "reform," and the
sublime virtues which distinguished these martyrs of the Catholic
faith: error will show its power as a persecutor; truth, the
divine fortitude with which it vests its faithful champions.
[Footnote 12: _Dictionnaire Historique_, article Tolède,
Ferdinand Alvarez du, duc d'Albe.]
{78}
IV.
The Duke of Alva had quelled the revolt: he had not rooted it out
of the land, for its numerous and powerful ramifications were
only waiting to begin a new life. The Prince of Orange, who had
taken care to avoid the punishment due to his treason by a
voluntary exile, was raising troops, conspiring and intriguing
with the great Iconoclastic sect of Calvin and with the court of
France, then under the influence of the Huguenots. The Admiral de
Coligny advised him to build a fleet and attack the northern
provinces, where the "reformers" were in greater numbers. There
had been Beggars on land, and now there were to be Beggars at
sea; they rivalled each other in massacre and sacrilege, to the
great honor of the "reform" and the "reformers," who by these
means had obtained a partial triumph. We are aware that political
prejudices are complicated with this religious war; but facts
prove beyond doubt that these people were urged on by a deep
hatred of the Catholic faith.
A fleet of about forty sail had been fitted out in the ports of
England, and from thence, under the direction of the ferocious
William of Marck, the Beggars made their course across the North
Sea and along the coast of Flanders. The Duke of Alva complained
to Elizabeth, Queen of England, and as she did not wish at this
time to break with Spain, she gave the corsairs orders to leave
the kingdom. This was in the spring of 1572. An adverse wind
drove them on the isle of Voom, at the mouth of the Meuse; the
neighboring port of Briel was without defenders, and was captured
by these Calvinists on April 1st, 1572. "They pillaged the
convents and churches about the city, broke images, and destroyed
all that bore marks of the Roman Church." [Footnote 13]
[Footnote 13: _The Delights of the Netherlands_. A
General History of the Seventeen Provinces. New Edition 1743,
t iv. p. 121.]
This town was fortified by the pirates, for whom it was a place
of refuge, and afterward the nucleus for insurrection. Three
months after its occupation, Brandt, a captain, ascended the
Meuse as far as Gorcum. As soon as the people saw his vessels,
they sought shelter in the citadel; religious and priests
hurriedly transported the sacred vessels and objects of
veneration to this place of safety. However, the town council and
the body of magistrates began a parley with Brandt, who assured
them that he only desired religious liberty, and that no outrage
would be committed by his followers. They opened the gates. The
band was increased by several of the inhabitants of the town, who
were partisans of this Calvinistic rebellion, and they then
required all the citizens to take an oath of allegiance to
William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, _governor royal_ of the
Holland provinces. During this time that the revolutionary troops
had possession of the city, the commander of the palace still
held out, but was eventually compelled to capitulate because of
the failure of hoped for supplies. Brandt solemnly promised to
spare their lives and give them their liberty; but, scarcely had
they taken possession of the place, when, forgetting their oaths,
they confined their victims as prisoners. The laymen were finally
released in consideration of large sums of money, except a few
who were put to death as firm Catholics and royalists; the
priests and religious, nineteen in number, remained: they could
hope for no deliverance but that of martyrdom.
{79}
Then the scenes that are ever recurring in the church, the scenes
of the passion of our Lord, were reenacted. As our divine Saviour
had to undergo the outrages of a brutal soldiery, so did these
heroes of Gorcum; they, like him, were forced through crowds of
infuriated people, who greeted them with scornful questions, with
blows, and scourges, and mockery, and imprecations, and, last of
all, with the gibbet. In the midst of this display of rage and
hate, our heroes were entirely tranquil, blessing God, praying
for their executioners, encouraging each other to bear their
sufferings with patience, gladly offering their lives as a
testimony to their sincerity in professing the dogmas denied by
the heretics; in one word, they bore themselves as true witnesses
of our Lord should.
The facts of their martyrdom have been told by well-informed
historians. God, who leaves nothing hidden in the lives of those
whom he has determined to honor, raised witnesses to testify to
the merits of those who were such faithful witnesses of his Son.
History celebrated their triumph while waiting for the church to
crown them. One of the most intrepid of the martyrs, Nicholas
Pieck, superior of the Franciscans, had a nephew living at
Gorcum, who was a witness to these events, and who is now known
as the celebrated William Estius, chancellor of the university of
Douai. He collected all the facts that were known, and then wrote
a complete history of their martyrdom, which reflects so much
credit upon his country and family. A young Franciscan novice,
who begged for mercy when he was to be executed, lived to tell of
the firmness of these confessors of the faith; a canon, Pontus
Heuterus, who was also unfaithful to the grace of martyrdom,
wrote the story in Holland verse. It is useless, however, to
detail a list of our authorities; for there are no pages in the
annals of the church more luminous than the acts of these
nineteen martyrs. Surely God has wished to erect from their
heroic virtue a monument to the sanctity of the church and to the
satanic character of this heresy. [Footnote 14]
[Footnote 14: The work of Estius, _Historic Martyrum
Gorcomiensium Libri Quatuor_, was first printed in Douai
in 1603. It was afterward republished, with notes and a
supplement, by M. Reussen, professor in the university of
Louvain. A French translation of Estius appeared at Douai in
1606, under the title, _Histoire Véritable des Martyrs de
Gorcum en Hollande_, etc. _Acta Sanctorum_, t. xxvii.
ad 9 Julii, fol. 736-847. _Esquisses Historiques des
Troubles des Pays-Bas an XVII. Siècle_. Par E. H. de
Cavrines. Deuxième édit. Bruxelles, Vromant. 1865.]
As we have already said, there was but one way to please these
Calvinistic executioners, and that was to renounce the faith; but
their victims chose rather to endure all the suffering that their
malignant ingenuity could suggest. The martyrs affirmed
successively the right of the church to impose laws in the name
of God, the divine maternity of the Blessed Virgin, and the
veneration which is due to the real presence of Jesus Christ in
the sacrament of the altar and the primacy of the pope.
The first day of their captivity (June 27th) was a Friday. They
had no food offered them but meat, from which they cheerfully
abstained, rather than put in doubt their fidelity to the
precepts of the church. There was but one who thought it
necessary for him to take some nourishment, and he was one of
those who did not persevere to the end.
In the following night, a band of Protestants rushed into their
cell and pretended that they had come to execute them
immediately. "Behold me," said Léonard Vechel, the aged pastor of
Gorcum, "I am ready." His assistant, Nicholas Van Poppel, was
dared to repeat what he had so often preached in the pulpit.
"Willingly," he answered, "and at the price of every drop of my
blood, I confess the Catholic faith; above all, the dogma of the
real presence of Jesus Christ in the holy eucharist."
{80}
They then threw a rope about his neck and began to strangle him;
the superior of the Franciscans was treated in the same way; they
were both choked until they fainted, when the ruffians held their
torches to the faces of their victims, recalling their lives in
this gentle way! "After all," said one of the monsters, "they are
only monks. Of what account are they? Who will trouble themselves
about them?"
On July 2d, the feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin,
Father Leonard was released for a short time, as his friends had
purchased permission for him to say Mass. The courageous pastor,
in an address to his flock, extolled the virtues of our blessed
Lady, and when concluding urged them to remain firm in the faith
of their fathers. This purchased for him increased tortures on
his return to the prison.
John Van Omal, the apostate canon of Liège, was the hero of
another of these pretended executions. He was more than a Judas,
for he was not only a traitor, but it was through his efforts
that the execution finally took place. Enraged at having been
foiled in his attack on Bommel, (July 3d,) he determined to
revenge himself on the priests and religious of Gorcum. At that
time the liberation of the captives was spoken of, as some
members of the town council had been sent to the Prince of Orange
to beg him to release them. The apostate, after reflecting upon
the possibility of their release, concluded that he had better
take them to the Count of Marck, who was at his headquarters in
Briel. In the middle of the night of the 5th, they were hurried,
scarcely clothed and without food, on board of a vessel, which
rapidly descended the Meuse. They reached Dordrecht at nine
o'clock, and Van Omal had an opportunity to satisfy his malice by
exposing the venerable band to the idle curiosity and unfeeling
taunts of a Calvinistic mob. They arrived at Briel in the
evening, but were detained on board the vessel all night, so that
the news of their coining might be well known and their foes
properly prepared to torture them. On the morning of the 7th, the
count, who esteemed himself particularly fortunate in having
these poor monks and religious to torment, ordered them to march
in procession through the town; he chose for himself a most
unenviable position, that of riding behind his unfortunate
prisoners, with a huge whip, and unfeelingly beating them as they
made their way through the throngs of infuriated people. That
nothing should be wanting to this humiliating scene, he commanded
the martyrs to sing: a _Te Deum_ was first intoned, and then
a _Salve Regina_. He sought to turn them into ridicule; but
their heroism made them sublime.
The afternoon of the 7th and the following morning were taken up
by discussions with the ministers in the presence of the count.
The generous soldiers of Christ sustained their belief firmly and
with dignity; they bore witness particularly to the dogma of the
eucharist, and to the supremacy of the Roman pontiff. "Renounce
the pope," said they to Father Leonard, "or you will hang."
"How," answered he, "how can you contradict yourselves in this
way? You are always proclaiming that you wish for religious
liberty, and that no one has the right to prevent the exercise of
your worship. And now you desire to force me to deny my faith! It
is better for me to die than to be untrue to my conscience."
{81}
However, a letter came from Gorcum, in which William of Nassau
ordered the clauses of the convention of June 26th to be strictly
observed in regard to the prisoners. This, of course, only
exasperated the Count of Marck, who saw that his prey might
escape him. As he was going to bed, after one of the orgies which
were habitual with him, he cast his eyes again over the note of
the Prince of Orange. He then for the first time perceived that
Brandt had sent him only a copy of the order, and had preserved
the original. This served as a pretext for a display of his
amiable temper, and he declared that he was master of the place,
and that it was high time for it to be known; an order was issued
at once to take the prisoners and conduct them to Ten Rugge,
[Footnote 15] a convent which he had sacked when he first
captured Briel. The torture began at about two o'clock in the
morning of Wednesday, the 9th of July; it was accompanied by
shameful outrages which we prefer to pass over in silence. Their
captivity had lasted twelve days, of which nine were passed at
Gorcum.
[Footnote 15: The Catholics of Holland have recently
repurchased this stolen convent for 16,000 florins. It will
soon be a place of pilgrimage for the pious people of Holland
and Belgium.]
Of the nineteen prisoners who were taken from that city, only
sixteen suffered death. Three priests and religious filled the
gaps in their noble band. "A mysterious judgment of Providence,
of which there is more than one example in the history of the
martyrs. There were nineteen called to martyrdom, and the
defection of some did not prevent the number being preserved to
the end." (R. F. Cahier, SJ.) We have mentioned two of these
unhappy deserters, whom God deigned to lead back to himself; the
third entered the service of the Count of Marck, and was hung
three months after for stealing. But apostasy did not always
preserve life, for we read that the curé of Maasdam was put to
death eight days after the martyrs, although he had renounced the
papacy.
William of Marck at last received his reward from a just
Providence; he was bitten by one of his dogs, and died in the
most horrible agony, amid shrieks of rage and despair. It is a
general law; the Neros are plunged in the depths of shame and
despair, while martyrs ascend to their eternal glory. Eighteen
centuries after his crucifixion, Peter receives the honors of a
triumph such as kings have never had; three centuries after their
torment, the nineteen martyrs of Gorcum are venerated in every
corner of the earth where Christianity is known.
We present to our readers the names of these martyrs: Fathers
Nicholas Pieck, superior of the Franciscans; Jerome Werdt;
Thierry Van Emden; N. Janssen; Willehad Danus, a venerable old
man of ninety years who did not cease repeating _Deo
Gratias_ during the twelve days of his confinement; Antony
Werdt; Godfrey Mervel; Antony Hoornaer; Francis de Roye, who was
scarcely twenty-four years of age, being the youngest of the
martyrs; Cornelius Wyk, and Peter Assche. The foregoing were all
Friars Minor. The Dominicans had a representative in the person
of Father John, of the province of Cologne, who was captured
while going to baptize an infant. Father Adrian Beek and his
curate, F. James Lacops, were seized on the night of the seventh
or morning of the eighth of July and sent to Briel, where they
joined those who had come from Gorcum; they were both
Premonstrants. There was a canon of St. Augustine, John
Oosterwyk, who was directing a convent of the order at Gorcum.
{82}
When he heard that his own convent (that of Ten Rugge, the place
of martyrdom) was sacked and the religious put to death, he
exclaimed, "Oh may our Lord deign to grant that I may die as
they have!" How exactly was his prayer granted! The following
were seculars: Leonard Vechel; Nicholas Van Peppel; Godfrey Van
Duynen, a doctor of theology and formerly rector of the
university of Paris; he had merited by his pure life the crown of
martyrdom that he received when more than seventy years of age;
and, lastly, Andrew Wouters, who was taken near Dordrecht, and
who was the third substitute for those who shrank from the trying
ordeal.
V.
We are not astonished that God by miracles, and the holy church
by her veneration, has made this episode of the religious
persecution of the Netherlands so prominent. If we will but
reflect, it offers to us the most precious teaching; it presents
one of those striking proofs which are sure to convince the good
sense of the people. A cause which succeeds by such crimes as
this is already judged; we are not called upon to condemn it. And
if this is the cause of a "_reformed_ religion," what need
has any honest man of any further arguments to convince him of
its error? Was Christianity established in the Roman empire by
overturning the government and giving up its inoffensive citizens
to pillage, to outrage, and to murder? Does the "liberty of
conscience" preached by the "reform" resemble the liberty that
the church asked of the Caesars, and which she is asking of
Protestant governments today? The champions of this modern
"liberty" imposed their doctrines upon unwilling people at the
point of the sword, while its opponents gave their blood in
defence of their religious rights. In countries where
Protestantism did not maintain itself by an unrelenting
despotism, the people eagerly returned to the faith of their
fathers, the very violence of the sects causing a healthful
reaction. [Footnote 16] And this was also the case with the
greater part of the provinces of the Netherlands, which gladly
threw off the yoke of William of Orange and returned to their
former allegiance--an example of a wavering faith being revived
by the lawlessness of its opponents. The sectaries retained only
seven of the seventeen provinces, now known as Holland, and which
were inundated with the blood of faithful Catholic priests. The
martyrs of Gorcum were only a little band of this vast army of
Jesus Christ. In the year 1572, there were more martyrs in the
Low Countries than in all the preceding centuries together: the
cradle of the republic of Holland floated in a sea of Catholic
blood.
[Footnote 16: "France," says a Protestant historian, "after
having been almost reformed, found herself, in the result,
Roman Catholic. The sword of her princes, cast into the
scale, caused it to incline in favor of Rome. Alas I another
sword, that of the reformers themselves, insured the failure
of the Reformation." (D'Aubigné, _History of the
Reformation_, vol. i. p. 86.)]
We wonder what learned and sincere Protestants, such as M.
Guizot, think in their hearts of these bloody pages of their
ancestors? Do they believe in the "compensation" that Mr.
Prescott talks about, and that such dreadful crimes were
necessary to purchase freedom of conscience, which, after all, is
only permission to believe nothing? "Notwithstanding the
disorders it caused," says M. Guizot, "and the faults it
committed, the reform of the sixteenth century has rendered to
modern times two great services." M. Guizot tells the truth; it
has.
{83}
It has given to the Catholic Church a noble army of martyrs, and
confirmed the promise of our Lord to Peter, when he declared "the
gates of hell shall not prevail against the church." "It (the
reform) reanimated, even among its adversaries, the Christian
faith." [Footnote 17] "It has imprinted upon European society a
decisive movement toward liberty." [Footnote 18] Liberty for whom
and liberty for what? For Calvinistic Holland, it was the liberty
of civil war, the liberty to rob unprotected convents, the
liberty to circulate immoral books, the liberty to follow
licentious desires, to desecrate the churches, and, above all,
the liberty to persecute the adherents of Catholicism.
[Footnote 17: We are at a loss to discover M. Guizot's
authority for this assertion. Erasmus, one of the most
learned men of the sixteenth century, says: "Those whom I had
known to be pure, full of candor and simplicity, these same
persons have I seen afterward, when they had gone over to the
gospellers, become the most vindictive, impatient, and
frivolous; changed, in fact, from men to vipers. . . .
Luxury, avarice, and lewdness prevail more among them than
among those whom they detest. ... I have seen none who have
not been made worse by their gospel." (_Epist. Tractibus
Germaniae Inferioris_.) "Our evangelists," says Luther,
"are now sevenfold more wicked than they were before the
Reformation. In proportion as we hear the gospel, we steal,
lie, cheat, gorge, swill, and commit every crime. ... The
people have learned to despise the word of God." (Luther,
_Werke_, ed. alt. tom. iii. p. 519.)]
[Footnote 18: _L'Eglise et la Société Chrétiennes en_
1861. Deuxieme édit. p. 8.]
Error must necessarily persecute, for this is the only way in
which it can predominate; it never feels sufficiently protected
against the truth over which it has obtained a temporary triumph.
It is first the tyranny of the sword, and then the tyranny of the
law. Public opinion has long been imposed upon by followers of
the "reform," for they have cried so lustily for religious
freedom and liberty of conscience that few have taken the trouble
to ascertain the fact that their acts have invariably belied
their words. But history, which has been made an accomplice to
this delusion, is now effectually unmasking it. If we attribute
the introduction of religious toleration to Protestantism, it is
not because it has practised it, but because it has made it
necessary. Truth has tolerated error, while error has continually
sought to exterminate the truth. The principle of religious
toleration was introduced by Catholic governments, where heresy
triumphed; as in England, Sweden, and Holland, the most severe
laws were enacted against the former faith, laws so cruel that we
can say they were written in blood, and that the church has been
for the past three centuries in a state of martyrdom in those
countries. We shall notice briefly some of the enactments of
Holland; but, before we do so, we will briefly refute a sophism
by which the Protestants attempt to palliate their atrocities.
The history of Protestantism is so constituted that, before any
question can be discussed, it is necessary to remove a number of
objections due either to ignorance or prejudice.
Religious intolerance, say they, was a characteristic feature of
the people of the middle ages. The church held its authority to
be a fundamental principle, and, seeing this put in danger, it
forgot the rights of liberty and used force and the arm of civil
power to enforce it dogmas. On the other hand, after liberty
conquered its rights, it unfortunately went beyond its doctrines,
and even embraced the opposite principle. Thus Christians
persecuted each other, until the progress of society led them to
mutual respect. But the illogical position of Protestantism is
apparent: it begins a war in the name of religious liberty, and
finishes by putting the church in a state of siege! The church
was, at least, consistent, for she never said that men were free
to deny their Maker and adopt a religion of their own brain or
that they possessed an imprescriptible right to preach and
disseminate false doctrine.
{84}
An illustrious bishop who lives now among the children of the
reformation, lately showed them on the forehead of their mother
this sign of contradiction, and defended the honorable
consistency which exists between the doctrines and the acts of
the church. "The church distinctly holds that society, as well as
the family, has its duties to Jesus Christ, and that God is
equally the Master and Lord of man, regarded as an isolated
individual, as of man in social relations with his fellows. She
looks back with joy upon the times when, seeing her liberty
protected, she became the inspirer of the Christian republic. ...
But, if she has thankfully received the protection of the sword
which vindicated her justice, and shielded her weakness when she
was forced upon the defensive, she has never wished it to be used
to impose doctrine; faith is not a forced belief, but a free
adhesion of both mind and heart to revealed truth. Liberty of
conscience, in its proper sense, far from being scouted and
condemned by the church, is the essential condition of her
spiritual sovereignty."
It was not enough to attempt to overturn the secular throne of
the spouse of Christ, the queen of European civilization; it must
be put in chains and confined in dungeons. Let us cite some of
the proscriptions of the Protestants in Holland:
"1596.--The Jesuits are forbidden to enter the country. Whoever
attends their seminaries or universities shall be banished from
the country."
"1602.--1st. The police are ordered to arrest any Jesuit, monk,
or priest of the papist religion.
"2d. The people are forbidden to take any oath or make any
promise to maintain the power of the Pope of Rome. Public or
private meetings, sermons, or collections in favor of the papal
superstition are prohibited."
Another placard decrees "that every person in holy orders shall
leave the country in less than six days, under pain of arrest and
being punished as an enemy to the country." It was also forbidden
Catholic teachers to instruct their pupils, if either of the
parents had been of the reformed religion; and to will any money
to any priest, religious, or for any hospital or religious
edifice.
This will be sufficient to give our Protestant readers an idea of
the liberty of conscience which flourished in Holland. Many
endeavor in these times to hide the accusing witness of these
acts, and to conceal entirely the manner in which the religion of
our forefathers has been overcome; but the day is breaking, the
shadows of heresy are fast fading away, and they will not be able
to bring them back again. Pius IX., in an allocution in
consistory on March 7th, 1853, alluded to the lamentable
calamities the church had suffered in the Netherlands. The court
of Holland, as it did not desire to acknowledge the odious acts
of its former government, sent a letter to the Roman court
protesting against these historical allusions. The able minister
of the holy see replied to this effrontery in the following
language: "The pontifical document only pointed out, in passing,
something that is fully told not only by Catholic, but also by
Protestant historians, who are interested in giving impartially
the true history of the facts." [Footnote 19]
[Footnote 19: Note of his eminence, Cardinal Antonelli.
"_Ami de la Religion_" t. clxi. No. 5552, July 11,
1853.]
{85}
There is but one resource for Protestant powers who blush at the
intolerance of those who have preceded them, and this is to
strike from their laws the unjust proscriptions they have
levelled against Catholicism. We owe it to justice to say that,
while several Protestant countries, Sweden, for example, retain
these unjust enactments, Holland is steadily giving up its former
fanaticism, and has fairly entered into the way of religious
liberty.
VI.
The persecution of the sword and the law have demonstrated the
cruel and hypocritical character of this heresy, at the same time
it has proved the vigor and stability of the church.
More than once in these nineteen centuries, it has been attempted
to extirpate Catholicism from the heart of a nation, as Russia is
trying to do now: We do not know that they have ever succeeded.
Even under Mohammedan rule, the church has maintained its
existence for more than twelve centuries in Turkey and in
Northern Africa; and though it has suffered one continual
persecution, and lost innumerable multitudes through martyrdom,
it counts to-day in these very countries more than three millions
of faithful children. [Footnote 20] In Japan, where missionaries
had scarcely time to sow the seeds of Catholic truth before a
savage war was waged upon it, its roots are still living, and
show after two centuries an unwavering fidelity to the faith.
[Footnote 21]
[Footnote 20: See Marcy's _Christianity and its
Conflicts_, p. 405, and Marshall's _Christian
Missions_, vol. ii. p. 24, for a more complete statement
of the church in those countries.--ED. C. W. The
_Bibliothèque de l'Ecole des Chartes_ for May to June,
1866, contains an interesting analysis of some curious
documents on the relations of Popes Gregory VII., Gregory
IX., Innocent IV., and Nicholas IV., with the Christians of
Africa.]
[Footnote 21: "When some Japanese martyrs were added to the
catalogue of saints a few years ago, there were found to be
in Japan some thousands of Christians who had preserved their
faith without any human ministry solely by the aid of their
good guardian angels."--_Discourse pronounced by the Holy
Father on the Promulgation of the Decree relative to the
Beatification, of the 205 Martyrs of Japan_, April 30,
1867.]
Heresy, inspired with the same fury as paganism and Islamism, has
exhausted every resource to destroy the ancient faith: the young
and flourishing churches of England and Holland proclaim its
failure. The Catholics have vanquished by faith those who
overcame them by force; the blood of martyrs is always the seed
of its liberty and life. Three centuries have passed, and God,
through his vicar, pronounces the word of resurrection:
_Puella, tibi dico, surge._ And she has risen, weak, but
glorious and full of hope; her fair countenance again shines over
the land of St. Boniface and St. Willibrord, making even heretics
tremble at her marvellous life. Poor fanatics! You said formerly,
"Renounce the pope, or you will be hung;" but how has God and the
children of those martyrs revenged your cruelty! The pope yet
rules at Rome; he appoints bishops in your cities to govern your
sees; he places your victims on the altar; your fellow-citizens
venerate these victims. The hour of the complete return of
Holland to Christianity cannot be much longer delayed. The
canonization of the martyrs of Gorcum is an additional element of
strength for Catholics, while it must cause the most bigoted of
its opponents to reflect upon the failure of Protestantism to
overthrow "the abominations of popery." "When Rome," says the
great bishop of Poitiers--"when Rome glorifies the saints of
heaven, she never fails to multiply the saints of earth."
--------
{86}
Carlyle's Shooting Niagara.
Of the many expressive words with which the English language has
been endowed few are more forcible than the little term "bosh."
For a long time we have in vain tried to discover a synonym with
which to relieve it from too frequent use, and we think that
Carlyle's last "essay" has gratified our patience. Thomas Carlyle
is what the world sometimes calls a philosopher. No one can deny
that he is a man of excellent abilities. Having been an
extraordinarily close observer of men and things from his
earliest childhood--and he is now seventy-two years old--and
having, from his first appearance in _Brewster's
Encyclopaedia_, gone through a literary career of forty-four
years with extraordinary success, the world is naturally
interested in any criticism he may see fit to pronounce upon it.
He will be judged, however, as severely as he judges, by those
who have placed him upon the little pedestal from which he looks
down. People are anxious to know whether in his old age he ought
to be dethroned. Naturally of a serious and taciturn mind, having
been buried from his youth amid the works of the most sombre and
gloomy of Germany's theorizers, and given ever to solitude and
meditation, it was not surprising that his writings ever
displayed excessive bitterness, and a distrust of human nature
more than Calvinistic; but, when we heard that, in the good old
age to which Providence had brought him, he had written his ideas
upon the present state of society, we expected to find a little
more of kindness and of love of truth than had been displayed by
Diogenes Teufelsdröckh, the "Great Censor of the Age." We must
regard _Shooting Niagara_ as the _résumé_ of the
thoughts of Carlyle's life. Coming out of his solitude, as he
tells us, to grapple with the problem of whither democracy is
drifting, and realizing, as he does, "that it is not always the
part of the infinitesimally small minority of wise men and good
citizens to be, silent," we expected, in spite of his modesty, to
meet something interesting and profitable. Interested we have
been, and so would we be at seeing the convulsions of a shark
brought to grief upon the strand. The only profit we have
received is the knowledge of how miserably small prejudice can
make a great mind. In the present paper Carlyle has used to
perfection (?) that curious style for which he has enjoyed
celebrity among many--a celebrity obtained pretty much like that
of certain metaphysicians, whose obscurity makes some give them
credit for profundity. As of two opinions Carlyle always chooses
the more uncharitable, so, of two ways of expressing an idea, he
invariably adopts the more obscure, intricate, and verbose. In
our endeavor to illustrate his position, we have been obliged to
select his more plain and simple passages, with a sacrifice very
often to the strength of our own opinions, which would have been
materially increased had we wished to try the patience of our
readers.
{87}
Paragraph No. 1 is devoted to a kind of clouding over of the
subject matter, in anticipation of the Carlylian thunder to
follow. We can see, however, that there are "three altogether new
and very considerable achievements lying ahead of us;" and the
first is, that Democracy is to complete itself, and run on till
each man is "free to follow his own nose, by way of guide-post,
in this intricate world." If the length of a man's nose indicates
correct perception, and an ordinary power of separating wheat
from chaff, then, though Mr. Carlyle's nose may be a post, it
must be a very small one. The second "achievement" is the
deliquescence and final evaporation of all religions. Such an
"achievement" would be wonderful, but how it can be terrible to
Mr. Carlyle we do not know; for he can have no concern about
future damnation, having been born, it would seem, without a
soul. The third "achievement" is, that "everybody shall start
free, and everywhere under enlightened popular suffrage. The race
shall be to the swift, and the high office shall fall to him who
is ablest, if not to do it, at least to get elected for doing
it."
This is _the_ "achievement." Of all the cuts which the
prescient genius of Carlyle has dealt his gushing heart, this is
the "unkindest cut of all." _Hinc_ those tears, _hinc_
those thunders, _hinc_ all that follows. With the exception
of a few hundred unimportant digressions, the slashing of these
"achievements" is the object of Carlyle's endeavor.
The commencement of paragraph two is characteristic of Mr.
Carlyle, who never omits a chance of showing a knowledge of
classic lore. He flings at once into your face the terrible
Antoninus with the cry, "Who shall change the opinion of these
people?" The quoted prophecy was certainly Greek to Mr. Carlyle,
as he thinks it proves that what, individually taken, is the
human face divine becomes, when collectively regarded, a cheese;
and that, when the human head is regarded in the masses, it has
about as much intellect as a cocoanut. In some of his paragraphs
he tries to prove a point or so, but in this one he plainly shows
that he cannot change the opinion of the masses, erroneous though
it be. He asserts that delusions seize whole communities without
any basis for their notions; he will not admit the possibility of
there being even a false one. He asserts that the world
reverberates with ideas eagerly made his own by each individual,
and affects to believe that the original propagator had no
arguments to enforce their adoption; nay, he seems to ignore the
existence of the first propounder, and to admit that thoughts
are, like cholera or any other pest, inhaled with the air. To be
sure, as though he felt the absurdity of his position, he invents
a _swarmery_ theory, in which he contends that ideas get
into the masses by means of some "commonplace, stupid bee," who
gets "inflated into bulk," and forms a swarm merely on account of
his bulk. But he forgets that the "bulk" of his specimen-bees,
Cleon the Tanner and John of Leyden, was, in the first case, the
flattery poured upon the people, and, in the second, a religious
fanaticism based upon well-defined though erroneous grounds. Two
better specimen-bees for a _swarmery_ theory could not have
been selected than the Athenian general and the fierce
anabaptist; but in neither case did the people swarm unless for
what they regarded as honey. To say the people may err is to say
they are not God; but to contend that they are insensible to
argument is worse than foolish. Were the laboring classes of
England whom Carlyle so severely berates but so many
_swarmeries_, he would be drowned in a horse-pond; but as
his theory is false, he will live a little longer--a specimen of
prostituted intellect and self-crushed humanity such as many of
his school have already presented for the firmer conviction of
their opponents.
{88}
Mr. Carlyle thinks our late war was "the notablest result of
swarmery." He calls "the nigger question one of the smallest
essentially," and says that "the Almighty Maker has made him (the
negro) a servant." With regard to the first of these two
opinions, the mass of humanity disagree with the perceptive
Thomas; as for the second, not having been present when the
ordinance was promulgated, we cannot deny that possibly Mr.
Carlyle knows more of the matter than we do. But, when we are
told that, "under penalty of Heaven's curse, neither party to
this preappointment shall neglect or misdo his duties
therein--and it is certain that servantship on the _nomadic_
principle, at the rate of so many shillings a day, _cannot_
be other than misdone"--we thank Providence that all armed men
are not Carlyles. Take away the right of the laborer to leave his
master when he feels he can better himself, and the earth would
become a pandemonium. Lest his position may be mistaken Mr.
Carlyle tells us that the relation between master and servant
must become like wedlock, which was once nomadic, but is now
permanent. To refute such "philosophy" would be to notice the
ravings of a madman. In commenting upon the Reform movement, Mr.
Carlyle kindly devotes a long passage to prove for us that
freedom does not mean liberty to sin, and then informs the
English nation that each privilege it has wrung from the
monarchy, each extension of the suffrage, was a strap untied from
the body of the devil, so that the devil is now an "emancipated
gentleman." Having thus shown that to really tie up his satanic
majesty for the advent of the millennium we must go back to the
good, innocent days of Assuerus and Nabuchodonosor, or, at least,
to the pure times of Caligula, Mr. Carlyle opens his third
paragraph.
We meet with something refreshing here. Although the extension of
the franchise is so evidently nothing but "a calling in of new
supplies of blockheadism, gullibility," etc., that Mr. Carlyle
thinks his opponents to be men of "finished off and shut up
intellect, with whom he would not argue," he feels a "malicious
and _justice-joy_" in the fact of England's being about to
take the Niagara-leap, and, after some ferocious experience of
the horrors of democracy, having a chance to come up washed of
her hypocrisy, "the devil's pickle in which she has been steeped
for two hundred years," and thus to show herself regenerated and
ready for heaven. The desperate philosopher must have been
reminded at this point that most who "shoot" Niagara get smashed,
and don't come up regenerated or unregenerated; for he runs out
of his way to give a howl at her majesty's ministry for not
having rewarded Governor Eyre, and then stops to dabble a little
more in England's "hypocrisy," which he calls "the devil's
choicest elixir." We fear you misname that curious brine, Mr.
Carlyle. You have been drinking of it, and your language is
unchoice and simply disgusting. Having taken a lesson in
descriptive geography, Mr. Carlyle now opens his fourth
paragraph, ready for the consequences of a trip over the falls.
"From plebs to princeps there is no class intrinsically so
valuable and recommendable as aristocracy;" and it is to "this
body of brave men and beautiful polite women" that Mr. Carlyle
looks with imploring, half-despairing eyes for the creation of a
new and better England after the inevitable "immortal smash" of
the present.
{89}
He thinks that, in the smash-up of all things English, this class
will be alone unsmashed, because no other class dislikes it:
"they are looked up to with a vulgarly human admiration, and a
spontaneous recognition of their good qualities and good
fortune." We are glad to have found one idea upon which we can
agree with Mr. Carlyle. We believe that, of all the peoples of
Europe, the English will be the last to assert the principle of
political equality. Great and influential men are contending for
its actuation, and powerful journals are lending it their aid,
but their influence is in reality felt more upon the Continent
than in England herself. It may be owing to the degrading
ignorance to which the masses have been reduced, and it may not;
but, with regard to their love of aristocracy, the same may be
said as Mr. Carlyle says, though unjustly, perhaps, of England's
hypocrisy, "they are saturated with it to the bone." Mr. Carlyle
accuses, in most virulent terms, the varnishing proclivities of
his countrymen, who, in spite of the agitation of centuries, he
thinks, never really rebuild or even repair. But his going to the
root of the evil would be somewhat averse to our poor ideas of
propriety, if we may judge by his "devil's strap" theory. Yet no
one can deny that English politicians, whether tory or liberal,
are almost universally varnishers. In the various struggles for
ascendency for which reform has been the pretext, very often the
conquering power has gone back of its former principles, and been
utterly averse to any extension of the rights of the masses. In
those cases where through intimidation, such as in the present
reform bill, an extension of the franchise has been granted, it
has been merely a diminution of the amount of property necessary
as qualification. Tories and liberals alike recognize the
principle of distinction; they berate each other merely as to its
extent. It is not unlikely that, after a few more reform bills
have passed, there will be one put through, making twopence the
price of the "privilege" of voting; nor is it at all probable
that the few friends of manhood suffrage will ever in their
lifetime see their theory in practice on English soil. Though we
agree, however, with Mr. Carlyle in this one fact, we cannot
believe with him that to the aristocracy of England or that of
any other land is exclusively confided by God and by reason a
country-saving mission. If the selling of one's country to the
foreigners, or the betrayal and robbery of one's vassals,
constitute, such a mission, then the almost constant history of
Italy, Ireland, and Poland will yet set up a new choir of
celestial spirits _crême de la crême_. When Bulwer invented,
in his _Strange Story_, a man composed of body and mind,
without soul, people laughed--even those who admired
Chateaubriand's idea of man's being constituted of body, soul,
and _bête_. They were wrong, for Bulwer has talked with
Carlyle. But, though Mr. Carlyle may have no soul, he has not
entirely lost his reason, little though there seems to be of it
exercised by him. As if he realized that his blind and
unscrupulous devotion to _titled_ aristocracy would be
ridiculed by all outside of his _ipse dixit_ crowd of
philosophical pigmies, he beats a half-retreat with the dismal
"and what if the _titled_ Aristocracy fail us?" But charge
again, Carlyle! About face we have him as quick as lightning. To
be sure, the masses, "with whatever cry of 'liberty' in their
mouths, are inexorably marked by destiny as _slaves;_" but
to save England after her "immortal smash," when titles fail, she
will yet rely upon "the unclassed aristocracy by nature, not
inconsiderable in numbers, and supreme in faculty, in wisdom,
human talent, nobleness, and courage, 'who derive their patent of
nobility direct from Almighty God.'"
{90}
Forgive us, sweet Thomas! 'Tis true that this sounds, after your
last few remarks, like the declaration of one who, on finding it
impossible to cross the Atlantic upon a donkey cries out that
he'll try a steamship; but yet forgive us for the past--there is
about this latter speech a ring of genuine metal. 'Tis ability
and courage, and not blood and rank, you depend upon? Alas! our
hopes have vanished. The man of ability, of innate worth, is of
some avail, but he is not fit to rule until the _blood_
comes in. He must become absorbed into the good old stock;
_Orson_ must be _Valentinized_. Still the cry, "Blood
is blood." Of the "industrial hero," Carlyle's aristocrat by
nature, a transmogrification must take place ere he can wear the
crown or wield the baton, and the change is--new blood for his
children, and for himself a new alliance. "If his chivalry is
still somewhat in the _Orson_ form, he is already, by
intermarriage and otherwise, coming into contact with the
aristocracy by title; and by degrees will acquire the fit
_Valentinism_, and other more important advantages there. He
cannot do better than unite with this naturally noble aristocracy
by title; the industrial noble and this one are brothers born,
called and impelled to cooperate and go together." The state
cannot be saved unless by aristocracy of blood. Even when it
condescends to avail itself of the energies of the plebeian, it
must take that plebeian out from the throng of "brutish
hobnails," and make of him a titled aristocrat. Only this and
nothing more is Carlyle's idea. Even though the collection of
titled rulers become emasculated for all good, and for existence
are forced to recruit their ranks from the vulgar crowd, each
conscript _Orson_ must not only come under the polite
influence of _Valentine_, but must acquire the "other more
important advantages" found in his society. If _Valentinism_
is necessary, and the titled gentry are already possessed of the
"_more_ important advantages," why not use a born
_Valentine?_ The truth is, that Mr. Carlyle regards
aristocracy very much as we would a man, and the _vulgus_
very much as we would meat or turnips. Man stands first in the
order of mundane creation; but he requires nutriment, and so eats
meat and turnips, absorbs them into his blood, becomes stronger,
but remains still a man, lord of creation, meat and turnips
included. As meat and turnips play their allotted part in
relation to man, so has the _plebs_ its task assigned
precisely for the benefit of aristocracy. Heaven has placed the
irrevocable seal of slavery upon the "nigger," and whoever
interferes to remove that seal is as guilty of sacrilege as
though he robbed the altar of its victim. As for the white
"nigger," the system of "nomadic" servantship by means of which
he is not a real "Nigger" is a "misdeed," and--oh! listen,
history! "never was, and never will be possible, except for brief
periods, among human creatures." To the establishment of these
canons of his social system, Mr. Carlyle devotes the greater part
of his essay--his fourth, fifth, and sixth paragraphs, and part
of the seventh. When England shall have shot Niagara, therefore,
her titled aristocracy is to recreate her, and the process is to
be the rendering "permanent" the relation between master and
servant; then will the devil be again tied up, and then will come
the millennium.
{91}
Well does Mr. Carlyle observe, however, that it will be a long
time "before the fool of a world opens its eyes to the tap-root"
of its evils, and that, when it "has discovered it, what a
puddling, and scolding, and jargoning there will be before the
first real step toward remedy is taken!"
Mr. Carlyle's seventh paragraph is taken up with some pretty
sound advice upon domestic economy, especially upon the "cheap
and nasty" tendency of the times, which leads us to be too often
contented with appearances instead of realities. His remarks upon
the inferiority of the London brick of modern make are practical,
but the moral he draws about the necessity of rebuilding England
at once and properly is much more so. It is well, however, for
humanity that those Englishmen who wish to rebuild her have a
different system of philosophy from that Mr. Carlyle advocates at
present. It is well, also, for humanity that, while it is not
impossible that an experienced "drill-sergeant," such as he
presents in his concluding paragraph as a remedy for our
insubordination in all matters, would be a blessing, it is well
that heaven has not given him the baton. Mr. Carlyle gave to the
world in 1840 his entire political system in his _Hero
Worship_, and it is the same substantially in his present
essay. Then he told us that to heroes alone belonged the right to
govern society, and that the duty of society was to discover
these providential beings and to blindly obey them. Cromwell and
Napoleon he presented as types of this heroism. By his many
allusions to "Oliver" in his present essay and his two entire
paragraphs upon his Industrial and his Practical Hero, we see
that he has not yet realized that the very necessity of making
and following heroes proves the still greater necessity of
raising people to a higher appreciation of the dignity of their
manhood. Could the "devil's strap" theory be actuated, there
would be in the state a hero, but he would only be great because
his people were contemptible. Although Mr. Carlyle promised to
say something about the second "achievement" of democracy,
namely, the gradual deliquescence and final evaporation of all
religions under its baneful influence, he says nothing whatever
about God or religion. His illiberality, bitterness, and love of
tyranny make us suspect that in his heart there dwells but little
love for that which cannot but be liberal, kind, and respectful
to the rights of man. Indeed, one finds in this essay an
undercurrent of the same nature as the spirit shown in Carlyle's
works of middle-life, especially in his _Latter-day
Pamphlets_, namely, individualism, raised to the dignity of a
principle of morality and of a one only rule for the safety of
mankind.
Most men have an ideal of their own of the beautiful in both the
aesthetic and the ethical order. Many men of thought have formed
to themselves an ideal of a happy and prosperous country, of a
wise and beneficent government, and so has Mr. Carlyle. An ideal
is always a key to the workings of the brain and to the
aspirations of the heart. Mr. Carlyle's accords precisely with
what we can gather of both in his present as well as most all his
other writings. In giving it to the public, he puts his seal upon
all his philosophical speculations, and shows his opponents that
he is game to the end. It is his "_La garde meurt, mais ne se
rend pas_." For the establishment of his Utopia, he sails to
the West Indies in company with a "younger son of a duke, of an
earl, or of the queen herself." He keeps shy of Jamaica, (and
well he may,) and goes to Dominica, an island which is "a sight
to kindle a heroic young heart."
{92}
He gets grandly pathetic, and describes Dominica as "inverted
wash-bowl;" its rim for twenty miles up from the sea is fine
alluvium, though unwholesome for all except "niggers kept
steadily at work;" its upper portion "is salubrious for the
Europeans," of whom he puts to dwell 100,000, who are "to keep
steadily at their work a million niggers on the lower ranges." He
pulls up the cannon which are now going to honeycomb and oxide of
iron in the jungle, and plants them firmly on the upper land to
guard his niggers and keep off the sacrilegious invader. With
tears of mingled joy and regret he cries, "What a kingdom my poor
Frederick William, followed by his Frederick, would have made of
this inverted wash-bowl; clasped round and lovingly kissed and
laved by the _beautifulest_ seas in the world, and beshone
by the grandest sun and sky!" This, then, is the end for which
Carlyle has lived seventy-two years; this is what he has learned
by fifty years' study of history and political economy! Three
wise men of Gotham once went to sea in a tub and came to grief
therein. Carlyle might imitate their example, and, bidding adieu
to the "brutish hobnails" whom he is powerless to regenerate, go
out as far as he would: he could never be so much at sea as he
was when he penned this remarkable essay.
--------
Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.
Abbot Alois said: "Unless a man say in his heart, 'Only God and I
are in this world,' he will not find rest."
Abbot Hyperchius said: "He is really wise who teaches others by
his deeds, and not by his words."
Abbot Moses said: "When the hand of the Lord slew the first-born
of Egypt, there was no house in that land in which there lay not
one dead."
A brother asked him: "What does this mean?"
The father answered: "If we look at our own sins, we will not see
the sins of others. It is foolishness for a man having a corpse
in his own house to leave it and go to weep over that of his
neighbor."
Abbot Marcus said to Abbot Arsenius: "Why do you avoid us?"
He answered: "God knows I love you, but I cannot be with God and
with men."
--------
{93}
An Old Guide to Good Manners.
In the first number of _The Catholic World_ we gave our
readers some account of the great Christian school of Alexandria
in the time of St. Clement, the philosopher. The article,
borrowed from _The Dublin Review_, sketched the corrupt,
luxurious, and effeminate society of the Egyptian
metropolis--that gay, bustling, frivolous city which was to the
old Eastern world what Paris now is to the continent of
Europe--and showed how St. Clement thought it well worth his
while to spare an occasional hour from the discussions of
philosophy and dogma, and the definition of a code of Christian
ethics, to rebuke the scandalous luxury of dandies and
_gourmands_, and the follies of fashionable ladies. It would
have been but a meagre code of ethics, indeed, which had
overlooked the busy trifles that made up so much of the life of
Alexandrian gentlefolks. The teacher who would form a better
school of morality could not confine himself to the church and
the market-place. He must enter the bath and the banquet-hall,
the shops of the silk merchant, the jeweller, and the perfumer.
He must touch with sharp hand little things which are only
foolishness to us, but, to the pagan society of Egypt, made up a
large part of the sum of human existence. All this St. Clement
did, and the substance, if not the words, of his directions to
the flock has come down to us in the pages of his
_Instructor_.
It is a curious picture which he gives us of Alexandrian manners;
but we question, after all, if much of what he says will not
apply pretty well to our own day. He begins with the diet. This,
he remarks, ought to be "simple, truly plain, suiting precisely
simple and artless children." He had no faith in the fattening of
men as one fattens hogs and turkeys. If he had lived in the days
of prize-fights and rowing-matches, he would have inveighed
against the processes of "training," and looked with no favor
upon a bruiser or a boatman getting himself into condition with
raw beef-steaks and profuse sweating. Growth, and health, and
right strength, says the venerable father, come of lightness of
body and a good digestion; he will have none of the "strength
that is wrong or dangerous, and wretched, as is that of athletes,
produced by compulsory feeding." Cookery is an "unhappy art," and
that of making pastry is a "useless" one. He points the finger of
scorn at the gluttons who "are not ashamed to sing the praises of
their delicacies," and in, their greed and solicitude seem
absolutely to sweep the world with a drag-net to gratify their
luxurious tastes. They give themselves "great trouble to get
lampreys in the straits of Sicily, the eels of the Meander, and
the kids found in Melos, and the mullets in Sciathus, and the
muscles of Pelorus, the oysters of Abydos, not omitting the
sprats found in Lipara, and the Mantinican turnip; and,
furthermore, the beet-root that grows among the Ascraeans; they
seek out the cockles of Methymna, the turbots of Attica, and the
thrushes of Daphnis, and the reddish-brown dried figs, on account
of which the ill-starred Persian marched into Greece with five
hundred thousand men.
{94}
Besides these they purchase birds from Phasis, the Egyptian
snipes, and the Median pea-fowl. Altering these by means of
condiments, the gluttons gape for the sauces; and they wear away
their whole life at the pestle and mortar, surrounded with the
sound of hissing frying-pans." Do we not feel a little ashamed at
reading this? Are we so much better than the gluttons of Egypt?
They sent to Abydos for their oysters, and we export the
shell-fish of Norfolk and Saddle Rock to all parts of the
country. If they yearned for snipe, so do we. If they had a
hankering after eel pot-pies, pray, is the taste unknown to
ourselves? Was the Median pea-fowl, we wonder, a more costly
luxury than woodcock, or the Sicilian lamprey worse than Spanish
mackerel? Perhaps we do not quite "sweep the world with a
drag-net;" but that is only because we should gain nothing by it.
We may not ransack the four quarters of the globe for unknown
viands; but we lay distant climes and far-off years, under
contribution to furnish us with rare and luscious wines. The good
saint, had he lived in the nineteenth century, would have
delighted in Graham bread; for he blames his countrymen for
"emasculating their bread by straining off the nourishing part of
the grain." He inveighs against "sweetmeats, and honey-cakes, and
sugar-plums," and a multitude of desserts, and suppers where
there is naught but "pots and pouring of sauce, and drink, and
delicacies, and _smoke_" The smoke to which he alludes is
undoubtedly the fume of the "hissing frying-pans," but it almost
seems as if he were describing a modern carouse with punch and
tobacco. The properest articles of food are those which are fit
for immediate use without fire. The apostle Matthew ate "seeds,
and nuts, and vegetables, without flesh;" and St. John the
Baptist, "who carried temperance to the extreme, ate locusts and
wild honey." St. Clement does not give us his authority for the
statement regarding St. Matthew's diet; nor, it may be objected,
is there any evidence that the Baptist did not cook his locusts
before he fed upon them. In some parts of the East, where locusts
are still regarded as a delicacy, they are prepared for the table
by pulling off the legs and wings, and frying the bodies in oil.
But Clement's object was not so much to prescribe a bill of fare
as to teach men of gluttonous proclivities how to emancipate
themselves from the thraldom of that "most lickerish demon," whom
he calls "the Belly-demon, and the worst and most abandoned of
demons." First of all, we must guard against "those articles of
food which persuade us to eat when we are not hungry, bewitching
the appetite." (How he would have shuddered at a modern grand
dinner, with sherry-and-bitters first to whet the palate; then
three or four raw oysters, just to give a relish to the soup, the
fish, and the _entrées_; and in the middle of the repast a
sherbet, or a Roman punch, to wipe out the taste of all that had
gone before, and give strength for a few more courses of meat!)
Then, being naturally hungry, he says; let us eat the simplest
kind of food; bulbs, (we hope he does not mean _onions_,)
olives, certain herbs, milk, cheese, fruits, all kinds of cooked
food without sauces, and, if we must have flesh, let it be roast
rather than boiled.
Wine, of course, ought to be taken in moderation, if it is taken
at all; and it is well to mix it always with water, and not to
drink it during the heat of the day, when the blood is already
warm enough, but to wait until the cool of the evening.
{95}
Even water, however, must be drunk sparingly, "so that the food
may not be drowned, but ground down in order to digestion." What
a disgusting picture the holy philosopher draws of those
"miserable wretches whose life is nothing but revel, debauchery,
bath, excess, idleness, drink!" "You may see some of them,
half-drunk, staggering, with crowns round their necks like
wine-jars, vomiting drink on one another in the name of
good-fellowship; and others, full of the effects of their
debauch, dirty, pale in the face, and still, above yesterday's
bout, pouring another bout to last till next morning." Moreover,
he entirely disapproves of importing wines. If one must drink,
the product of one's native vines ought to suffice. "There are
the fragrant Thasian wine, and the pleasant-breathing Lesbian,
and a sweet Cretan wine, and sweet Syracusan wine, and Medusian
and Egyptian wine, and the insular Naxian, the highly perfumed
and flavored, another wine of the land of Italy. These are many
names, but for the temperate drinker one wine suffices."
St. Clement concerns himself not only with what people ought to
eat and drink, but with how they ought to eat and drink it. The
chief thing necessary at table is temperance; the next is good
manners. We remember to have had the pleasure and profit of
reading once a modern hand-book of etiquette which abounded in
the most amazing instructions for gentlemen and ladies at their
meals. When you go to a dinner party, it said, do not pick your
teeth much at table. Do not breathe hard over your beef. Don't
snort while you are eating. Don't make a disgusting noise with
your lips while taking in soup. And don't do twenty other
horrible things which no gentleman or lady would any more have
thought of doing than of standing up on their chairs or jumping
upon the table. But St. Clement's directions for polite behavior
show that worse things than these were in vogue in those beastly
old days. He pours out words of indignation and contempt upon
those 'gluttonous feasters who raise themselves from the couches
on which the ancients used to recline at their banquets, stretch
out their necks, and all but pitch their faces into the dishes
"that they may catch the wandering steam by breathing in it."
They grab every minute at the sauce; they besmear their hands
with condiments; they cram themselves ravenously--in such a hurry
that both jaws are stuffed out at once, the veins about the face
are raised, and the perspiration runs all over as they pant and
are tightened with their insatiable greed.
Suppose St. Clement had dined on board an American steamboat!
Then about drinking. In this, too, the old Alexandrians must have
had some queer ways. "We are to drink without contortions of the
face," says the saint, "not greedily grasping the cup, nor,
before drinking, making the eyes roll with unseemly motion; nor
from intemperance are we to drain the cup at a draught; nor
besprinkle the chin, nor splash the garments while gulping down
all the liquor at once--our face all but filling the bowl, and
drowned in it. For the gurgling occasioned by the drink rushing
with violence, and by its being drawn in with a great deal of
breath, as if it were being poured into an earthenware vessel,
while the throat makes a noise through the rapidity of
ingurgitation, is a shameful and unseemly spectacle of
intemperance. ... Do not haste to mischief, my friend. Your drink
is not being taken from you. Be not eager to burst by draining it
down with gaping throat."
{96}
Sad to say, even the women were addicted to "revelling in
luxurious riot," and "drawing hiccups like men." It used to be
the fashion for ladies to drink out of alabaster vessels with
narrow mouths--quite too narrow, Clement complains and, to get
at the liquor, they had to throw their heads back so far as to
bare their necks in a very unseemly manner to their male boon
companions, and so pour the wine down their throats. This custom
the saint strenuously condemns. It was adopted because the women
were afraid of widening their mouths and so spoiling their
beauty, if they rent their lips apart by stretching them on broad
drinking-cups.
These drinking-cups themselves, and much other furniture of the
table, were causes of offence in the good father's eyes, and he
thunders against them with indignant eloquence, as marks of the
shameless luxury and extravagance which pervaded the daily life
of the richer classes. The use of cups made of silver and gold,
and of others inlaid with precious stones, is out of place, he
declares, being only a deception of the vision. For, if you pour
any warm liquid into them, they become so hot that you cannot
touch them, and, if you pour in anything cold, the material
changes its quality, injuring the mixture. St. Clement was right.
Of jewelled drinking-vessels we freely confess that we have no
personal knowledge; but we have a very distinct and painful
recollection of certain silver mugs and silver-gilt goblets which
used always to be given to children by their god-parents, and
from which the unfortunate youngsters were forced to drink until,
say, they were old enough to leave boarding-school. How many a
time have we not longed in our boyhood to exchange the uneasy
gentility of a chased silver cup for the plain comfort of a good,
honest tumbler of greenish pressed glass! How hot those dreadful
cups used to be when filled with a vile, weak compound known in
the nursery as tea! How they used to hide the refreshing sparkle
of the clear, cold water in summer, and the beautiful color of
the harmless decoctions, flavored with currant jelly or other
delicacies, which were allowed us on rare occasions of festivity!
St. Clement was right; they were out of place and a deception of
the vision. But there was many a vessel on the Alexandrian
tables, besides the drinking-cups of silver, and gold, and
alabaster, which shocked this fearless censor of manners and
morals. Away, he cries, with Theracleian cups and Antigonides,
and Canthari, and goblets, and limpet-shaped cups, and the
endless forms of drinking-vessels, _and wine-coolers and
wine-pourers_ also. Away with the elaborate vanity of chased
glass vessels, more liable to break on account of the art, and
teaching us to fear while we drink. Ah! had he seen a Christian
dinner-party in the nineteenth century, with the delicately cut
wine-glasses, slim of stem, fragile as an eggshell, scarcely safe
to touch; the claret-jugs of Bohemian ware, elaborately
ornamented and hardly less costly than gold; the curiously
contrived pitchers for icing champagne; the decanters, the
water-flagons, the decorated goblets, and all the other glass and
china ware, what would good St. Clement have said? Many other
things are there which he reprehends among the apparatus of the
banquet, and of these some we have assuredly copied or retained,
while of others we can only conjecture the nature and uses.
{97}
There were silver couches, and pans and vinegar saucers, and
trenchers and bowls, and vessels of silver, and gold, and easily
cleft cedar, and thyme-wood, and ebony, and tripods fashioned of
ivory, and couches with silver feet and inlaid with ivory, and
folding-doors of beds studded with gold and variegated with
tortoise-shell, and bedclothes of purple and other colors
difficult to produce. And let no one wonder that he should
enumerate bedclothes among the objectionable furniture of a
dining-room. It must be remembered that in those gluttonous old
times people took their meals not sitting on chairs, but
reclining on couches, so that it would hardly be out of the way
to say that they breakfasted, and dined, and supped in bed. They
used to eat and drink so much that this attitude was perhaps, on
the whole, the most convenient for them. Among the other blamable
luxuries which he enumerates are ivory-handled knives. The basins
in which it was customary to wash the feet and hands before meals
ought to be of no better material than common potter's ware. You
can get off the dirt just as well in a cheap earthen washbowl,
says the saint, as in one of price; the Lord did not bring down a
silver foot-bath from heaven.
Music at feasts is an abomination to be carefully shunned, and a
comic song is unworthy of a Christian gentleman, for "burlesque
singing is the boon companion of drunkenness." If people occupy
their time with "pipes and psalteries, and Egyptian clapping of
hands," they become, by degrees, quite intractable, and even
descend so low as to "beat on cymbals and drums, and make a noise
on the instruments of delusion." We must be on our guard against
whatever pleasure effeminates the soul by tickling the eye or the
ear, and so must shun "the licentious and mischievous art of
music," which disturbs the mind and corrupts the morals. Grave,
temperate, and modest music may, indeed, be permitted, but
"liquid" strains and "chromatic harmonies" are only for immodest
revels. All which shows that in Clement's time there must have
been a wickedness associated with music which that glorious art
has now happily lost. The psalmist, it is true, exhorts us to
praise the Lord in the sound of the trumpet, with the psaltery,
the lyre, the timbrel and dance, the chords, and the organ, and
the clashing cymbals; but the Alexandrian philosopher interprets
all this passage symbolically. The trumpet to which King David
refers is the blast which shall wake the dead on the last day.
The lyre is the mouth struck by the spirit. The timbrel and dance
are the church "meditating on the resurrection of the dead in the
resounding skin." Our body is the organ; its nerves are the
strings by which it has received harmonious tension; and the
clashing cymbal is the tongue, resounding with the pulsations of
the mouth. Reading St. Clement's instructions, with no light by
which to interpret them, except the bare words of the text
itself, it would seem to be but a solemn and joyless life which
he inculcated a perpetual Puritan Sunday--than, which, probably,
nothing more doleful was ever imagined of man. But we must
remember that he lived in an age of ineffable vileness.
Amusements, the most innocent in themselves, were the recognized
cloaks or accompaniments of horrible deeds of licentiousness. The
employment of certain kinds of music at banquets naturally
suggested the criminal excesses with which such music was
ordinarily associated. It was like meats offered to idols.
Christians were bound to shun it, not because it was bad, but
because it had been dedicated to bad uses. So was it also with
burlesque singing.
{98}
The songs were not only comical, but wicked. And it is in pretty
much the same sense that we must understand the saint's curious
chapter on laughing, in which he rebukes ludicrous remarks,
buffoonery, and "waggery," and declares that "imitators of
ludicrous sensations" (mimics) ought to be driven out of good
society. It is disgraceful to travesty speech, which is the most
precious of human endowments, though pleasantry is allowable,
provided laughter be kept within bounds. But we ought not to
laugh in the presence of elderly persons or others to whom we owe
respect, unless they indulge in pleasantries for our amusement;
and women and children ought to be especially careful not to
laugh too much, lest they slip into scandal. It is best to
confine ourselves to a gentle smile, which our author describes
as the seemly relaxation of the countenance in a harmonious
manner, like the relaxation of a musical instrument. "But the
discordant relaxation of the countenance in the case of women is
called a giggle, and is meretricious laughter; in the case of men
a guffaw, and is savage and insulting laughter." Of all such as
this, it is needless to say, St. Clement disapproves.
Young men and young women ought never to be seen at banquets, and
it is especially disgraceful for an unmarried woman to sit at a
feast of men. When you go to a banquet, you ought to keep your
eyes downcast, and recline upon your elbow without moving; or, if
you sit, don't cross your legs or rest your chin upon your hand.
It is vulgar not to bear one's self without support, and a sign
of frivolousness to be perpetually shifting the position. Then,
when the food is placed upon the table, don't grab at it. What if
you are hungry? Curb your appetite: hold back your hand for a
moment; take but little at a time; and leave off early, so as to
appear, indifferent to what is set before you. If you are an old
man, you may now and then, but very rarely, joke and play with
the young; but let your jokes have some useful end in view. For
instance, suppose you had a very bashful and silent son with you;
it would be a most proper and notable good joke to say, "This son
of mine is perpetually talking." That would not only be very
funny, but it would be an indirect encomium upon the young man's
modesty. Old men may talk at table, provided they talk sense. The
young should speak briefly and with hesitation when they are
called upon; but they ought to wait until they are called at
least twice. Don't whistle at table. Don't chirrup. Don't call
the waiter by blowing through your fingers. Don't spit often, or
clear your throat, or blow your nose. If you have to sneeze or
hiccup, don't startle your neighbors with a loud explosion, but
do it gently. Don't scrape your teeth till the gums bleed, and
don't scratch your ear!
They had a very silly and preposterous custom, those disgusting
old pagans, of crowning themselves with flowers, and anointing
their head and feet with perfumed ointments, especially on
occasion of grand banquets and drinking bouts. St. Clement had no
patience with this. Oils may be good, he says, for medicinal and
certain other purposes. Flowers are not only pretty, but useful
in their proper place. But what is the sense of sticking a
chaplet of roses on the top of your head where you can neither
see it nor smell it? It is pleasant in spring-time to while away
the hours in the blooming meads, surrounded by the perfume of
roses and violets and lilies; but no crowns of flowers for my
head, if you please!
{99}
They are too cold; they are too moist. The brain is naturally
cold: to add coolness to it is plainly against nature. Then he
enumerates the various kinds of ointments made from plants and
flowers and other substances. Leave these, he says, to the
physicians. To smear the body with them out of pure wanton luxury
is disgraceful.
After supper, first thank God: then go to bed. No magnificent
bedclothes, no gold-embroidered carpets, no rich purple
sleeping-robes, or cloaks of fleece, or thick mantles, or couches
softer than sleep itself; no silver-footed couches, savoring of
ostentation; none of those lazy contrivances for producing sleep.
Neither, on the other hand, is it necessary to imitate Ulysses,
who rectified the unevenness of his couch with a stone; or
Diomede, who reposed stretched on a wild bull's hide; or Jacob,
who slept on the ground with a stone for his pillow. St. Clement
was not too severe in his instructions. He taught moderation to
all men, leaving the difficulties of asceticism to the few who
were called to encounter them. He never forbade comfort, but only
rebuked luxury. Our beds, he says, ought to be simple and frugal,
but they ought to keep us cool in summer and warm in winter.
Those abominable inventions called feather-beds, which let the
body "fall down as into a yawning hollow," he stigmatizes with
deserved contempt. "For they are not convenient for sleepers
turning in them, on account of the bed rising into a hill on
either side of the body. Nor are they suitable for the digestion
of the food, but rather for burning it up, and so destroying the
nutriment." Who that has groaned through a restless night on one
of those vile things--we were going to say, tossed through the
night, but one can't toss in a feather-bed--has been
half-suffocated by the stuffy smell of the feathers, and
oppressed in his dreams by the surging hills of bedding which
threaten to engulf him on either hand like the billows of some
horrible sea, will not thank good, sensible St. Clement for
setting his face against them, and wonder how they have survived
to the present time? The Alexandrian philosopher knew how to make
a good bed as well as the most fashionable of modern
upholsterers. It ought to be moderately soft, yet not receive too
readily the impress of the body. It ought to be smooth and level,
so that one can turn over easily. But the reason he gives for
this direction is rather comical: the bed is a sort of nocturnal
gymnasium, on which the sleeper may digest his food by frequent
rollings and tumblings in his dreams.
The couch ought not to be elaborately carved, and the feet of it
ought to be smooth and plain. The reason for this is not only the
avoidance of luxury; but "elaborate turnings form occasionally
paths for creeping things, which twine themselves about the
mouldings and do not slip off."
In speaking of dress, St. Clement gives free rein to his
indignation at the folly and extravagance of both men and women,
and points his remarks with many a shaft of keen wit and sallies
of dry humor. Of course, he says, we must have clothes, but we
require them as a protection for the body, not as mere ornaments
to attract notice and inflame greedy eyes. Nor is there any good
reason why the garments of women should differ from those of men.
At the utmost, women may be permitted the use of softer textures,
provided they wear them not too thin and curiously woven.
{100}
A silk dress is the mark of a weak mind. Dyed garments are silly
and extravagant; and are they not, after all, offences against
truth? Sardian, olive, rose-colored, green, scarlet, and ten
thousand other dyes--pray, of what use are they? Does the color
make any difference in the warmth of the robe? And, besides, the
dye rots the stuff, and makes it wear out sooner. A good
Christian who is pure within ought to be clad in spotless white.
Flowered and embroidered clothing, cunningly wrought with gold,
and figures of beasts, and elaborate tracery, "and that
saffron-colored robe dipped in ointment, and these costly and
many-colored garments of flaring membranes," are not for the
children of the church. Let us weave for ourselves the fleece of
the sheep which God created for us, but let us not be as silly as
sheep. Beauty of character shows itself best when it is not
enveloped in ostentatious fooleries. When St. Clement comes to
particulars, especially in speaking of the dress of women, it
almost seems as if he were pointing at the fashions of the
nineteenth century. The modern fondness for mauve, and the
various other shades of purple, is nothing new. The same colors
seem to have been "the style" in the year 200. "Would it were
possible," exclaims the saint, "to abolish purple in dress! The
women will wear nothing else; and in truth, so crazy have they
gone over these stupid and luxurious purples, that, in the
language of the poet, _purple_ death has seized them!" So we
see that the good father was not above making a pun. He
enumerates some of the articles of apparel--tunics, cloaks, and
garments, with long and obscure names, about which the fine
ladies of Alexandria were perpetually "in a flutter;" and it is
rather startling to encounter in the list--what think you? Why,
nothing less than the _peplum_, so dear to the hearts of
women in 1867. Female extravagance in coverings for the feet also
seems to have been as rife in ancient Egypt as it is in modern
Paris or New-York. He condemns the use of sandals decorated with
gold, and curiously studded on the soles with "winding rows" of
nails, or ornamented with amorous carvings and jewelled devices.
Attic and Sicyonian half-boots, and Persian and Tyrrhenian
buskins, are also to be avoided. Men had better go barefoot
unless necessity prevents, but it is not suitable for a woman to
show her naked foot; "besides, woman is a tender thing, easily
hurt." She ought to wear simple white shoes, except on a journey,
and then her shoes should be greased.
Our saintly censor devotes an indignant chapter to "the stones
which silly women wear fastened to chains and set in necklaces;"
and he compares the eagerness with which they rush after
glittering jewelry to the senseless attraction which draws
children to a blazing fire. He quotes from Aristophanes a whole
catalogue of female ornaments:
"Snoods, fillets, natron, and steel;
Pumice-stone, band, back-band,
Back-veil, paint, necklaces,
Paints for the eyes, soft garment, _hair-net_, [Footnote 22]
Girdle, shawl, fine purple border,
Long robe, tunic, Barathrum, round tunic,
Ear-pendants, jewelry, ear-rings,
Mallow-colored cluster-shaped anklets,
Buckles, clasps, necklets,
Fetters, seals, chains, rings, powders,
Bosses, bands, Sardian stones,
Fans, helicters."
[Footnote 22: Is it possible that _waterfalls_ were worn
in those days?]
And he cries out, wearied with the enumeration: "I wonder how
those who bear such a burden are not worried to death. O foolish
trouble! O silly craze for display!" And of what use is it all?
It is nothing but art contending against nature, falsehood
struggling against truth. If a woman is ugly, she only makes her
ugliness more conspicuous by decking herself out with
meretricious ornaments.
{101}
Besides, the custom of "applying things unsuitable to the body as
if they were suitable, begets a practice of lying and a habit of
falsehood." The sight of an over-dressed woman seems to have
affected St. Clement very much as a worthless picture in an
elegant frame. "The body of one of these ladies," he exclaims,
"would never fetch more than one hundred and fifty dollars; but
you may see her wearing a dress that cost _two hundred and
fifty thousand._" We complain of the extravagance of modern
belles; but, do they ever spend such enormous sums as that on a
single dress? Alexandria, we imagine, must bear away the palm
from Newport and Saratoga.
There were particular fashions in jewelry and ornament toward
which the saint had a special dislike. Bracelets in the form of a
serpent, he calls the manifest badges of the evil one. Golden
chains and necklaces are nothing better than fetters. Earrings
and ear-drops he forbids as contrary to nature, and he beseeches
his female hearers not to have their ears pierced. If you pierce
your ears, he says, why not have rings in your noses also? A
signet-ring may be worn on the finger, because it is useful for
sealing; but no good Christian ought to wear rings for mere
ornament. Yet he makes one curious exception to this rule. If a
woman have, unfortunately, a dissipated husband, she may adorn
herself as much as she can, for the purpose of keeping him at
home.
How bitter is the contempt which the philosopher pours out upon
the fashionable ladies of the time, who spend their days in the
mysterious rites of the toilet, curling their locks, anointing
their cheeks, painting their eyes, "mangling, racking, and
plastering themselves over with certain compositions, chilling
the skin and furrowing the flesh with poisonous cosmetics;" and
then in the evening "creeping out to candle-light as out of a
hole." Love of display is not the characteristic of a true lady.
The woman who gives herself up to finery is worse than one who is
addicted to the pleasures of the table and _the bottle_! She
is a lazy housekeeper, sitting like a painted thing to be looked
at, not as if made for domestic economy, and she cares a great
deal more about getting at her husband's purse-strings than about
staying at home with him. And how preposterous is her behavior
when she goes abroad. Is she short? she wears cork-soles. Is she
tall? she carries her head down on her shoulder. Has she fine
teeth? she is always laughing. Has she _no flanks? she has
something sewed on to her,_ so that the spectators may exclaim
on her fine shape. A little while ago, a mania for yellow hair
broke out in Paris, and fashionable ladies had their locks dyed
of the popular hue. Well, it appears from St. Clement's
discourses that this folly is over sixteen hundred years old. He
upbraids the Alexandrian ladies for following the same absurd
custom, and asks, in the words of Aristophanes, "What can women
do wise or brilliant who sit with hair dyed yellow?" Nor is this
the only modern fashion about the hair which was known and
condemned in his time. Read this, young ladies: "_Additions of
other people's hair are entirely to be rejected,_ and it is a
most sacrilegious thing for spurious hair to shade the head,
covering the skull with dead locks. For on whom does the priest
lay his hand? Whom does he bless?
{102}
Not the woman decked out, but another's hairs, and through them
another head." Chignons, braids, tresses, and all the other
wonderful paraphernalia of the hair-dresser's art are condemned
as no better than lies, and a shameful defamation of the human
head, which, says St. Clement, is truly beautiful. Neither is it
allowable to dye gray hairs, or in any other way to conceal the
approach of old age. "It is enough for women to protect their
locks and bind up their hair simply along the neck with a plain
hair-pin, nourishing chaste locks with simple care to true
beauty." And then he draws a comical picture of a lady with her
hair so elaborately "done up," that she is afraid to touch her
head, and dares not go to sleep for fear of pulling down the
whole structure.
A man ought to shave his crown, (unless he has curly hair,) but
not his chin, because the beard gives "dignity and paternal
terror" to the face. The mustache, however, "which is dirtied in
eating, is to be cut round, not by the razor, for that were
ungenteel, but by a pair of cropping scissors." The practice of
shaving was a mark of effeminacy in those days, and it was
thought disgraceful for a man to rob himself of the "hairiness"
which distinguishes his sex, even as the lion is known by his
shaggy mane. So St. Clement is unsparing in his denunciations of
the unmanly creatures who "comb themselves and shave themselves
with a razor for the sake of fine effect, and arrange their hair
at the looking-glass." Manly sports, provided they be pursued for
health's sake and not for vainglory, he warmly approves. A
sparing use of the gymnasium and an occasional bout at wrestling
will do no harm, but rather good; yet, when you wrestle, says the
saint, be sure you stand squarely up to your adversary, and try
to throw him by main strength, not by trickery and
_finesse_. A game of ball he especially recommends, (who
knows but there may have been base-ball clubs in Egypt?) and he
mildly suggests that, if a man were to handle the hoe now and
then, the labor would not be "ungentlemanly." Pittacus, King of
Miletus, set a good example to mankind by grinding at the mill
with his own hand; and, if St. Clement were alive now, he might
add that Charles V. employed himself in constructing time-pieces,
and that notorious savage, Theodoras, Emperor of Abyssinia,
passes most of his days making umbrellas. Fishing is a
commendable pastime, for it has the example of the apostles in
its favor. Another capital exercise for a gentleman is chopping
wood. This, we may remark, is said to be the favorite athletic
pursuit of the Honorable Horace Greeley.
The daily occupations of women must not be too sedentary, yet
neither, on the other hand, ought the gentler sex to be
"encouraged in wrestling or running!" Instead of dawdling about
the shops of the silk merchant, the goldsmith, and the perfumer,
or riding aimlessly about town in litters, just to be admired,
the true lady will employ herself in spinning and weaving, and,
if necessary, will superintend the cooking. She must not be above
turning the mill, or getting her husband a good dinner. She must
shake up the beds, reach drink to her husband when he is thirsty,
set the table as neatly as possible, and when anything is wanted
from the store, let her go for it and fetch it home herself. We
fear it is not the fashion, even yet, to follow St. Clement's
advice. She ought to keep her face clean, and her glances cast
down, and to beware of languishing looks, and "ogling, which is
to wink with the eyes," and of a mincing gait.
{103}
A gentleman in the street should never walk furiously, nor
swagger, nor try to stare people out of countenance; neither when
going up-hill ought he to be _shoved up by his domestics!_
He ought not to waste his time in barbers' shops and taverns,
babbling nonsense; nor to watch the women who pass by; nor to
gamble. He must not kiss his wife in the presence of his
servants. If he is a merchant, he must not have two prices for
his goods. He must be his own valet. He must wash his own feet,
and put on his own shoes.
And so the holy man goes on with much more sage counsel and
Christian direction, teaching his flock not only how to be
faithful children of the church, but how to be true gentlemen and
gentlewomen. The etiquette which he lays down is not based upon
the arbitrary and changeable rules of fashion, but upon the fixed
principles of morality and good fellowship. We have thought it
not amiss to give our readers a specimen of them, partly, indeed,
because they show us in such an interesting manner what kind of
lives people used to lead in his day, but also because they are
full of good lessons and wholesome rebukes for ourselves, and
because many of the follies which St. Clement condemned are still
flourishing, just as they flourished then, or are newly springing
into life after they have been for so many centuries forgotten.
Of course, there are many of his rules which are not applicable
to us. Many things which he forbade because they were indications
or accompaniments of certain sinful practices are no longer
wrong, because they have been completely dissevered from their
evil associations. But upon the whole, we doubt not that a new
edition of St. Clement's _Paedagogus_, or as we might
translate it, "Complete Guide to Politeness," would be vastly
more beneficial to the public than any of the hand-books of
etiquette which are multiplied by the modern press.
--------
Ran away to Sea.
A treacherous spirit came up from the sea,
And passing inland found a boy where he
Lay underneath the green roof of a tree,
In the golden summer weather.
And to the boy it whispered soft and low--
Come! let us leave this weary land, and go
Over the seas where the free breezes blow,
In the golden summer weather.
{104}
I know green isles in far-off sunny seas,
Where grow great cocoa-palms and orange-trees,
And spicy odors perfume every breeze,
In the golden summer weather.
There, underneath the ever-glowing skies,
Gay parrokeets and birds of paradise,
Make bright the woods with plumes of gorgeous dyes,
In the golden summer weather.
And in that land a happy people stay:
No hateful books perplex them night nor day;
No cares of business fret their lives away,
In the golden summer weather.
But all day long they wander where they please,
Plucking delicious fruits, that on the trees
Hang all the year and never know decrease,
In the golden summer weather.
Or over flower-enamelled vale and slope
They chase the silv'ry-footed antelope;
Or with the pard in manly conflict cope
In the golden summer weather.
And in those islands troops of maidens are,
Whose lovely shapes no foolish fashions mar;
Eyes black as Night, and brighter than her stars
In the golden summer weather.
Earth hath no maidens like them otherwhere;
With teeth like pearls and wreaths of jetty hair,
And lips more sweet than tinted syrups are,
In the golden summer weather.
Ah! what a life it were to live with them!
'Twould pass by sweetly as a happy dream:
The years like days, the days like minutes seem,
In the golden summer weather.
Come! let us go! the wind blows fair and free;
The clouds sail seaward, and to-morrow we
May see the billows dancing on the sea,
In the golden summer weather.
The heavens were bright, the earth was fair to see,
A thousand birds sang round the boy, but he
Heard nothing but that spirit from the sea,
In the golden summer weather.
{105}
All night, as sleepless on his bed he lay,
He seemed to hear that treacherous spirit say,
Come, let us seek those islands far away,
In the golden summer weather.
So ere the morning in the east grew red,
He stole adown the stairs with barefoot tread,
Unbarred the door with trembling hands, and fled
In the golden summer weather.
In the last hour of night the city slept;
Upon his beat the drowsy watchman stept;
When like a thief along the streets he crept,
In the golden summer weather.
And when the sun brought in the busy day,
His father's home afar behind him lay,
And he stood 'mongst the sailors on the quay,
In the golden summer weather.
Like sleeping swans, with white wings folded, ride
The great ships at their moorings, side by side;
Moving but with the pulses of the tide,
In the golden summer weather.
And one is slowly ruffling out her wings
For flight, as seaward round her bowsprit swings;
Whilst at the capstan-bars the sailor sings
In the golden summer weather.
He is aboard. The wind blows fresh abeam:
The ship drifts slowly seaward with the stream;
And soon the land fades from him like a dream,
In the golden summer weather.
And if he found those islands far away,
Or those fair maidens, there is none can say:
For ship or boy returned not since that day,
In the golden summer weather.
E. YOUNG.
--------
{106}
A Royal Nun.
Among the pleasant alleys of Versailles, or under the stately
groves of St. Cloud, or in the grand corridors of the Tuileries,
might often have been seen, about the year 1773, pacing up and
down together in tender and confidential converse, two young
maidens in the early bloom of youth, and often by their side
would sport a careless, wilful, but engaging child some eight or
nine years old. These three young girls were all of royal birth,
and bound together by the ties of close relationship; they were
the sisters and cousin of a great king; their lineage one of the
proudest of the earth; they were all fair to look upon, and all
endowed with mental gifts of no mean order. How bright looked
their future! Monarchs often sought their hands in marriage, and
men speculated on their fate, and wondered which should form the
most brilliant alliance. Could the angels who guarded their
footsteps have revealed their future, how the wise men of this
world would have laughed the prophecy to scorn! Yet above those
fair young heads hangs a strange destiny. For one the martyr's
palm; the name of another was to echo within the walls of St.
Peter, as of her whom the church delighteth to honor; the third
was to wear the veil of the religious through dangers and under
vicissitudes such as seldom fall to the lot of any woman. Those
of whom we speak were these: Clotilde and Elizabeth of France,
sisters of Louis XVI., and Louise de Bourbon Condé, their cousin.
Louise and Clotilde, almost of the same age, were bound together
in close intimacy. We may wonder, now, on what topics their
conversation would run. Did they speak of the gayeties of the
court; of the round of the giddy dissipation which had, perhaps,
reached its culminating point about this period? or were they
talking of the last sermon of Père Beauregard, when, with
unsparing and apostolic severity, he condemned the fashionable
vices of the age? or were they speaking of the cases of distress
among the poor who day by day trooped to the house of
_Mademoiselle_, as Louise de Condé was called, and were
there succored by her own hands? On some such theme as these
latter we may be almost sure that their converse ran. The heart
of Clotilde was never given to the world; from her childhood she
had yearned for a cloister, and would fain have found herself at
the side of her aunt, Madame Louise, who was then prioress of the
Carmelites of St. Denis. To the _grille_ of this convent
Clotilde, Louise, and Elizabeth would often go; and no doubt it
was partly owing to the conversation and example of the holy
Carmelite princess that the three girls, placed, as they all
were, in most dangerous and difficult positions, not only
threaded their way through the maze safely, but became examples
of eminent piety and virtue.
The elder of the three friends was Louise, only daughter of Louis
Joseph de Bourbon Condé, great-great-grandson of the Great Condé,
and son of the Duke de Bourbon, for some time prime minister to
Louis XV. He had early chosen the army as his career, and as
early won laurels for himself in the Seven Years' War. On one
occasion he was entreated by his attendants to withdraw from the
heat of the battle.
{107}
"I never heard," said he, "of such precautions being taken by the
_Great Condé._" His admiration for his glorious ancestor
was, indeed, intense, and he devoted himself to the task of
writing a history of this great man; for, though an ardent
soldier, he was well educated. Men of science and genius gathered
round him in his chateau of Chantilly, whither he would retire in
the brief intervals of peace. At a very early age the Prince de
Condé married Charlotte de Rohan Soubise, a maiden as noble in
her character as her birth. She was merciful to the poor, gentle
and charitable to all who surrounded her. The marriage was a
happy one, but was not destined to last long. The princess died
in 1760, leaving behind her a son, the Duke de Bourbon, and
Louise Adelaide, of whom we have been speaking.
The little girl, thus left motherless at the age of five years,
was consigned to the care of her great-aunt, the abbess of
Beaumont les Tours, about sixty leagues from Paris. All the
religious assembled to receive the little princess on the day of
her arrival, and everything was done to please her. After showing
her all the interior of the convent, she was asked where she
would like to go. "Oh! take me," cried she, "where there is the
most noise." Poor child! she was destined to find her after-life
a little too noisy. She next chose to go into the choir while the
nuns chanted compline; but before the end of the first psalm
whispered to her attendant, "I have had enough." In these
peaceful walls her childhood passed away. She grew fond of the
convent, and gave every mark of external piety. She was wont to
declare afterward that the grace of God had made little interior
progress in her heart; nevertheless, a solid foundation of good
instruction had been laid, which was hereafter to bear fruit. At
twelve years of age she made her first communion, and then
returned to Paris to finish her education in a convent there, "to
prepare her for the world."
Years fled on, Louise attained womanhood, her brother married one
of the Orleans princesses, and a marriage was projected for
Louise with the Count d'Artois, afterward Charles X., but
political differences caused the match to be broken off. Louise
was not destined ever to become Queen of France. The tender
friendship which subsisted between her and the Princess Clotilde
was now to be broken, in one sense, by their total separation.
Clotilde's heart's desire for the religious life was rudely
crossed; the daughters of royal houses had less control over
their fates then (and perhaps even now) than the meanest peasant
in the land. A marriage was "arranged" for Madame Clotilde with
the Prince of Piedmont, heir-apparent to the throne of Sardinia.
She was but sixteen years of age when she had to leave France and
all she loved and clung to, and set out to meet her unknown
husband; for she was married by proxy only in Paris, and was
received by the Prince of Piedmont at Turin. She was very
beautiful, but unfortunately excessively stout, to such a degree
that it injured not only her appearance, but her health. At Turin
she was welcomed by a vast crowd, but cries of "_Che
grossa!_" ("How fat she is!") struck unpleasantly on her ear.
"Be consoled," said the Queen of Sardinia; "when I entered the
city, the people cried, _'Che brutta!'_" ("How plain she
is!") "You find me very stout?" questioned Clotilde, anxiously
looking into her husband's face. "I find you adorable," was the
graceful and affectionate reply.
{108}
Years flew by. _Mademoiselle_, as Louise was now called, had
her own establishment, and presided at royal _fêtes_ given
by her father at Chantilly. Thither came once to partake of his
hospitality the heir of the throne of all the Russias,
travelling, together with his wife, under the incognito of the
Comte du Nord. A friendship sprang up between them and Louise de
Condé, hereafter to be put to the proof in extraordinary and
unforeseen circumstances. Little did they think as they parted
within the splendid halls of Chantilly where their next meeting
should be.
The license of manners that preceded the Revolution, as the
gathering clouds foretell a storm, was principally to be observed
in the grossness of the theatre and the corruption of literature.
The theatre was a favorite amusement with Louise de Condé, and
she took great delight in private theatricals, and frequently
played a part. She heard Père Beauregard preach on the subject,
and her resolution was instantly taken. A comedy was to be acted
next day at Chantilly, but the princess renounced her part. It
cost her not a little thus to throw out the arrangements for the
_fête_; but she vanquished all human respect, and thus took
the part of God against the world.
It was a turning-point in her life. It may seem to us that it was
but a small sacrifice to make; but one grace corresponded to lead
on to others, and from that resolution to give up theatrical
entertainments Louise dated the commencement of the great
spiritual graces and benefits of her after-life. That she was
endowed with the courage of her race may be known from the fact
that, having sustained by a fall a severe fracture of her leg,
she sent for her Italian master to give her a lesson while
waiting for the surgeon. This broken leg was destined in her
case, as in that of St. Ignatius, to become one of her greatest
blessings. She rose up from her bed determined to give herself
more entirely to God's service. Naturally of a deeply
affectionate disposition, Louise loved her family tenderly, but
in an especial manner her only nephew, the Duc d'Enghien, then in
his early youth. Day by day did Louise bring the name of this
beloved boy before the Mother of Good Counsel, begging her, in
her own simple words, to become his mother and protectress, and
"never to suffer his faith to perish." We shall see a little
later on how this prayer was answered. And now time had passed
on, and the Revolution was at hand, and had even begun. After the
taking of the Bastile, the Prince de Condé quitted France with
all his family, and immediately set himself to organize an army
for the defence of Louis XVI. Ordered by the _Directory_ to
return to France, he disobeyed, and was instantly stripped of all
his vast property. The prince sold all his jewels, and bore his
altered fortunes with patience and courage. Meanwhile, the
Princess Louise accompanied her father and acted as his
secretary. They moved about from place to place, and at Turin she
was able to renew the friendship of her youth with Clotilde, who
was now Queen of Sardinia, and displayed on her throne a pattern
of womanly and saintly virtues. Near the Queen of Sardinia
flattery could not subsist. It is recorded of her that she never
pronounced a doubtful word, far less the smallest falsehood.
Intercourse with this dear friend strengthened in the heart of
Louise the earnest desire she had of belonging entirely to God.
"I am obliged to take time for prayer from my sleep," she writes
to her director. "I cannot do without it.
{109}
When at table, surrounded with officers, all talking, I pray
inwardly." The crime of the 21st of January, 1793, fell like a
thunderbolt on the army of Condé; but, rising from his grief, the
brave general instantly proclaimed Louis XVII., although that
little king, whose piteous story history surely can never outdo,
was still being tortured by his savage subjects. The Archbishop
of Turin was deputed to escort the terrible news to Queen
Clotilde. "Madam," said he, "will your majesty pray for your
illustrious brother, especially for his soul?" The terrible truth
flashed at once upon her, and, falling on her knees, she
exclaimed: "Let us do better still--let us pray for his
murderers!" Surely, in the annals of the saints, few words more
truly heroic can have been recorded than this impulsive utterance
of Clotilde de Bourbon. The active operations of the army
commanded by the Prince de Condé made it impossible for the
princess to remain any longer at her father's side; she
accordingly repaired to Fribourg, a favorite place of refuge for
French emigrants. No less than three hundred French priests had
found a temporary asylum within its walls, and the services of
the church were performed with every possible care and frequency.
Among these priests the princess met one, supposed to be one of
the exiled French bishops, to whom she was able to give her
entire confidence, and from whom she received wise and spiritual
advice. The idea of a religious vocation now began to take firm
hold of her mind but her director would not let her take any step
for two years, wishing in every possible way to test the reality
of this call from God. No ordinary obstacles stood in the way of
the royal postulant. Times had changed since those when the
entrance of Madame Louise, of France, into the Carmelites had
been hailed as an especial mark of God's providence over a poor
community. Every convent in Europe was now trembling for its
safety, and few were willing to open their doors to one bearing
the now unfortunate name of Bourbon. About this time, it would
seem, the princess was in communication with the Père de
Tournely, founder of that Society of the Sacred Heart which was
afterward absorbed into the Society of Jesus, and who was
earnestly seeking to found a new order for women, and especially
at this moment to gather together a community of emigrant French
ladies, some of whom had been driven from their convents. The
idea naturally presented itself of placing the Princess Louise at
the head of such a community, but she shrank from the task. "I
should fear," she said, "from the force of custom, the deference
that would be paid to what the world calls my rank. The place
that I am ambitious of is the last of all. What are the thrones
of the universe compared to that last place?" God had other
designs for her, and for the projected order an humbler
instrument was to be chosen for the foundation-stone of the order
of the Sacred Heart; and at this moment the foundress, all
unconscious of her fate, was as yet "playing with her dolls."
Louise de Condé, determined to enter a poor, obscure convent of
Capuchinesses, or religious, following the rule of St. Clare, in
Turin, a city which it was then hoped was likely to remain in
tranquillity. Before doing so she had obtained her father's
consent, and also that of Louis XVIII, whom the emigrant French
had proclaimed as their king when the prison-house of the little
Louis XVII. had been mercifully opened by death.
{110}
The emigrants were careful to keep up with their exiled monarch
all the forms and traditions which would have surrounded him had
he been peaceably sitting on the throne of his fathers. It is
worth while to give the princess's own words:
"Sire: It is not at the moment when I am about to have the
happiness of consecrating myself to God that I could forget for
the first time what I owe to my king. I have for long past felt
myself called to the religious state, and I have come to Turin,
where the kindness and friendship of the Queen of Sardinia has
given me the means to execute my design--a design which has
been well examined and reflected upon; but, before its final
accomplishment, I supplicate your majesty to deign to give your
consent to it. I ask it with the more confidence because I am
certain it will not be refused, and that your piety, sire, will
cause you to find consolation in seeing a princess of your
blood invested with the livery of Jesus Christ. May God, whose
infinite mercy I have so wonderfully experienced, hear the
prayers I shall constantly make for the reestablishment of the
altar and the throne in my unfortunate country. They will be as
earnest as the efforts of my relatives for the same object. The
desire for the personal happiness of your majesty is equally in
my heart. I implore him to be persuaded of it. I am, etc.,
"Louise Adélaide De Bourbon Condé.
"Turin, November, 1795."
There could be no doubt of the devotion of Louise's family to the
cause of Louis XVIII. Her father, brother, and nephew were all
under arms for the restoration of his crown, and Delille
celebrated the incident in verse:
"Trois générations vont ensemble à la gloire."
The king wrote back to the royal postulant:
"You have deeply reflected, my dear cousin, on the step which
you have taken. Your father has given his consent. I give mine
also, or rather, I give you up to Providence, who requires this
sacrifice from me. I will not conceal from you that it is a
great one, and it is with deep regret that I give up the hope
of seeing you by your virtues become one day an example to my
court, and an edification to all my subjects. I have but one
consolation, and it is that of thinking that, while the courage
and talents of your nearest relations are aiding me to recover
the throne of St. Louis, your prayers will draw down the
benedictions of the Most High on my cause, and afterward on all
my reign. I recommend it to you, and I pray you, my dear
cousin, to be well persuaded of my friendship for you.
"Louis."
On the 26th of November, 1798, the Queen of Sardinia took her
cousin to the convent, and saw her enter on the mode of life she
had so ardently desired for herself, but from which she had been
severed. And here Louise began to lead at once a life of hardship
and austerity. Earnest in all things by character, she threw
herself into the practice of her rule, and became a model to all
the novitiates. She counted the months as they passed which
should bring her to her profession day; but it was not to be. God
saw fit to purify her by many sufferings, by long anxieties,
before she should find rest in his house. She was to be the
instrument for a great work for his glory, and by many
vicissitudes she was to be trained and fitted for it.
{111}
The French Directory had declared war against Piedmont, the
princess's presence endangered the whole of her community, and
she hastened to quit their roof and take refuge temporarily at
the convent of the Annonciades, from whence, as she was only a
boarder, she could fly at any moment; but before leaving her
convent she cut off her hair. As a witness to herself, she wrote
of the firm resolution she had taken of living for God only. No
one but God, she said long afterward, could tell what her
sufferings were at having to leave her convent; but she adds:
"The graces that God poured upon me in that holy house gave the
necessary strength to my soul to bear the long trials which I had
to pass through for so many years!" Few recitals are more
touching than the sufferings of this poor novice, thus roughly
torn away from her beloved convent. Shortly after she took up her
abode with the Annonciades, a profession of one of their novices
took place, and the ceremony made the poor princess feel her
disappointment more bitterly. According to the custom of the
order, the novice wore a crown of flowers, and her cell and her
bed were both decked with them, and the sight moved Louise de
Condé to tears, and, when the novice pronounced her vows, her
sobs almost stifled her. She said to herself that _she_ was
unworthy to become the spouse of Christ, and therefore these
obstacles had arisen; and, humbling herself at the feet of her
Lord, she bewailed the follies of her life in the world, of which
she took a far harsher view than those did who knew how it had
been passed, and she implored him to have mercy on her and
others, to attain a perfect resignation to his will.
She had not left her convent too soon. The rapid approach of the
French army on Turin obliged her to quit the city and direct her
steps toward Switzerland. There she hoped to find a convent of
Trappist nuns who would venture to receive her; but, when she had
passed Mount St. Bernard, she found that the community had not
yet been able to find a resting-place in Switzerland. She
travelled on to Bavaria, and was told that no French emigrant
could remain in the country. Verily, it seemed as if she were
destined to have nowhere to lay her head. She did not know where
to turn; for war was ruling in all directions, and her name was
dreaded by all who desired to keep a neutral part in the
conflict. She was driven to seek refuge at Vienna, and went to
board with a convent of Visitation nuns; for this order she did
not feel any attraction, and she cherished the hope that the
Trappist nuns, of whom she had heard would be able to find a
place of refuge and receive her among their number. While thus
waiting, she took, by the advice of her confessor, the three vows
privately, thus binding herself as closely as possible to her
crucified Lord. Her description of this action of her life gives
a great insight into the beauty of her soul. Deep humility, a
fervent love of God, and a child-like simplicity were her eminent
characteristics. She made these vows at communion, unknown to all
save God, his angels, and her spiritual guide. Then she said the
_Te Deum_ and _Magnificat_, which would have been sung
so joyfully by her sisters had she been suffered to remain among
them. "I neglected not in spirit," she adds, "the ceremony of the
funeral pall, begging from God the grace to die to all, so as to
live only in God and for God."
This private act of consecration was an immense comfort to her;
but it by no means prevented her longing and striving to reenter
a convent, and all her hopes continued to be fixed on La Trappe.
{112}
At this period an affecting meeting took place between her and
Madame Royale, the only survivor of the royal victims of the
Temple, the young girl born to one of the highest destinies in
this world, and whose youth had been overshadowed by a tragedy so
prolonged and so frightful that history can scarce furnish a
parallel case. It is only extraordinary that reason had survived
such awful suffering, falling on one so young and so tenderly
nurtured. Is it any wonder that a shade was cast over the rest of
her life, and that she was never among the light-hearted or the
gay? From Vienna she wrote to Queen Clotilde: "I have had a great
pleasure here in finding that the virtues of my aunt Elizabeth
were well known, and she is spoken of with veneration. I hope
that one day the pope will place my relation in the list of
saints." It was, no doubt, a great comfort to her to speak freely
with Louise of the aunt and cousin both had so fondly loved.
Louise could tell Madame Royale many anecdotes of the youth of
one whose end had been so saintly. We must now say a few words
about the convent which the princess wished to enter.
When the order of La Trappe was suppressed in France, in common
with those of other religious in 1790, the Abbé L'Estrange,
called in religion Dom Augustin, was master of novices, and he
conceived the idea of removing the whole community from France
instead of dispersing it.
After many difficulties this was accomplished, and the monastery
was founded at Val-Sainte, near Fribourg. The abbé now conceived
the idea of founding a convent of Trappist nuns, to be composed
chiefly of those religious who had been driven from their own
convents, and of fresh novices. The director of Madame Louise had
many doubts as to the advisability of her entering this
community; but her desire for it was so ardent, and continued so
long, that he withdrew his opposition; and when the community had
really taken root, near that of the Trappist monks, under the
title of the Monastery of the Will of God, Louise de Condé set
out from Vienna and entered it. None but the superiors knew who
she was--such was the simplicity of her dress, so retiring her
manners, so humble were all her ways; but instead of a princess
many of the religious thought her to be of lowly extraction, and
wondered that Dom Augustin gave her so much of his time. With
great delight she received the holy habit and began to practise
the rule. The life was a hard one; the house was a great deal too
small for the number of religious who occupied it; there was a
great want of fresh air; and the rule and austerities were most
trying. In a very few months the torrent of European war was
about to pour down on Switzerland, and the whole community were
obliged to take a hasty departure. Dom Augustin could see no
other place of refuge for his flock than the shores of Russia,
and he bade Louise de Condé use her influence with the emperor to
allow them to take up their abode in his kingdom. The Emperor
Paul was the same who, as archduke and under the title of Comte
du Nord, had sat by the princess's side at the brilliant banquets
and festivities of Chantilly. Louise wrote to him with all the
grace of a French woman: "I beg the amiable Comte du Nord to
become my interpreter with the Emperor Paul." The advance of the
republican army was so rapid that there was no time to wait for a
reply.
{113}
The community were divided into different bands, and started at
different times and by different routes, all agreeing to reunite
their forces in Bavaria. The vicissitudes of this one journey
would be enough for a good-sized volume could we go into its
details. At one place she is received by the bishop of the
diocese as a princess, only to be driven out by the civil
authorities; at another she was lodged in a _bake-house_,
full of dirt and smoke. She observed only it was quite good
enough for her, and that she was very happy. At another time the
cook neglects to cleanse the copper cooking-vessels, and the
whole community are all but poisoned. When the answer came from
the Emperor Paul, it was found that he consented to receive
thirty of the religious only, to whom he promised support as well
as protection. It was necessary, therefore, to find some place
for the others, and Louise accompanied some of her sisters and
the monks to Vienna, where her former friends, the good
Visitation nuns, gave a refuge to another band of the Trappists.
Notwithstanding all these changes, Louise as strictly as possible
observed the rule of her order and the exercises of her
novitiate. Being desired by her superiors to write down her
thoughts on the religious life, she instantly complied, though
she said afterward it was difficult to do so in the midst of
fourteen persons, crowded together in a very small room, and all
at different occupations. It was true they kept silent, but they
had to ask necessary questions of the prioress, and among so many
this necessity was very frequent.
She was now desired to set out for Russia, and thus undertake
another long journey of discomfort and fatigue. People urged her
to leave the order, saying that the weakness of her knee, which
had never wholly recovered from the fall she had had many years
before, would render it impossible for her to be useful. She
replied that, if she were only allowed to keep the lamp burning
before the blessed sacrament, she would be contented. So she set
out for Orcha, the town named by the emperor for their reception.
It proved a really terrible journey; sometimes the religious had
to sleep under the open sky; they had the roughest food, and more
than once were without any for twenty-four hours. But never once
did the patience, sweetness, and perfect content of Louise de
Condé fail; her face was always bright, for her whole soul was
filled with the one thought--a desire of doing penance. The
arrival in Russia did not put an end to the difficulties of
either Madame Louise or her order. It was necessary to make some
arrangement for the rest of the community left in Germany. The
Emperor Paul finally agreed to receive fifty. Dom Augustin
accordingly went to fetch them. During his absence no
communication could be held with him, while various offers of
help, which had to be accepted or refused, were brought to the
princess, embarrassing her greatly.
After ten months of this suspense Dom Augustin returned, having
made up his mind to go to _America_. This was a severe blow
to Madame Louise; for, being still a novice, it became a grave
question whether she would, in such circumstances, be right in
accompanying them, and after much prayer and thought she, by the
counsel of her director, decided to leave. Once more was she to
be driven out into the cold world; once more her heart's desire
crossed, her hopes delayed indefinitely. "I thought that God
willed in his justice to break my heart, and thus arrest its
impetuous ardor.
{114}
I had once more to strip myself of the livery of the Lord, which
had been my glory and my happiness. I did it, and did _not_
die, that is all I can say." Before her departure she implored
the emperor, and all over whom she had any personal influence, to
continue their kindness to the order. In reality, it was a good
thing for the order that Madame Louise quitted it, as events
afterward proved. One of the very first communities allowed by
Bonaparte to reenter France was this very one, and he certainly
would not have done so had a Bourbon been in its ranks. It is
true his favor was but short-lived, and the Trappists had again
to fly to America, but their return to France had been in many
ways a benefit; and in 1815 they came back again, and established
themselves at Belle Fontaine and at Meillerage. The latter house
has long since become celebrated. Dom Augustin reached Rome, and
received many marks of approval from the pope for his long and
earnest struggle in the cause of his order. He died at Lyons in
1827.
And now where was the exile to go? Where should she rest her
weary head? Where and how begin life again under a new aspect?
Her father, brother, and nephew were either engaged in warfare,
or themselves begging shelter from distant countries; her friends
were scattered, her resources scanty. A Benedictine nun who had
joined the Trappist community quitted it, accompanied her, and
Louise endeavored to follow under her a kind of novitiate. They
took refuge at last in a Benedictine convent in Lithuania, but
where the rule was not kept in its strict observance. Here she
remained for two years, making all possible inquiries for a
convent in which she might be received; but the greater part were
destroyed, and obstacles stood in the way of entering any of
those she heard of. She wished, of course, to be more than ever
careful in this her third choice. Moreover, her means of
acquiring information were but small; there was little
communication with other countries, and few of the inhabitants
spoke French. While in Lithuania Louise adopted an orphan of four
years old, a child of good family reduced to beggary; she was
named Eléonore Dombrousha. At last she heard of a convent at
Warsaw, which seemed as if it would fulfil all her desires; and
now, indeed, she _had_ reached the place God had destined
her for. Here she was to lay the foundation of the great work for
which, by many sorrows, by much disappointment, he had been
preparing her.
A foundation of Benedictines of the Blessed Sacrament had come
from Paris to Warsaw many years before, and were still existing:
they kept the Benedictine rule strictly, adding to it the
adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Madame Louise asked and
received permission of the King of Prussia to enter his
dominions. He afterward wrote as follows:
"Frederick William, by the Grace Of God King Of Prussia: As we
have permitted Madame la Princesse Louise Adelaide de Bourbon
Condé and Madame de la Brosièree, who arrived at Warsaw the
18th of June, to remain in the convent of the Holy Sacrament,
where they seem to wish to end their days, we have in
consequence given all necessary orders to the officials.
"Warsaw, 28 August, 1801."
{115}
A striking circumstance occurred while on her road to Warsaw, one
of those many incidents of the time which has made the history of
the French Revolution read like a romance. Having to descend from
her carriage at Thorn, her eyes fell on a woman poorly clad in
the street, evidently seeking employment; the expression of her
face was that of suffering, but of great sanctity. The princess
was so struck by it that she went up to her, and said by impulse,
"Madam, were you not a religious?" "Yes," she replied, impelled
to confidence by the sweet face of her who addressed her. And
then Louise learnt that the lady was an exiled member of the
French Sisters of Calvary, driven into exile; that her slender
means had come to an end; and that very day she had come out to
seek work or to beg, neither dismayed nor yet afraid, but putting
her full trust in Divine Providence.
Her wants were supplied, and she would have entered the same
convent as Madame Louise, but that she hoped to rejoin her own
community when they should reassemble. This shortly afterward
took place, and the generosity of Madame Louise furnished the
means for her journey home, and she lived many years in her
convent, leading a holy life, and died there in peace.
At last Madame Louise commenced her _third_ novitiate, and
found in her new order all that could perfectly satisfy her
heart. She took the habit in September, 1801, and all the royal
family of Prussia were present at the ceremony; the Bishop of
Warsaw preached the sermon, and bade her glorify her convent for
ever, not by the _éclat_ of her name and of her royal birth,
but by her religious virtues. The habit which she had taken,
added he, and which she had preferred to all the pomps of the
world, was but the exterior mark of a consecration and a
sacrifice that her heart had long since made. As a novice Madame
Louise redoubled her fervor and exactness in religious life, with
many anxious hopes and prayers that this time the day of her
profession would really come. A sorrow came upon her in the news
of the death of her early and loved friend, Clotilde of Sardinia,
whose soul passed to God in March, 1802, while her whole people,
anticipating only the voice of the church, called her a saint. On
the 21st of September, 1802, Louise made her solemn profession.
"I pronounced my vows publicly," she said, "but with such
feelings that I can truly say my heart pronounced them with a
thousand times greater strength than my mouth." She now retook
her religious name, which she had chosen twice before, Soeur
Marie Joseph de la Miséricorde. The life of an ordinary good
religious would have seemed sufficiently difficult for a
princess, but Louise would do nothing by halves. She practised
the highest virtues of her state, bearing undeserved blame
without a word of excuse; she never murmured under labors; she
was obedient, gentle, and humble. So anxious was she to prevent
her rank being an occasion for raising her to offices of
authority that she wrote to the pope these words:
"Most Holy Father:
Louise Adélaide de Bourbon Condé, now Marie Joseph de la
Miséricorde, professed religious of the convent of the
Perpetual Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, order of Saint
Benedict, at Warsaw, supplicates your holiness that you deign,
for the repose and tranquillity of the soul of the suppliant,
to declare her deprived of active and passive voice, and to
dispense her from all the principal offices of the community."
{116}
The holy father saw fit to grant the request, and sent a brief on
the subject to her.
"The efforts that you make to attain Christian perfection in
these unhappy days," wrote Pius VII., "have filled us with joy,
and make us hope that the Divine Spouse to whom you have made
the laudable sacrifice of yourself will not fail to grant you
his grace, in order that, by the exact and religious
observation of the rules of the institute which you have
chosen, you will attain the end that you proposed to yourself
in embracing with so much joy this state of life. ... We send
you the letters of dispensation that you say are necessary for
the perfect tranquillity of your mind, desiring nothing more
than to remove the obstacles which could destroy your peace;
and further, we give you with our whole heart the apostolical
benediction, as a proof of our paternal friendship."
And now one of the sharpest sorrows of Louise de Condé's life was
at hand. An event which was, even in that age of cruelties, to
strike Europe with horror was to fall with bitterest force on the
heart of the princess. Religious life does not extinguish the
affections of the heart; it but regulates, ennobles, and purifies
them; and the Duc d'Enghien was as tenderly loved by the aunt who
had not seen him for many years, spent in devotion to God, as
when, in the halls of Chantilly, she had watched his childish
gambols. The prayer she had offered up in his childhood was
continued more fervently, more constantly, as the dangers to his
body and soul increased. She followed him in commiseration
through the busy scenes in which his lot was cast, and she saw
him brave, loyal, and honorable, a good son and a good husband.
When Louis XVIII. consulted him, in 1803, in common with the
other French princes, as to the answer he should return to the
proposal of Bonaparte that he should renounce the throne of
France, the duke wrote: "Your majesty knows too well the blood
which runs in my veins to have had the least doubt as to the
answer which you demand from me. I am a Frenchman, sire; and a
Frenchman who is faithful to his God, to his king, and to his
vows of honor." We have no space to dwell on the treachery and
the cruelty of the capture and death of this young prince, one of
the fairest hopes of the house of Bourbon. In vain did he even
ask for a priest; but that ungranted request must have carried
consolation to the heart of Madame Louise. As we read of his
cutting off his hair to send to his "Charlotte," we are forcibly
reminded of another prince, who was treacherously slain, sending
a last adieu to another unhappy princess of the same name. To the
doors of the convent at Warsaw, bearing the news, came the Abbé
Edgeworth, whose mission it was to console and help the
unfortunate house of Bourbon. He had attended the last moments of
Louis XVI.; he had stood by him on the scaffold, undaunted by the
crowd, and bade the "son of St. Louis ascend to heaven;" he had
been the director of Madame Elizabeth; he had joined the hands of
Madame Royale and the Duc d'Angoulême in marriage; and now he
came to break the news of the last great sorrow to Madame Louise.
The Mère Sainte Rose brought a crucifix to the princess, and her
countenance told her the rest. Louise fell on her face on the
earth, crying out, "Mercy, my God! have mercy on him!" Then she
rose, and, going to the chapel, poured out her soul before Him
who alone could comfort her.
{117}
"Pardon the faults of his youth, O Lord!" she cried, "and
remember how cruelly his blood has been shed. Glory and
misfortune have attended him through life; but what _we_
call glory--has it any merit in thy eyes? Mercy, my God! mercy!"
But her prayers did not end here. From that time forward there
rose up before the throne of God a constant cry for mercy for the
soul of Napoleon Bonaparte, from the lips of her whose dearest
earthly hopes he had destroyed. She never made a retreat
afterward without devoting much prayer and penance for the
redemption of the enemy of her name and race. Forgiveness of
injuries was an especial characteristic of the Bourbon family,
and none excelled in it more than Madame Louise.
And now another change awaited the poor princess: thick, indeed,
upon her head came trial after trial. Nothing could, indeed, take
from her now the happiness of being a professed Benedictine; but
that she should remain peaceably in one convent for a long time
was hardly to be hoped for at this period. The Lutheran Prussian
government began to interfere with the government of the convent,
to have a voice in the election of superiors, and, of course, to
interfere, at least indirectly, with the rule. Probably the
presence of Madame Louise made them take more notice of that
convent than they would otherwise have done. Before quitting it,
however, as this was a serious step to be taken voluntarily by a
religious who has made a vow of enclosure, she wrote for counsel
to the three French bishops of Léon, Vannes, and Nantes, who were
then all living in London. Their united opinion was, that "the
reasons were well grounded and very solid, and that the repose of
her conscience and her advancement in the perfection of her
state, exact this change." Having received permission from the
bishop of the diocese, and the full consent of her prioress, who
bitterly mourned over the thraldom in which the community were
held, Louise de Condé once more went out into exile, and this
time directed her steps toward England. She landed at Gravesend,
and was, we suppose, the first nun since the Reformation who was
received with public honors by the British authorities. In London
she met her father and brother, whom she had not seen since the
year 1795, and who had since that time endured so much, and who
were still suffering so acutely under their recent sorrow in the
execution of the Duc d'Enghien. There must have been a strangely
mingled feeling of pain and pleasure in this sad meeting. After
remaining a few days in London, her father and brother escorted
her to a Benedictine convent at Rodney Hall, Norfolk, where a
refuge had been offered to her. This community followed the
mitigated rule of St. Benedict, but Louise was allowed to observe
the fasts and other points to which she had bound herself by her
profession of the rule in its strict observance.
In this house there were fifty choir nuns, eight lay sisters, and
a large school of young ladies. Wherever Madame Louise went, she
was accompanied by the Mère Sainte Rose and the little Eléonore
Dombrousha, the child of her adoption. In this community Louise
was greatly beloved. There was about her a sweetness and a
simplicity, a self-forgetfulness and charity for others which
gave her an inexpressible charm. She was truly noble in character
as well as in birth. She gave that example which God intends
those highly born (as we call it) to give--that of more closely
resembling Him whose birth was indeed a royal and noble one.
{118}
During her stay in Norfolk, the Princess Louise suffered greatly
from bad health. The trials she had undergone, the anxiety of
mind, her long journeys, and the severity of the observances to
which she had bound herself had their effect upon her frame. More
than once there was such cause for serious alarm that the Prince
de Condé and Duc de Bourbon came to see her. It is probable, too,
that the English climate, and especially the part of the country
in which she was living, might not have agreed with her; the
convent, besides, was not sufficiently large, and it was a
favorable change in all respects when the community removed to
Heath. Here Madame Louise met with one whose acquaintance she
conceived to be one of the greatest blessings of her life.
The Society of Jesus was not as yet restored to the church; but
many of its ancient members were living, and showed by their
lives what had been the heavenly spirit in which they had been
trained. Preeminently among these was the Père de la Fontaine,
and it was to this holy man Louise became known while in England.
He often said Mass at the convent, and frequently saw the
princess. Under his direction, the soul of Louise made rapid
progress toward perfection. He understood what God required from
her, and taught her how to correspond with God. Among other
valuable advice which he gave her, and which she committed to
paper, the following is remarkable: "A spouse of Jesus Christ
ought absolutely to avoid all communication with Protestant
society. Their want of delicacy, in general, on those points
which wound a heart consecrated to God in all purity, and their
unbelief, often amounting to aversion, for the great sacrament of
the love of Jesus Christ, are two powerful reasons for keeping at
a distance from them. A truly religious soul has reason to fear
presumption and all its attendant evils, if she allows herself,
without real necessity, to be drawn into such dangerous
intercourse."
And so the years again passed on and other changes were at hand.
Prayers, penances, and sufferings such as Louise de Condé had
endured, and sufferings which had been borne also in various
other ways by so many holy souls among the French emigrants, had
brought down mercy from God on their unhappy country and on
Europe. The long war was at an end, the muskets _had_ fallen
from the soldiers' hands, and Napoleon was a captive. Louis
XVIII. sat once more on the throne of his father. The _fleur de
lis_ again floated from the tower of the Louvre. Madame
Royale, who had been sent out of France as a prisoner, ransomed
by treaty, came back to hold the court over which her mother had
once presided; the princes of the blood-royal hastened back to
their places, and there was a general wish that Louise de Condé
should be once more on her native soil. Ah! what a lifetime of
sorrow had she passed through since she left Chantilly and her
house in the Rue Monsieur, and even now she would not return to
_them_.
No, never again could she come back to be the princess. If she
returned to France, it must be as the religious to reestablish a
convent of her order, and thus aid in bringing back religious
life to France. It must be confessed that rarely was a person
more fitted for the task. None should rule, says a proverb, but
those who have learned to obey, and obedience had been a task
which the princess had well studied.
{119}
She had passed through three novitiates, and she had in her
lifetime seen the management of eight different convents, and she
had known well how to profit by the knowledge she gained.
Accordingly she quitted the convent at Heath the 16th of August,
1814, and arrived in Paris just as all were preparing to keep the
_fête_ of St. Louis for the first time for many years. She
resided for a time in the house of her brother, the Duc de
Bourbon; but she never quitted the apartments allotted to her,
and lived in the utmost retirement, waiting there only till a
suitable convent could be assigned to her.
The papers of the day, after mentioning her arrival in Paris,
added: "It was the _on dit_ that his majesty proposed to
revive a royal foundation in her favor, and to establish her with
her sisters in a magnificent monastery which would be restored to
its primitive destination. Already it was sad to think that the
church of this abbey had been used for profane purposes, and the
friends of religion and of art would joyfully see this edifice
restored. It would be purified by establishing there the
perpetual adoration, and by placing there a shining example of
piety in the person of a princess devoted in an especial manner
to God's service."
This edifice was the grand church and monastery of Val du Grâce,
one of the chief monuments of the piety of Anne of Austria. It
was then a hospital; but, as the paper went on to remark, the
superb church was not of any especial use to the sick, and would
be a noble one for cultured religious. However, the idea of
giving Val du Grâce to Madame Louise fell to the ground. It
remained a military hospital, and so continues to this day; but
the sick are attended day and night by the sisters of charity of
St. Vincent de Paul. And as their forms flit through the
corridors, intent on works of love, and as their earnest prayers
rise up in the calm morning and close of evening to heaven, the
founders and the former possessors of that splendid pile are, we
think, contented Madame Louise had been so long absent that she
knew not a single friend in Paris. She now entered into
communication with the Abbé d'Astros, vicar-general of the
diocese of Paris. At her very first interview with him she felt
impelled to give him her full confidence, and this at once gave
her a proof that it was really the will of God she should
establish a convent in the diocese, since a full accord with
ecclesiastical superiors is one of the most valuable helps a new
foundation can have. Still, the place for the convent remained
uncertain, and the privy council to whom it belonged to settle
the affair did not deem it of much importance, and put it aside
for other matters. A friend of Madame Louise, the Comtesse Marie
de Courson, proposed to her that they should make a novena to
Louis XVI. It is unusual to pray to those whom the church has not
canonized, but it is not forbidden to do so privately; and it was
hard to believe that the soul of the monarch upon whom had fallen
the long and bitter punishment of the sins of his ancestors was
not long since in the enjoyment of perfect happiness. The novena
was commenced by a certain number of earnest and fervent souls.
On the seventh day, at the meeting of the council, although most
pressing business was that day before its consideration, a member
suddenly rose, and reminding his colleagues that the request of
Madame Louise had not been granted, and as if moved by an
irresistible impulse, proposed that the palace of the
_Temple_ should be given to her.
{120}
A sudden silence fell on the assembly, then came a movement of
unanimous consent. What better spot for a convent of
_expiation_ than that consecrated by such memories--that in
which such innocent victims had suffered? The heart of Louis
XVIII. was deeply touched by the circumstance.
Truly, royal pomp and ceremony, gala and festivity, could never
again enter those sorrowful halls. Most fitting would it be to
consecrate them to God, and let an unceasing strain of prayer and
praise ascend to heaven. Some doubted whether the task would not
be too painful for the princess herself, and at the first
announcement she did, in truth, shrink back. She had known them
all so well, had loved Elizabeth so tenderly, had wept over their
fates so bitterly, had prayed for them so earnestly, she missed
them, now that she was once more at home; and how, then, could
she bear to live for ever within those walls, which would be an
eternal record of their fate.
But the first emotion passed away, and she began more fully to
understand why she had been tried in the crucible of sufferings,
why her vocation had been so often crossed, so hardly tried. It
had been all to bring her to this, to let her found in Paris a
convent of expiation. Without those trials, perhaps, she could
never have borne the severity of the task, the sacrifice she must
at once make on entering. She tenderly loved Madame Royale, or
Madame la Dauphine, as she was now called, and it could not be
expected or even wished that she should revisit a spot which must
recall to her those terrible days whose memory already
overshadowed her life too much; but this sacrifice Louise was
ready to make, and the convent of the Temple was accepted.
Workmen were engaged to convert the old palace into a convent;
the towers, in one of which the royal family had lived, were
already demolished, but it was easy to perceive where they had
stood. A Beautiful garden surrounded the buildings, partly in the
French, partly in the English style. Water brought up from the
Seine played in fountains surrounded by artificial rocks, among
which a grotto was formed. This grotto was changed into an
oratory to the Blessed Virgin, and another to St. Benedict and
St. Scholastica. The Comte de Courson and the Abbé d'Astros
directed the alterations, and all possible haste was being made,
when, like wild-fire, the news ran through the world, Bonaparte
had escaped from Elba, and was in France. The royal family fled,
and once more the Princess Louise was to be an exile. She could
not at once procure horses, so for a week, which happened to be
holy week, she was hidden in the house of one of her former
attendants. The Mère Sainte Rose was taken very ill, and then
there was the serious difficulty of procuring passports. How
little can those who live in London now, and who breakfast at
home and sup in Paris, estimate the labor, the pain, the dread,
which a timid person like Madame Louise would feel at having to
take the weary journey to England, posting from Paris to Calais,
and then a long, stormy passage, to say nothing of the dangers of
being stopped on the route and taken to prison. She was obliged
to set off on Easter-day. At the city gates they were stopped,
and it was only by a heavy bribe that they were suffered to pass.
On the way they found themselves in the midst of a popular
tumult, and were obliged to leave their carriages and hide till
it was over.
{121}
They had a very bad passage from Calais, but at Dover Madame
Louise was received with every mark of respect and esteem.
She had not the comfort of returning to the convent at Heath, for
it was thought better that she should await the course of events
in London, and she went to a hotel. But a serious illness was the
result of the sudden shock and journey, and after her recovery
she went to the country-house of a friend. All through her
after-life Madame Louise had a great affection for the English,
who, to do them justice, were certainly generous toward the
French emigrants. She was wont to say that their generosity would
win for them the grace of reconciliation with the Catholic
Church. Although Napoleon's second reign lasted but a hundred
days, Madame Louise did not return to France for fourteen months,
partly on account of health, partly because she wished to be
fully convinced of the stability of the Bourbon dynasty before
she commenced her arduous undertaking.
When she reached Paris, the _Temple_ was not yet ready. She
resided some time in the Rue St. Dominique with one of her early
friends. There she made arrangements with various postulants,
with whom she entered the new convent on the second of September,
1816. The Abbé d'Astros blessed the house and said the first Mass
in the chapel. And now, at last, she had found a home; and though
after her many vicissitudes, after the disappointments and the
rapid changes she had seen, she could never have felt very
secure, she never again quitted these walls. She entered most
diligently on her duty as superioress and as mistress of novices;
for, with the exception of the Mère Sainte Rose and one other
Benedictine nun who joined her, (her own community having been
lost in the Revolution,) she had none but young subjects to
govern. Besides this she had to superintend a large school for
young ladies, so that her duties were multiplied and heavy. The
account of her religious life is most touching and beautiful.
Knowing, as we do, how the distinctions of rank cling round our
human nature; how constantly, ever since she had been a nun, she
had been _obliged_ to remind others not to make use of that
very rank; knowing also the exaggerated prestige paid under the
old _régime_ to the Bourbon race, it is wonderful to see how
utterly she forgot her birth or ignored it. She was sixty years
of age; she was lame and in delicate health; yet she kept the
rule rigidly; was gentle to others, severe to herself; would join
in the recreations of her young novices, and could be seen making
fun with them in cutting the wood for the fires. She would often
take recreation with the lay sisters, and also carefully instruct
them. In the infirmary she would perform the most menial offices
for the sick, and, in short, she was a true mother at the head of
her house. "Those who neglect little sacrifices," she would say,
"are not likely to make great ones." At the appointed times she
would not exempt herself from the penances which the rule
permitted the religious to use. The first time that she
prostrated herself at the refectory door, in order that all the
religious should walk over her, many of them could not restrain
their emotion. Afterward the princess reproved them severely,
showing them that all distinctions of worldly rank were totally
contrary to the religious spirit. If the sisters brought her
better food than the others, they were reproved, and forbidden to
do it again; or if they tried to make her straw mattress any
softer, they met the same fate. In short, to the end of her days
she was _thorough_, earnest, single-hearted in all things.
{122}
Sorrows did not fail to follow her into her peaceful retreat. The
assassination of the Duc de Berri, her near relative, filled her
with grief, recalling too vividly the horrors that had darkened
her younger days. She was comforted, however, by a visit from the
venerable Père de la Fontaine, who came to console her. "The Lord
has covered him with the mantle of his mercy," said the old
friend, and those simple words calmed her. Could there not,
indeed, be hope for the soul of him whose first thought on
receiving the death-blow was to say, "Pardon my murderer"? The
Père de la Fontaine had returned to Paris after the peace; and
when the Jesuits had been restored to their place in the church,
and had communities in France, he often visited the Convent du
Temple, and was by Madame Louise and many others esteemed a
saint. The princess told her sisters that, being once in great
spiritual perplexity and suffering, the father passed by her on
his way to the altar, and as his shadow fell on her all her
intense sufferings disappeared. In 1821, this holy man died, and
at the request of Madame Louise the Jesuits sent her some account
of his last hours. The writer described the strong emotion felt
by all who were present when the old man, on his dying-bed,
begged pardon for all his faults, for his breaches of the rule,
and renewed his vows--vows which he had so faithfully kept in
exile and solitude, when his beloved order had been suppressed.
He had lived on in faith and in prayer, and God had allowed him
to see the society restored to the church, so that, like Simeon,
he could depart in peace.
Next came the illness of the princess's father, the Prince de
Condé. She had always been tenderly attached to him, and the
sorrows they had gone through together had naturally deepened the
affection. He lay dying at Chantilly, and mutual friends begged
Madame Louise to go to him. The ecclesiastical superiors would
give her dispensation, they said; she was a princess, no ordinary
nun. She firmly refused. "If our holy father the pope orders me
to go, as a child of the church I will obey; but never will I ask
for a dispensation which should give a precedent for breaking
enclosure." Outwardly she was calm before her sisters, but her
stall in the choir was bathed with tears, so deeply did she
suffer for and with the father whom she loved. Her prayers went
up unceasingly, and there is proof that they were heard.
The Prince de Condé died with dispositions of most humble
penitence, and, when asked if he forgave his enemies, exclaimed:
"I am sure of my salvation, if God will pardon me as freely as I
pardon them." The last words on his lips were C_redo in
Deum_. Perhaps the sacrifice made by his daughter in not
assisting his dying hours had won for him the grace of a good
death. The fortune which came to the princess on her father's
death was devoted to the erection of a conventual church; the
first stone was laid in May, 1821, in the name of Madame la
Dauphine, by one of her ladies of honor. Mgr. de Guilen, then
coadjutor of Paris was present, and Mgr. Trayssinous preached the
sermon. "This place is holy ground," said he; "holy because of
the extraordinary misfortunes and the heroic virtues which it
witnessed in the time of our impious discords. Within these walls
there wept and suffered barbarously those who should have been
more worthy than all others of veneration and love. Within these
walls most noble victims of the popular fury were delivered up to
inexpressible anguish.
{123}
O days of blood and tears! O terrible and cruel scenes! O
lamentable crime! which I dare not recall, which every heart in
France would fain banish from his memory, and from the pages of
our history. But no; we are all condemned eternally to bear the
shame to posterity. Religion, at least, will have the glory of
having done all that it could to expiate it, and to reconcile the
people who were so unfortunately guilty with Heaven. Here day and
night are crying at the foot of the altar consecrated virgins,
innocent and voluntary victims of crimes which are not their own.
Here prayers, fastings, vigils, and austerities, and the sighs of
contrite and humble hearts, are perpetually ascending up to the
throne of justice, but also of divine mercy, to draw down on the
royal family, and on the whole of France, grace and mercy. Thus
does religion avenge herself of her enemies, by expiating the
past, sanctifying the present, and preparing the future. ... And
who will raise this building? She who, concealing the beautiful
name of Condé under that of Soeur de la Miséricorde, has buried
in this cloister all the _éclat_ and grandeur of the world.
In whose name has the first stone been laid? In the name of all
that is most touching in suffering, in courage, in goodness, and
dearest to France--in the name of the royal orphan of the
Temple."
Another death awoke considerable emotion in the heart of Madame
Louise. On the barren rock of St. Helena the proud heart of the
great conqueror wore itself out. The hand and the brain that had
worked such endless woe to her and hers were for ever still. Far
from her all thought of triumph and rejoicing. Instantly she had
Masses offered for him, and never omitted daily to supplicate in
her private prayers that he who had given her no rest on earth
might now have eternal rest given to him.
And now her long and troubled life was hastening to its close.
She had been tossed about, indeed, on a troubled sea, seldom in
port, yet happy and peaceful amid the conflict; and now eternal
peace was at hand.
The bells of the new church were blessed in October, 1822, the
King and Madame la Dauphine being godfather and godmother. The
church was consecrated, in August, 1823, by the Archbishop of
Paris. Louise, looking round, might have seen her work completed,
the community established and flourishing, the church finished in
which the adoration of the altar could be worthily carried out.
The next day she made a false step, and fell down. Slight as was
the accident, fainting fits constantly followed, and she was
never well afterward. She suffered most from her head, but would
not give up her ordinary duties, or lie by. Gradually her
strength failed. On December 23d, she fainted on the stairs, was
carried to bed, and was attacked by fever and sickness. Still she
struggled on with her duties. On the last day of the year, she
would hold the "chapter of peace"--a custom of her order to which
she was much attached, when the religious ask mutual pardon of
each other for any want of charity during the past year, and when
the prioress has to address them on this beautiful subject; and
she would not let her illness interfere with the feast of Holy
Innocents, a gala-day in the convent, when the youngest novice
becomes prioress for the day, and innocent mirth is in the
ascendant; and she assisted at the clothing of two novices in
January, 1824.
{124}
She showed by her manner on this last occasion that she believed
it to be the last ceremony at which she should be present. She
saw each of her sisters in private, and took leave of them with
tender affection. She suddenly became worse, and lost the use of
speech, but not consciousness. She received extreme unction from
the Archbishop of Paris. The community, all in tears, surrounded
her bed. The archbishop remarked, it was like the shower of rain
which, at the prayer of St. Scholastica, came down to prevent St.
Benedict from leaving her too soon. The dying nun understood the
allusion, and smiled. He bade her bless her children, and her
hand was raised for her, and placed on the head of one of her
religious, for she could not move it herself.
A few days afterward she recovered her speech, and she received
the viaticum, and answered the questions of the priest with a
firm tone, "I believe with faith." Her death-agony was very long,
and, when her brother came to see her, she could not speak. The
desire of seeing her once more overcame the repugnance that
Madame la Dauphine had to reenter the Temple, and she was about
to set out thither when the king, fearing the consequences for
her, forbade her to go. The last smile of Louise de Condé was
given to a picture held before her of a dove bearing a cross and
flying to heaven. Perhaps she said inwardly words which would
have been very suitable: "I will flee away and take my rest."
Shortly afterward she expired. She was in the sixty-seventh year
of her age, and the twenty-second of her religious profession.
And thus ended a life of which it may truly be said that it was
"stranger than fiction."
--------
Mr. Bashers Sacrifice, and why He made it.
Simply because Colonel Dolickem _would_ feed himself with
his knife at table. But what could the vulgar habit of the
colonel have to do with such a sacrifice on the part of Mr.
Basher? Nevertheless, it is true, and had it not been for that,
Mr. Basher would never have made it. Colonel Dolickem cut his
mouth and severed his hopes at one blow, as it were. Fact! And
this is the way it came about.
Mr. Basher, as you are aware, was not what might be called a
marrying man. Certainly not. I have heard him say, over and over
again, in what might possibly be considered rather too strong
language, that he would much prefer cutting his throat. Not that
he had any aversion to such a state of life, or that he had made
any vow of celibacy. By no means. Any young lady who might have
liked to marry Mr. Basher could have done so any day, if Mr.
Basher had been the lady, and the lady had been the man. As no
young lady of his acquaintance would assume the masculine
proprieties, such as popping the question, buying the ring,
seeking the priest, putting up the banns and the like, to doing
any or all of which Mr. Basher preferred cutting his throat,
there were little expectations cherished by Mr. Basher's
acquaintances of ever wishing joy to a Mrs. Basher. "I'd never
come through it alive," he would say. But he did, as you shall
hear.
{125}
There is one thing Mr. Basher could do, and do more perfectly
than any man I ever knew, and that was to blush. Blushing Basher
was the title we gave him the first evening he was introduced at
our club. It may be said that blushing was his normal condition.
"Do you know," said Healy, the great portrait-painter, to me one
day, speaking of Basher as a subject, "that I never painted a man
whose complexion was so difficult to determine as that of your
friend Basher?" "He has a warm complexion," said I. "Warm!"
rejoined the artist. "Warm does not express it, say, red-hot."
Old ladies would offer him their fans in the street-cars, and
mischievous young damsels with cherry-colored ribbons [attached]
to their hats look first at him, and then toy with the dangling
ends of their ribbons, as much as to say: "Just this shade."
Newsboys, seeing him pass, hailed one another with the
information that "your uncle had beets for dinner," and wily
policemen dogged his steps under the impression that he was
making off with something that lay heavy on his conscience.
But Mr. Basher's blushing face was nothing to his blushing heart,
mind, or soul, or whatever it is that blushes inside of a man,
and causes him to feel weak and faint, to get shaky at the knees,
and bungling in speech. That he never finished a complete
sentence is a fact too well known to need confirmation. Even on
the day of his sacrifice, the charming Miss Criggles was obliged
to come to his rescue; for, when he got as far as "Miss Criggles,
will you have--" if that ready-witted young lady (thirty, if she
was a day, you know) had not divined his purpose, and said what
he just then lost the power of saying--"me, for your own," I do
not think we would have seen a Mrs. Basher to this day.
He had no better success in his attempts to converse with
children. I remember, as he sat one day in my parlor, twiddling
his thumbs, breaking down in his remarks, and his color coming
and going in rapid succession, my little daughter Dolly climbed
upon his knee, and covered him with confusion by saying to him:
"Mi'ter Bashy, does 'oo ever say 'oor p'ayers?"
"I--I--I, sometimes; a--" blundered Mr. Basher in reply, his
knees beginning to involuntarily dandle the child up and down.
"What does 'oo say?" persisted the little fairy, shaking her
curls, and giving him an arch look. "I don't t'ink 'oo do."
"Why--why--do you a--" Mr. Basher got out.
"'Cause 'oo never 'members what 'oo's t'inkin' 'bout."
Poor Basher could do nothing after that but stare vacantly at the
wall, and smile a smile that is often seen on board a ship as
soon as she reaches rough water. Certainly, in another sense
little Dolly had put Mr. Basher completely at sea.
But I'm forgetting about the sacrifice. You know what a sensation
the cards produced. The receivers whose eyes first fell upon that
of Miss Rosina Criggles expected, of course, to read "Col.
Washington Dolickem" on the other. That was a conclusion
everybody had arrived at for more than six months previous; and
if the bold, heavy card of Col. Dolickem did not accompany the
delicately scented, somewhat thinner and smaller one of Miss
Criggles, it would be, doubtless, the still heavier, manlier,
bolder card of General Yinweeski, of the Russian Embassy, or
Major Thwackemout, of the Ninth Fussyliers, as Tom Wagstaff used
to call them.
{126}
That same _farceur_ never spoke of the dwelling-place of
Miss Criggles but as "Camp Criggles."
"None but your generals and your colonels and your majors ever
get their feet under the mahogany at Camp Criggles," said Tom;
"and a pretty mess they make of it." This was in allusion to the
everlasting _on dits_ about the duel, or the cowhiding, or
some such other agreeable encounter which was daily expected to
come off between the rival combatants for the hand, and, I may
add, the five-twenties, of the charming Rosina.
You should have heard Tom when he heard the news.
"Has he? What, Basher! Not Blushing Basher! Look again. Some
other Basher--some general, colonel, major, or
turkey-cock-in-boots Basher. No? Our Basher? Then draw a pen
across that line in the spelling-book, 'Faint heart never won
fair lady,' for Basher of ours has done the deed, and none so
faint as Basher."
Mr. Basher, you know, was an admirer of Miss Criggles. No, not
surprising. It was his nature to admire; only he found it so
difficult to give expression to his sentiments that his nature in
this respect may be said to have always remained in an inchoate
state. He was an exclamation-point minus the dot. How so pure a
civilian ever got an invitation to dine at the Criggles
mess-table is shrouded in mystery; and how he ever dared when
there to brave the martial presence of General Yinweeski, of
Colonel Dolickem, or of Major Thwackemout is no less mysterious.
Dining at the Criggles table as he did--and if ever the Criggles
family made a point of anything in this world it was the service
of their table--he may be said to have gradually eaten his way
into the affections of the charming Rosina. As he spoke less, he
had more time, you see, than his martial rivals; and what was
more to the purpose, he had a better manner than they. Men of war
who are not mere "carpet valiants," but have smelt the straw
above the mould in a gusty tent, may be pardoned for not having
studied my book _On the Bad Habits of Good Society_. I
pardon Colonel Dolickem for not having read it. The tactics of
the knife and fork are good tactics to study, and practise too;
but as long as your _vis-à-vis_ at table will keep his knife
out of the butter-plate, I would advise you to say nothing about
his putting it into his mouth occasionally--especially if he
wears a sword and you do not; for he might retort by putting that
into you, and then you would find yourself quite as much at fault
for want of the knowledge of a soldier's tactics, as Colonel
Dolickem was in his ignorance of the tactics of a gentlemanly
diner-out. Tom Wagstaff, the Beau Brummel of our club, and who,
by the way, bought up an entire edition of my book for private
circulation, heartily despised the colonel for his slovenly
habit. "He had the misfortune to be brought up on a jack-knife,
sir," said Tom, "as some babies are brought up on a bottle."
I said I would advise you not to say anything to a friend who
mouths his knife, but I don't object to your looking at him when
he does it. When he cuts the corners of his mouth, as he surely
will, sooner or later, unless he has a practised hand, (and I
_have_ witnessed feats of dexterity of this kind which would
surprise you quite as much as any ever performed by the Japanese
jugglers,) you might call his attention to it, and playfully add:
"So much, my dear fellow, for allowing yourself to be so
distracted;" and then you can tell a good story to the company
about another friend of yours--clever dog he was, too--to whom
the accident which has just happened to your friend opposite
happened so often, and from the same unfortunate habit of having
distractions at table, that he was frequently seen to rise after
dinner with both corners of his mouth gashed.
{127}
He was cured, however, not of his distractions, but of putting
his knife in his mouth at such times, by telling a joke in his
presence about another individual to whom a similar accident
happened under similar circumstances, and who cut himself so
severely that he was obliged to be fed out of a bottle for a
week. I have myself tried this friendly ruse several times, and
have never known it to fail.
There is another class of persons besides these who may chance to
carry a longer sword than you do, about whom I would advise you,
as a bit of a philosopher, not to be too meticulous; I mean those
who carry a longer head than you. The pen is mightier than the
sword, (quotation of school-boy memory, but good,) and cuts
deeper. The writer who cut up my book so severely in the pages of
_The Square Table_ was not so far wrong. But he forgot that
I wrote as a professor, not as a casuist. Literary men, as well
as soldiers, may do certain things with impunity which some
others may not. So that Bullhead, of the _New York Sweeper_,
may gnaw on his finger-nails, by way of an appetizer, between the
courses, and nobody minds it--in Bullhead. He might put both of
his elbows on the table, smell of the fish to find out if it be
fresh, feed himself with his knife, eat as if he were doing it
for a wager, wipe the perspiration from his face with his napkin,
and indulge in other little eccentricities, and nobody would mind
him at all, bless you! Where Bullhead is concerned, I agree with
my critic of _The Square Table_. I pretend to lay down only
general laws: Bullhead is a law to himself.
As to Basher, he is the soul of politeness and good breeding. He
has read my book, and admired it. His commendations were rather
bungling in the manner of delivery, but unfeigned. I understood
perfectly what he meant to say, that is enough. Tom Wagstaff, to
whom I dedicated it, and who, as I told you, bought up an entire
edition for private circulation, also admired it. "Chupper, my
boy," said Tom, drawing on his yellow kids, "it's grand!" By the
way, I quoted a few remarks of his, which were delivered by him
one afternoon to a half-dozen of us as a mock lecture. I think I
can recollect some of them. Speaking of soup, Tom remarked: "If
you think the soup particularly good, be sure and say so, and ask
for a second or a third plate. You will find that the host will
be much affected by such little marks of your esteem--for the
soup; and the company will understand that you do not often get
it." Of being helped at table, Tom gave this rule: "Always point
at whatever you wish, either with finger, knife, fork, or spoon.
They are all equally good for the purpose." For the proper eating
of fruit Tom gave us some laughable advice:
"If you are eating fruit, never, by any means, convey the
stones or pits upon your plate in a quiet way, but spit them
out boldly, and with considerable noise. This not only shows
the height of good breeding, but of science also, for it is not
every one who can perform it so perfectly as not to spit more
than the fruit-stones into the plate.
{128}
A much more elegant way, although it requires considerable
dexterity--and I would not advise you to try it without a
little private practice--is to insert the blade of your knife
into your mouth, and with great care get the stones balanced
upon it; then convey them just outside of the edge of your
plate upon the table-cloth, where you may amuse yourself by
building up a very artistic little heap of any form your fancy
may suggest or your good judgment devise. Cherry-stones, it is
to be remarked, are _always_ to be swallowed, and take
care you let the company know it, as it is a highly suggestive
piece of information. Cracking the stones of prunes with your
teeth is the proper way of disposing of _them_, especially
if you are seated opposite a nervous old gentleman. Use your
tooth-pick, of course, at table, and open your mouth wide while
operating. The best kind of tooth-pick is a large, stiff
goose-quill, which makes a snapping noise and calls attention.
The place to keep it is in your pantaloons' pocket. Many
prefer, and I am among the number, to pick their teeth with
their fork. It is quite a refined practice. You will find that
your doing so will cause a marked sensation at the table."
Tom said a good many other things equally clever. The best of
them are in my book. Read that. Tom had different individuals in
his eye at the time. The goose-quill toothpick was a favorite one
of Colonel Dolickem, and went by the name of "Dolickem's
bayonet." Speaking of Dolickem reminds me of Basher and his
heroic sacrifice, about which I was speaking, was I not?
It was the birthday of Miss Rosina Criggles. A large party was
invited, and among the guests could be seen the tall, gaunt,
savage-featured Colonel Dolickem; General Yinweeski's burly form,
clothed in garments which fitted him so tightly that it is a
wonder how he moved without splitting them on all sides; Major
Thwackemout, moving his stiff little body about from right to
left, and from left to right, with that mechanical precision
which characterizes the wooden soldier so prized by patriotic
youth; and the blushing face of Mr. Basher. You may think it odd,
but birthday parties are very ingenious inventions to retard the
advancing years of young ladies. When rumor speaks of your
daughter as thirty or thereabouts, give her a birthday party, and
she will start afresh from twenty-three to twenty-five, as you
may please to have it hinted. Everybody believing she is thirty
at least, no one will presume to say a word about it. Pleased
with your entertainment, and flattered by your attention, people
are disposed to be generous; and then, who among your guests will
ever acknowledge that he or she has bowed, courtesied, danced,
and dined at an old maid's birthday feast! I need not mention the
names of all who crushed themselves together in the brilliantly
lighted parlors of the Criggles mansion. Of course, the Doldrums
and the Polittles were there, and the Boochers and the Coochers,
the Tractors and the Factors, the De Pommes and the De Filets,
the Van Bumbergs and the Van Humburgs, and all that set.
Most people believed that it was to be a preparatory rout to give
_éclat_ to the expected announcement of an engagement
between Colonel Dolickem and the heiress of the house of
Criggles. The colonel believed it also. He had waited for a
suitable opportunity to ask the hand and five-twenties of Miss
Rosina, and now that opportunity had come.
{129}
Few would have had the courage to cross the path of a rival of so
belligerent a disposition as the colonel. So thought the colonel
himself. He was sure of Miss Criggles. Never be too sure of
anything. Now it happened that in the course of the evening,
somewhere about 12.30 A.M., Mr. Basher, after vainly endeavoring
to get off one of the many sentences he had prepared beforehand,
and practised with assiduity in front of his own reflection in
his mirror, and in face of his grandfather's portrait as lay
figures, and finding it no go, quietly abandoned himself to a
sweeping current which just then formed in the crowd, and was
borne along toward the half-open doors of the conservatory.
Feeling, as everybody else did, pretty warm, and his face
standing at the red-hot point of color, as indeed it had been
since he rang the bell two hours and a half previous, he
concluded to saunter a few minutes in the cool conservatory, and
refresh his heated brow and his memory at the same time. Glancing
first on one side and then on another at the flowers, his eye
fell upon a rose-bush on which bloomed one full-blown rose. The
sight of it reminded him of a toast he had prepared for this
occasion, and which he devoutly hoped to be able to give amid the
enthusiastic applause of the company and the grateful
acknowledgments of the Being, and the parents of that Being, at
whose feet he wished to blushingly throw himself, and be
blushingly accepted in return. For Mr. John Basher loved Miss
Rosina Criggles. The toast was this:
"Miss Rosina, the Rose of the Garden of Criggles, and the
Flower of the Conservatory of Fashion and Beauty. Happy the
Hand that shall pluck it from the Parent Stem!"
Once he repeated it in a low voice, a second time somewhat
louder, to be sure of giving the right accent at the right words.
Perfectly satisfied at his second rehearsal, he added in an
audible voice:
"If I dared, I would pluck that rose, (meaning the one on the
bush before him,) in order to give--" Mr. Basher never did finish
a sentence yet, but he might have accomplished this one had he
not turned his head at a rustling sound, and seen approaching the
Rose of the Garden of Criggles herself. Blushing his deepest, Mr.
Basher stumbled out:
"Cool here--ah--just admiring this--ah--"
"Rose," added Miss Rosina, helping him out. "Beautiful, is it
not, Mr. Basher?--and precious too. It is the only one left in
the conservatory."
"The conservatory of fashion, and--" Mr. Basher stopped short. It
would never do to spoil the originality of his toast in that way.
"What is that you are saying, you flatterer?" asked the charming
Rosina, shaking her fan at him in a pleasingly threatening
manner.
"I--I--I was saying, no, thinking--ah--of--now, positively, do
you know--ah--of plucking--"
"What! thinking of plucking the only rose in the house! Would you
be _so_ cruel? O you naughty, naughty man!" And Miss
Criggles gave a look at Mr. Basher that made his knees knock
together, and his toes tingle in his patent-leather pumps.
"I mean--ah--if I--ah--dared to--"
"Oh! you men are so _very_ daring. We poor ladies are so
timid and so trusting, Mr. Basher. When people ask _me_ for
anything, do you know, I do not even dare to refuse them? Pa is
always saying: Rosina, you should be more daring, more repelling.
But I cannot, Mr. Basher. It's not in my nature."
{130}
"Then I ask you," exclaimed Mr. Basher, making a bold venture,
and getting ready to drop on his knees at the end of his request,
"to give me the--the--Rose of the Garden--" Mr. Basher stopped to
take breath and muster courage.
"The only rose!" broke in Miss Criggles. "Think of it!" she
continued, in a voice of tender complaint, addressed to the
lilies and geraniums around, and which made Mr. Basher feel very
uncomfortable, "he has the heart to ask me for my one precious
rose. He knows, cruel man, that I have not the heart, that it is
not in my timid, trusting nature to refuse him." And with that
she broke the flower from its stem and handed it to Mr. Basher,
who was a second time preparing to throw himself into an attitude
and finish the sentence Miss Criggles had so hastily interrupted.
It is possible that Mr. Basher would never have been called upon
to make the sacrifice he did, had not the attention of both been
arrested by a loud "Ahem!" Turning suddenly at the sound, they
beheld the tall, gaunt figure of Colonel Dolickem standing bolt
upright, sentry-wise, in the doorway of the conservatory. He had
witnessed the plucking of the rose, and his soul was all aflame
with anger. His astonishment at what he saw was so great that it
made him speechless. Had he not come himself to the conservatory,
as soon as he could disengage himself from that fat, voluble Mrs.
Boggles, to meet Miss Criggles, whom he had seen entering there,
and do what this birthday party was given on purpose for him to
do? Of course. Had not Miss Criggles herself entered the
conservatory for the same purpose, speaking to him, Colonel
Dolickem, in passing, that his attention might be called to that
fact? Of course, again. Was he brought there on purpose to be a
witness to this rose-giving, this toying, and coying, and moying
with a--with a--individual such as he now saw before him in the
person of a--of a--Basher! Of course, once more. But, choking
with rage, the colonel could not utter a word of these
reflections, and, turning upon his heel, reentered the crowded
parlor. Just then certain sounds came to the ears of Miss
Criggles, which that lady rightly interpreted to mean supper.
This interpretation being conveyed to the bewildered faculties of
Mr. Basher, he hurriedly fixed the rose in his button-hole, with
the words, "For ever," presented his arm, and was soon the object
of commiseration on the part of the Misses Boocher, and the
Misses Coocher, and all the rest, who whispered to one another:
"How _can_ Rosina Criggles go on so!"
One thing seemed a little strange to Mr. Basher when he arrived
in the grand dining-hall. Miss Criggles had released her hold
upon his arm, but when or where he could not say. He imagined he
still felt the pressure of her light, tapering fingers, even when
he stood behind his chair at table, where he found himself, he
could hardly tell how. His surprise was not a little augmented to
hear the loud voice of Papa Criggles crying out, "Colonel!
colonel! this way, colonel, if you please!" and seeing a chair
pointed out to his wrathful rival, directly opposite his, and
Rosina--_his_ Rosina, as he presumed to say to
himself--standing beside him. The colonel cast a look at Mr.
Basher, as he moved to the place appointed him, which was at once
triumphant and defiant.
{131}
In fact, the colonel's hopes began to revive, in spite of the
blushing rose in the button-hole of the deeper blushing Basher.
Now, I am not going to describe the dinner, or call it supper if
you will. You have been to such terribly trying affairs as a
party dinner, and it is quite enough to be obliged to go through
with the ordeal without going over it again in retrospect.
The head of the Criggles house was in a glorious humor; General
Yinweeski was jocose and told several of his best stories of the
battle-field; Colonel Dolickem devoted himself with ardor to
entertain the charming Rosina, and was freezingly polite and
patronizing to Mr. Basher; Major Thwackemout, having been put off
upon simpering Miss Boggles, lost his tongue, and became morose.
In one of those alarming lulls which you have no doubt observed
will take place in the tempest of talk common to a large
assembly, and like sudden lulls in the wind often presage a heavy
blow, the eye of Miss Boggles accidentally fell upon the rose yet
blushing in the button-hole of Mr. Basher's waistcoat.
"Oh! what a beautiful rose, Mr. Basher," cried that enthusiastic
young lady.
"Yes, miss," responded Basher, "it is both beautiful and--ah--" a
look at Rosina--"and--ah--"
"Very red, you would say, Mr. Basher, would you not? True, it
is," said the colonel, showing all his teeth, yet not smiling or
laughing a whit.
"No!" thundered Basher. "Precious
"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons. Precious! You would not part with
it now, Mr. Basher, would you, even for a lady's smile?" The
colonel was evidently determined to spur Miss Boggles up to ask
for it.
"Not for my heart's blood," fervently ejaculated Mr. Basher.
Rosina's glance at him brought out that sentence unbroken, and
for a moment left the colonel quite disconcerted. Returning,
however, like a veteran to the charge, he rejoined with snapping
eyes, (snapping _is_ just the word, so don't interrupt me:)
"_Your_ heart's blood! Nor for mine, perhaps?"
"Yours, colonel?--ha--'pon my word--ha--Yes, if you'll engage to
shed it--ha--"
"Out with it, man," cried the general.
"Yourself."
"Capital! By the gods of war, that is a new way of fighting!"
Colonel Dolickem was confused and baffled. There's not a doubt of
it. How could he say that he was not ready to shed the last drop
of his blood to obtain possession of that rose, coming, as it
did, from the hand of Rosina? Vainly beating his brains for an
evasive reply, he could do nothing meanwhile but carry two or
three mouthfuls from his plate to his mouth, after that ugly
fashion of his, as you know, upon his knife, and snarl. Now, as a
general rule, it is not the thing, as I have already said, to
feed one's self with one's knife. As a particular and special
rule, never attempt it when you are nervous or disturbed in mind.
Don't, you'll cut yourself. That is why the colonel, his hand
trembling with suppressed rage, cut himself. In vain he attempted
to hide it; the blood trickled down upon his chin, and was
quickly seen by that irrepressible Miss Boggles, who cried out in
alarm:
"O Colonel Dolickem! you have cut yourself!"
"Done, done!" cried the general. "Chivalry, my dear colonel, had
no knight like you! Blood is shed at the first blast of the
trumpet, and, according to the most extraordinary terms of this
fray, by your own hand. Basher, you're conquered. Sacrifice the
rose!"
{132}
Poor Basher did as he was bidden, and slowly, with great
reluctance, drew the flower from its place, and held it across
the table for the colonel's acceptance, saying: "It is the
greatest sacrifice--ha I--ha--ever--"
"Mr. Basher," said Rosina, with an approving smile, "you are the
soul of honor."
But the colonel heeded not the outstretched arm of Mr. Basher,
and the rose for which he bled, I am sorry to say, dropped from
Mr. Basher's hand into a dish of tomatoes. What could the colonel
do? Nothing, I think, but what he did--rise with a lofty and
majestic air, look a black thunder-cloud of wrath at Mr. John
Basher, say to Papa Criggles, with his handkerchief to his mouth,
"Under the circumstances," and then get out of the house, and
into a towering passion as he drove home. Next day he took the
first train for Washington.
It was in the conservatory again, at about 2.20 A.M., that Mr.
John Basher tried if the timid and trusting Rosina Criggles could
refuse _him_. She couldn't, as I have already told you. He
got as far as "Will you have--" and she added, "Me for your own,"
and there was an end of it.
"So the sacrifice of Mr. Basher did not consist in popping the
question?"
"By no means. Who ever said it did?"
--------
A Few Thoughts About Protestants.
Faith, though a gift of God, depends for its actuality upon the
acceptance of it by men, and its continuance upon their careful
and constant adherence to it. We are at liberty to receive the
Christian faith or to reject it in the first instance when it is
proposed to us; and we are equally at liberty to misuse it, to
change it, to garble it, and to make it so far of no effect as to
retain nothing of true Christian religion but the name.
Heresy is possible, all must allow, since it is possible to deny
a part of the whole truth; and, knowing to what extremes men will
permit their pride and passions to carry them, the fact of
heresies frequently occurring does not surprise us. The most
lamentable fact about heresy is, that it does not ordinarily die
with the first preachers of it; but succeeding generations rise
up to an inheritance of falsehood, deprived of the entire truth,
fancying themselves joined, to the body of Christ's church,
nourishing a dead branch long separated from the tree of life,
and prevented, as they too often are, by the pride of intellect
and the natural stubbornness of the will, from recognizing their
errors and amending the sins of their forefathers by a hearty
return to the truth that has been abandoned.
Such is the condition--unhappy condition, as it appears to us--of
American Protestant Christians. Deprived of one or another part
of the truth by the heresy of the several founders of their
various religions, they are called no longer the faithful people,
no longer the well-beloved children of holy church, and they
share not in those unspeakable mercies of predilection which make
religion for a Catholic an unfailing treasure of comfort, and his
church a paradise of joy.
{133}
To abandon the source of truth, or to live separated from it, is
to cut one's self off from any reasonable hold upon the truth,
and render the allegiance which one gives to a part of truth a
matter rather of sentiment than of deep principle. A branch cut
from the living tree may be indeed a branch, but its life is
gone, though it seems to live by the suppleness of its twigs, the
greenness of its leaves, and the fruit which yet hangs upon it.
Death is in it, and it will wither. It will bear no more fruit of
itself, for the source of the fruit cannot reach it in its
separated state.
So the truths of religious faith, separated from the source of
faith, lose their vitality; and to a reflecting man who asks
himself why he believes them, they will soon appear no longer
true, because he has no longer any faith in the original
authority which is the witness of God for them before the world.
For it should be self-evident to every one of the least
intelligence, that religious truth concerning man's future
destiny in an eternity which no man living has ever seen cannot
possibly depend upon one's experience or study in this world, and
that the mysterious doctrines of Christianity can only appear
true to a man on sufficient authority, and that, too, a living,
present authority, which is a witness to him as well as to his
forefathers. Hence the necessity of an ever-present, living
source of faith, and the equal necessity of an actual union with
it, in order to have faith in the doctrines of Christianity at
all.
But the present position of our American Protestant brethren
seems to be at variance with this; for we see them having a good,
sincere faith in many of the revealed doctrines of Christianity,
and yet are cut off from the living source of faith, which we
know to be the infallible and divine voice of the church. And not
only cut off, but they reject that source altogether, deny its
authority, and look upon it rather as the source of falsehood
than of truth. But, when we examine the matter closely, we shall
see that they do not deny that they have a real source of their
faith, or that such source is the church of Christ--which they
suppose their own to be--only that they are ignorant of the fact
that the Catholic Church is the church of Christ, and that she is
the true source of their faith, and, if that church was destroyed
and its authority nullified, they could have no faith at all.
When they have lost all faith and obedience to a church which
they regard as the church of Christ, and have not returned to
Catholicity, they have lost at the same time all faith in the
peculiar doctrines of Christianity.
It would be hardly worth while to consider the answer made by
some that they believe in Christ on no church authority, but on
the authority of the Bible alone, because it is plain that one
must first know the Bible itself to be true on some authority and
surely the authority of the type-setter, the printer, and the
paper-maker would not be sufficient, and the only authority they
have or can have of its truth is that of the Christian church,
which sets its seal upon it, and declares it to be the Word of
God.
{134}
There is no doubt that they are cut off from all real church
authority, that their religion is a separated branch from the
living tree: and the state of things is such as we would expect
to happen; the branch will wither, they will lose faith in Christ
and his doctrines, and they are deprived of all those inestimable
blessings and privileges which can only be had in union with the
true and living church.
We who know the history of their religious schism, and the course
it has taken, know that it is more their misfortune than their
fault. We know that they remain satisfied with their state of
poverty, because they are ignorant of the riches of faith; but we
bless God the day is approaching, and is even now at hand, when
that ignorance is fast disappearing, the prejudices and false
notions they have had of the Catholic Church are being rapidly
dispelled. The pope and the priest are no longer bug-bears to
frighten children with; the names of monk and nun are no longer
synonymous with villainy and crime. Catholics are not generally
regarded as ignorant idolaters, and even a Jesuit may pass in
society as an honest man, a sincere Christian, and a gentleman.
Three things, then, may give us great hopes that this great and
good American people, our brethren, our friends, and our
fellow-citizens, are not far from the kingdom of heaven, the
church of God--the spread of knowledge concerning her character
and doctrines, the rapid increase of the church herself in every
part of the country, and the fact that the separated branch is
fast withering, and the people look to it no longer for the fruit
which will nourish their souls unto eternal life.
There is no doubt but that until within a very few years the
Catholic religion was a hidden faith to the mass of the American
people. In the cities, the churches were few and small, and a
Protestant could hardly get within sight or hearing of a Catholic
preacher. In the country towns the scattered flock would get
together once in a month to hear Mass in a miserable apology for
a church in some dirty back-lane, or in a shanty in the woods.
That is all changed. Our city churches and cathedrals are getting
to be the largest and grandest buildings in the land, and in many
places the same congregations which once huddled together in the
shanty are now assembled in churches which rival all others in
the same places for size and beauty. And all this has happened in
so short a space of time that it looks like magic. Those who will
not see the true reason imagine that the wealth of old Catholic
countries has been lavishly poured out to bring it about. They
cannot comprehend that this is the work, for the most part, of
the faith of the Catholic mechanic and the Catholic servant-girl.
The time was--and we have seen it--when the priest took the
dinner-table for an altar, upon which were placed the crucifix
that ordinarily hung at the bedside in the corner of the same
room, and two kitchen candlesticks for the ornaments. Those same
congregations have now their own churches, furnished with
everything needful for divine service. From what we know of the
rapid multiplication of church buildings, we can conclude that,
as far as regards the external appearance of her worship, and the
crowds of worshippers who are seen thronging to her sanctuaries,
the church is now fairly before the American people. They can no
longer plead ignorance of her existence, or fancy her to be a
petty sect diminishing in numbers and decaying in force. The
existence and power of the church in other lands is also forcing
itself upon their notice.
{135}
They cannot read a newspaper or a book without meeting many
proofs that the Catholic Church is, as she always has been, the
mightiest, most reverend Christian church in the world, which
claims the homage and admiration of mankind, and holds the
destiny of Christianity itself in her hands. Those who from
interest are her enemies see this, and on every hand we hear from
their pulpits and read in their religious newspapers the loudest
laments over the "fearful growth of popery," as they are pleased
to style it.
But the interior workings of the church, her doctrines, her moral
teaching, are also being presented to them more clearly. In the
common walks of life, in the parlor, in the street, in the halls
of business, our Protestant brethren meet many who are able to
give a reason for the faith that is in them, and whose lives they
know. Sincere seekers for truth and souls in earnest about their
salvation, hearing of the claims of Catholicity and seeing many
whose religious character they have every reason to admire, will
ask questions, and Americans (we say it not to their reproach)
will ask questions, if it be only for curiosity's sake. Catholic
books, magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, speeches, sermons, and
other modes of diffusing a knowledge of Catholic faith and
practice find many readers and hearers among Protestants who
cannot fail to be impressed by them, who will be divested of
their old prejudices, and learn our religion not as it has been
taught to them by her enemies, but as she is. It would be of no
use to tell an intelligent American Protestant now that Catholics
are poor, ignorant idolaters who worship images, and who never
heard of the Bible, because they know better; and if you told
him, as you might have done twenty years ago and be believed,
that the pope and the priests had secret designs against the
liberties of this country, he would laugh in your face. Books
with pictures representing the pope with his tiara on, holding up
his hands in horror and turning away his face from an open Bible
which a Protestant minister presents to his gaze, while the
lightnings from heaven are depicted in the background descending
in wrath upon St. Peter's, may possibly be found upon the table
of some ignorant backwoodsman, but an intelligent Protestant
would blush to know that such a book was under his roof.
People are great travellers nowadays, too, and they see enough in
Catholic countries to make them at least think well of their
religion.
They go to Rome, perhaps have an interview with the venerable
head of the church, and invariably return penetrated with
sentiments of profound respect, and often of the most attached
affection for him.
They go to heathen countries, they see there the work of Catholic
apostles. They find the only Christians there are Catholics,
living such perfect lives as might put Christians of more
enlightened nations to shame. In every corner of the world they
find the Catholic Church doing her appointed work for the
regeneration, civilization, and salvation of men, and numbers of
them are not slow to draw the conclusion, "Truly this is the
living church of the living God the pillar and ground of truth."
Let us look at the second reason we suggested, namely, the rapid
increase of the church, and the character of it.
In the year 1800 we had only 1 bishop, 100 priests, and about
50,000 Catholics. Now we have 43 bishops, 2235 priests, and at
least 5,000,000 Catholics. That this number is made up
principally by immigration is true; but we do not forget that
they bring the true faith in Jesus Christ with them, that the
truth is spreading by their example and influence, and the
American people cannot fail to feel the effects of it.
{136}
If all these immigrants were infidels, Mohammedans, or Mormons,
they would naturally affect the religious character of the people
amongst whom they are living. How much more may we look for
mighty results from the true religion and the grace of God!
Catholicity is leavening the whole mass. Go where you will, you
will find a Catholic in almost every family of note in the
country. "Oh! I respect the Catholic religion very much," some
one will say to you. "I have a father or mother, a sister or
brother, an aunt or a cousin, who is a very good and very strict
Catholic." From the very families of American Protestant bishops
and ministers the church draws to herself one or another of the
members, from whom new American Catholic families spring up, to
give the church standing and influence in society, and compel a
respectful hearing and a respectful treatment.
These considerations, encouraging as they are, might still lead
us to suppose that it will be yet a long while before America
shall be called, as she undoubtedly will be, one of the brightest
jewels in the crown of the holy church, were it not for the third
thought we have presented, which is, that their faith and trust
in the sapless, separated branch of a church is failing. They
have planted it anew, have watered it, have nursed it with every
care, at boundless expense, with sincere heart's devotion, but
all to no purpose. It will not grow, but withers in their hands.
Now and then some have thought that the branch was too much like
the old tree, and they cut off a twig, a blossom, or plucked a
fruit from it, and planted that, and, with many earnest prayers
and unceasing labors, they hoped their little plant would spring
into life, but its untimely decay has disappointed them and
disgusted them. Anon they endeavored to graft their withering
branch on an older and apparently more healthy stock, such as the
former and late attempts of the Episcopalians to form a union
with the schismatical Greek Church; but the graft will not take,
though they are willing to tie it on with every appliance and
prune it after every fashion. Again, a few who style themselves
Anglo-Catholics and high churchmen try to reason themselves into
a belief that their particular little twig of the branch must be
the true tree, because it is so much like in size and shape to
the young sapling which the apostles first planted in the earth.
Slowly, however, they are beginning to ask themselves the
question which they should have asked in the beginning, "How
shall it grow without a root?" Those who take the trouble to
examine the matter at bottom find out that the branch they
cherish has no root, and now they lose all respect for it. These
divide into two parties. Those who are sincere-minded souls,
looking for true Christianity, and resting their eternal hopes
upon it, seek for the living Christian tree, and find sweet
repose beneath its grateful shade, and true nourishment of their
souls from its never-failing fruit. Others, who are less sincere,
cast aside the dead branch and all their faith in Christ with it,
become discouraged and disgusted, and fall away into
indifferentism and infidelity.
This loss of the old traditional reverence for Christianity,
which a few years back was so strong that men felt it was
something to be ashamed of, and to need apology, when forced to
say, "I am no Christian," is now so marked that it is deplored on
all sides.
{137}
References are not unfrequently made in the columns of our daily
journals indicative of the popular temper, which hold up
celebrated preachers, and with them often the whole clerical
profession, to ridicule and contempt. Still the mass of the
people of our country are both sincere and religious-minded, and
the character of the conversions that are daily taking place is
such as to make us not only hopeful, but sure of the final
result. Surely, it is not to be said that the Catholic Church
shall prove herself less powerful in a country of nominal
Christians than she has shown herself to be in any or all the
pagan nations whom she has not only converted, but also civilized
and enlightened. Very few Protestants nowadays are compelled to
unlearn their supposed Christianity to become Catholics. The
false element which Calvinism introduced at the Reformation is
being gradually eliminated from their systems, and all that they
really adhere to is a part of Catholic truth. Many converts
express themselves surprised to find that to enter the church
they are called upon to renounce nothing whatever of what they
already hold. They find, to their delight, that the faith as
taught by the church is the completion, the realization, and also
the explanation of their religious opinions.
The conversion of our beloved land is a work that should engage
our most ardent aspirations, and kindle all the zeal of which we
are capable. Both our hearts and our heads should be in it. We
feel like preaching a little on this subject. That we may help it
and hasten it by many things there is no doubt; by constant and
earnest prayer, by good example, by instruction, by the
distribution of good books and tracts, and such means; but it
seems to us that when any one is deeply impressed with a
conviction that a desired end will be accomplished, that it ought
to be, and, as far as in one lies, it shall be, then the end is
not far off. Aside from other things, there is in this matter a
wide field for the exercise of our theological virtues.
Our faith: an unwavering faith in the power of truth, which must
prevail. It is God's work; it is what the church is called upon
to do; the people are fast progressing toward it; the good expect
it, the wicked fear it; God's grace is never wanting to aid all
men in their search after, and their acceptance of, the truth,
and what, then, can hinder it? The question put to us a few years
since, with a smile of mixed incredulity and pity, "Do _you_
believe that this country will ever become Catholic?" is now,
"How soon do you think it will come to pass?" "Soon, very soon,"
we reply, if your own statistics be true; for we see by one of
your late writers that the rate of growth of the Catholic
religion has been _seventy-five_ per cent greater than the
ratio of increase of population, while the rate of the decrease
of Protestantism is _eleven_ per cent less.
Our hope: We must have large hope in this, as in all things else,
to bring about speedily what we desire: such an enthusiastic hope
as makes us see the end already. It will, moreover, encourage
them to do what we wish. Tell a sinner that you give him up and
have no hopes of him, and you give him a fatal encouragement to
go on in his wickedness. Your want of hope takes hope out of him;
but, on the contrary, tell him cheerfully that you look for his
conversion and amendment as a matter of course, and he will
conclude at once that he ought to convert himself, and will begin
to wish himself converted.
{138}
Then show him a picture of the happiness and peace of a good
life, the joy of the forgiven sinner; his mind is made up, and
the grace of God will do the rest. So it will be with our
Protestant brethren. Let them feel that we are sure of their
conversion to Catholicity, that we look for it as a certain
event, and they will begin to think it very possible, and ask
what it is to be a Catholic. Present them a picture of that
unspeakable peace which one obtains in a sure and certain faith;
tell them of the blessings in store for them, show them the
treasures of God's house, and give them to understand that they
are meant expressly for them, and that we are certain they will
enjoy them; then it will be strange, indeed, if, with the truth
before them, and the grace of God aiding and encouraging them,
they should turn away and reject their own happiness. For the
greater part of sincere Protestants there is absolutely nothing
to keep them out of the church but the old worn-out prejudices
they have against her. We know that it is thought that they have
an insuperable fear and distrust of some of our practices--the
confessional, for instance; but our experience convinces us that
they find no difficulty in overcoming their fears as soon as they
firmly believe in its necessity, and perceive its consoling and
sanctifying influence upon the individual soul and upon society
at large. Besides, this opinion is, in fact, groundless. As a
good old French Jesuit father said to us one day: "I have noticed
that when Americans have made up their mind to do anything, they
never ask if it be difficult."
Our charity: Souls are won by love. We do not, and cannot, love
the Protestant religion. It has little that is lovable in it; and
besides, our own holy faith, all beautiful and good as it is,
absorbs all the love our hearts can possibly hold. But could our
Protestant brethren know how we Catholics love them--how we yearn
over them as a mother yearns over her wayward child--how we long
to welcome them home again; could they see how the "charity of
Jesus Christ presseth us" to labor and pray for them; could they
overhear us conversing with one another about them and learn our
wishes and plans, our hopes and our wonderings at their continued
absence, then we would win their souls. They could not stand all
that. The power of divine charity would draw them sweetly on.
Then they would ask themselves, What motive can these Catholics
have to wish us so fervently to become as they are? Would that
they might all be brought to ask that question!
When we, who stand upon the firm rock, see them stumbling over
the bogs and marshes of a groundless and unstable faith, there is
a strong temptation to laugh at their bewilderment, and mock at
them as they go leaping about from one little hillock of opinion
to another, and at last fall, sprawling, into the mire of
religious doubt. Better pity them. Human nature, you know, has
_such_ a tendency to follow will-o'-the-wisps, even if it be
only for the purpose of scientific investigation!
Whatever truth they have, after all, is Catholic truth. Their
piety, their love of religion, their hatred of sin, their fear of
hell and hopes of heaven, are all the results of the teachings of
Jesus Christ, in whom they believe as far as they know, and
through whom, in some vague sense, they hope for salvation.
{139}
They have been led away from the true fold, and are wandering
sheep, who are getting further and further each day out of
hearing of the voice of the true Shepherd. But the time is not
far distant when they will return. God's hand is stretched out
over this people. His Holy Spirit is moving their hearts, and the
signs of the day of peace and unity of faith are already
appearing.
Preachers usually begin with a text; we take the liberty of
ending with one, very _à propos_, we think, to the subject
of our thoughts: "I will call them my people, that were not my
people: and her beloved, that was not beloved: and her, that had
not obtained mercy, one that hath obtained mercy. And it shall
be, in the place where it was said to them: you are not my
people: there they shall be called the children of the living
God."
--------
New Publications.
The Clergy And The Pulpit In Their Relations To The People.
By M. l'Abbé Mullois, chaplain to the Emperor
Napoleon III. and Missionary Apostolic.
Translated by George Percy Badger.
First American edition.
12mo, pp. 308. New York: The Catholic
Publication Society, 126 Nassau Street. 1867.
This work of the learned and pious Abbé Mullois has attained an
immense popularity in France, where it was issued a few years ago
under the title of _Cours d'Eloquence Sacrée Populaire; ou,
Essai sur la Manière de parler au Peuple._ It is the first of
a series of essays which appeared subsequently, designed as hints
to the clergy in their pastoral ministrations, especially in the
pulpit.
It is one of the most noticeable books that have been issued by
the Catholic press, and cannot fail of receiving as cordial a
welcome with us as it has already received in France. Its
remarkable characteristic is the apostolic simplicity of its
style, and its bold, manly tone. The author's principal object is
to direct the attention of the clergy to the necessity of
cultivating a popular style of eloquence in their discourses and
instructions to the masses. But, in order that the sermon be
popular, and reach the hearts of the people, the preacher must
himself be popular. He must be a man loved by the people,
engaging both their admiration and reverence by his manner and
his language when addressing them, and above all, by loving them.
Hence, the author wisely treats of the preacher before he treats
of the sermon. The first chapter is devoted to the elucidation of
his great maxim: "To address men well, they must be loved much."
Have many rules of eloquence if you will, but do not forget the
first and most essential one: Love the people whom you would
instruct, convert, reprove, sanctify, and lead to God. "The end
of preaching is to reclaim the hearts of men to God, and nothing
but love can find out the mysterious avenues which lead to the
heart. We are always eloquent when we wish to save one whom we
love; we are always listened to when we are loved. ... If, then,
you do not feel a fervent love and profound pity for
humanity--if, in beholding its miseries and errors, you do not
experience the throbbings, the holy thrillings of charity, be
assured that the gift of Christian eloquence has been denied
you," which is the good abbé's polite way (so truly French) of
saying, "Don't preach."
{140}
He is not above indulging in a little bit of humor now and then
when he wishes to say something a little severe, so as to take
off the edge: "Just look at the young priest on his entrance upon
the sacred ministry. He is armed cap-a-pie with arguments; he
speaks only by syllogisms. His discourse bristles with _now,
therefore, consequently_. He is dogmatic, peremptory. One
might fancy him a nephew of one of those old bearded doctors of
the middle ages, such as Petit Jean or Courte-Cuisse. He is
disposed to transfix by his words every opponent, and give
quarter to none. He thrusts, cuts, overturns relentlessly. My
friend, lay aside a part of your heavy artillery. Take your young
man's, your young priest's heart, and place it in the van before
your audience, and after that you may resort to your batteries,
if they are needed. Make yourself beloved--be a father. Preach
affectionately, and your speech, instead of gliding over hearts
hardened by pride, will pierce _even to the dividing of the
joints and marrow_; and then that may come to be remarked of
you which was said of another priest by a man of genius who had
recently been reclaimed to a Christian life: 'I almost regret my
restoration, so much would it have gratified me to have been
converted by so affectionate a preacher.' ... Apostolical
eloquence is no longer well understood. It is now made to consist
of I hardly know what; the utterance of truths without any order,
in a happy-go-lucky fashion, extravagant self-excitement,
bawling, and thumping on the pulpit. There is a tendency in this
respect to follow the injunctions of an old divine of the
sixteenth century to a young bachelor of arts. '_Percute
cathedram fortiter; respice Crucifixum torvis oculis; nil dic ad
propositum, et bene praedicabis._'"
It is certainly a great mistake, although a common one, that what
is called popular preaching is relished only by the poor and
illiterate, and, indeed, is only fit for them. The author's
sentiments on this subject are so just and well timed that we
venture to give them in the following extracts from the preface
of his second volume.
"True popular preaching is not that which is addressed
exclusively to the lower orders; but that which is addressed to
all, and is understood by all. Such is the import of the word
_popular_. When a man is said to be popular, it implies
that he meets with sympathy on all sides; from among the upper,
the lower, and the middle classes of society. When we say,
charity is popular, we mean that it finds an echo in the
breasts of all. The Gospel is essentially popular; hence
Christian eloquence also should be popular at all times and in
all places; as well in large cities as in small towns and
country districts: unless an exceptional audience is addressed,
and there is only one such in France, namely, that of
Notre-Dame at Paris.
"This is what a sermon ought to be: A learned academician
listening to it on one side, and a poor illiterate woman on the
other, both should derive therefrom something to enlighten
their minds and improve their hearts.
"We, the clergy, are debtors to all. How can we denounce
injustice from the pulpit if we exhibit an example of it in our
own persons? This is a matter involving a sacred trust, which
has not met with adequate consideration; for how can we preach
charity when we deprive the poor of that which is their
due--the bread of knowledge? We should deem it an atrocity to
retain the alms given to us for the needy; and does not our
faith tell us that it would be a still greater crime to
withhold from them the saving truths of the Gospel? ... It is
one of the great glories, one of the great powers of the
ordinance of preaching, that the word preached should embrace
all without any exception; and we are sadly to blame for having
renounced that vantage-ground. Hence it is that our sermons
nowadays are dry, meagre, artificial, inefficacious, and no
longer exhibit that fulness and life, that broad effusion of
thought, those throbbings of the heart and thrilling accents of
the soul, which bespeak a double origin; indicating that what
we utter is at once the voice of God and the voice of the
people.
"I am going to speak without any reserve. Painful as the
subject may be, it is desirable that the clergy should be made
thoroughly aware of it. Go where you will in France, you meet
with numbers of excellent and eminently intelligent men who
say: 'I really cannot account for it; but I can no longer bear
listening to sermons, for they weary me dreadfully. The
phraseology generally used is humdrum and threadbare, and the
matter consists of an incoherent mixture of rhetoric and
philosophy, art and mysticism, of which nobody understands any
thing.
{141}
Then, again, their monotonous uniformity throughout is enough
to send even those into a doze who have lost the habit of
sleeping. I sincerely believe that I should do better by
abstaining; but for the sake of example, I resign myself to
enduring them.' And be it remembered, that these are the
remarks, not of the ill-disposed, but of devoutly religious
men; proving the necessity of some large reform, since it would
be idle to suppose that such concurrent testimony from all
parts of France is unfounded. The same men, be it remarked,
after listening to a genial, diversified, popular, and sterling
discourse, will readily exclaim: 'That's the thing that I want!
That's what does me good! That's what I like!'
"We must revert, therefore, to the genuine style of evangelical
preaching, which is that of a father addressing his numerous
family, and who wishes to be understood by all his children
from the eldest to the youngest.
"But we must not be deluded into thinking that such popular
preaching is easy: on the contrary, it is very difficult of
attainment; for it involves no less a task than that of
speaking a language which shall be level to the comprehension
of the masses, and at the same time adapted to educated minds.
Would you master that task? Study much, study every thing:
theology, literature, the Holy Scriptures, more especially the
Gospel; acquire a deep insight into the human heart; and,
withal, cultivate your own mind till it can digest all
knowledge. Then write and speak like one who has really drawn
what he utters out of the good treasures of the heart, and in
such a way that all who hear you may be ready to say: 'Really,
what he states is very simple; it is sound sense; it is right.
It is just what I would have said myself under similar
circumstances.' Let us recall what has already been remarked
elsewhere--that a little study withdraws us from the natural,
whereas much study leads us to it. Reveal your heart, your
soul; for, after all, the soul of man, that masterpiece of
God's hand, will always carry more weight than all the
embellishments of philosophy or rhetoric."
Let this zealous author speak of what he will, he invariably
comes back to his first principle: "Love the people, if you would
have any influence with them for good." Each chapter reveals the
fact that this thought is the one which is uppermost in the
writer's mind, and, therefore, the one he desires to impress the
more deeply upon the minds of his readers. He knows how to tell
plain, homely truths without offence, and criticise severely the
faults of his brethren without acerbity or presumption.
It is a book that will do good, a great deal of good, and we
commend it most heartily to all our readers, who will assuredly
derive much pleasure and no little profit from its perusal.
The translation has been made by a finished scholar, and leaves
nothing to be desired for purity of style or fidelity to the
original. The volume is published in a finished and elegant
style.
----
Essays On Religion And Literature.
By Various Writers.
Edited by Archbishop Manning.
Second Series. London: Longmans, Green & Co.
New York: For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.
The titles of these essays and the names of their authors will
give our readers a good idea of the character and value of this
volume:
_Inaugural Address, Session_ 1866-7,
the Most Rev. Archbishop Manning, D.D.;
_On Intellectual Power and Man's Perfection--Dangers of
Uncontrolled Intellect_, W. G. Ward, Ph.D.;
_On the Mission and Prospects of the Catholic Church in
England_, F. Oakley, M.A.;
_Christianity in Relation to Civil Society_, Edward Lucas;
_On the Philosophy of Christianity_,
Albany J. Christie, M.A., S J.;
_On some Events Preparatory to the English Reformation_,
H. W. Wilberforce, M.A.;
_On the Inspiration of Scripture_,
Most Rev. Archbishop Manning, D.D.;
_Church and State_, Edmund Sheridan Purcell;
_Certain Sacrificial Words used by Saint Paul_,
Monsignor Patterson, M.A.
It is impossible for us to enter here into an extended review of
all these very remarkable essays. They were read at different
meetings of the English Catholic Academia, founded six years ago
by the present Archbishop of Westminster, and which has for its
object, as the same illustrious prelate and scholar informs us in
his present inaugural address, "the maintenance and defence of
the Catholic religion, both positively and in its relation to all
other truth, and polemically as against all forms of erroneous
doctrines, principles, and thought."
{142}
This first address is a short but comprehensive sketch of the
state of religion in England, in which the present condition and
prospects of the faith are contrasted chiefly with what they were
thirty years ago.
The second and third papers are designed to uphold the following
thesis: The perfection of man consists exclusively in the
perfection of his moral and spiritual nature, intellectual
excellence forming no part of it whatever. We cannot help but
think the author has taken a great deal of trouble to prove a
truism; for his definition of _perfection_ is closely
restricted to moral and spiritual perfection. We do not imagine
that the antagonists he summons up from the ranks of "muscular
Christianity," and from the present atheistical school in
England, would contend that pure intellect, in the sense used by
the author, would afford more than a subordinate service to man's
spiritual welfare, such as he himself proves in a second
proposition. The greater part, if not the whole, of these
antagonists to Catholic asceticism know nothing of what they are
discussing. They suppose, and falsely so, that the Catholic
Church teaches that the soul advances in spiritual perfection
precisely at the expense of intellectual excellence; that the
saint becomes the more holy as he becomes the more stupid; that
the cultivation of the reasoning power is not only useless but a
positive hindrance to spiritual perfection. It is not surprising
that our opponents make the most of intellectual acquirements, of
physical health and strength, and exalt the animal above the
spiritual, because they deny _in toto_ the moral state of
man as Catholic theology, both moral and ascetic, supposes it to
be. They contend that there is nothing wanting in man's moral
nature, any more than in his purely intellectual nature. Both are
weak, it is true, and should be strengthened and perfected, but
the results of moral weakness, which we call sin and
imperfection, are to be regarded in the same light as one would
the results of ignorance in science. Sin is simply a mistake,
culpable to the same degree as a false deduction in physics or
mathematics would be for want of better information and
scientific knowledge. Hence, it is easy to see how these
philosophers neither value nor in fact comprehend the exercises
of the spiritual life, and look upon all self-abnegation and
mortification of the senses as degrading. "Purification of the
soul" would be nonsense, because the soul does not need
purification. It needs only advancement, enlightenment, and
nurture, both in its spiritual and intellectual part. That a man
should apply himself to the perfection of his spiritual nature
without equal care to advance in worldly science, and keep his
muscles well developed, his stomach full, and his body
fashionably and comfortably clothed, is something which the
worldly wise cannot understand. How should they when they rate
the spiritual no higher than, if not below, the intellectual?
Human greatness with them consists in physical and intellectual
power; and they think the world is far more benefited by a
regiment of soldiers and a board of trade than by a community of
monks and an association of prayer.
But too much care cannot be taken when we attempt to argue for
the thesis proposed in this essay. There is danger of giving our
adversaries an impression that we are contending for the very
things of which they accuse us. The intellect is not something
evil which is to be crushed, else we should not look for a saint
in a Chrysostom, an Augustine, a Thomas of Aquinas, a
Bonaventura, or among those thousands of men and women of great
genius and surpassing intellectual power, whose works are the
glory of the world as they are of religion.
But one of the exercises of asceticism, say our opponents, is to
mortify the intellect. Yes, just as I mortify my sight by
restraining it from resting upon vain or immoral objects, my
appetite from too full an indulgence, my love for music from
dangerous display or vain gratification, or, what is at least as
good a reason, because I really have not the time to give my
intellect, my appetite, my love of the beautiful in art, poetry,
and music all that they demand.
{143}
I have a far higher object in life, and that is, to make my soul
pure and agreeable to God. These other and inferior objects are
worthy in themselves of attention, but as for me I am too busy to
spend either much thought or time upon them.
Those good people whose God is their belly, or whose highest
aspiration in life is to see their name on the title-page of a
book, doubt either the sanity or the sincerity of one who says
that he loves to think about God a great deal better than he does
about what he is going to have for dinner, and chooses rather to
make a meditation than to read the morning newspaper. Such an one
is perhaps just as hungry as another for both animal and mental
food, but he puts away that anxious thought about dinner, he
declines the invitation to hear Parepa, and smashes his violin,
or consigns his mathematics to oblivion, because it happens that
some or all of these things are found to have a tendency to take
away his thoughts from God; and as to voluntary suffering, my
philosopher, I am sure that it cost one of these "degraded
ascetics" more pain to smash his violin than all the disciplines
he ever took in his life. What need was there to smash it?
Because it stood in his way, and because sacrifice is the
sweetest and most nourishing food the soul can feed upon. And the
same for his vanity, too, you say. Possibly. But do you
acknowledge that there is such a thing as vainglory, which may
arise in the heart and degrade it, thus placing a hindrance to
its perfection? I know you do, for you are constantly accusing
the Catholic saints of it. Well, then you must allow that
mortification of such a tendency is necessary for man's
perfection; and having once granted the necessity of
mortification for one thing, you have given up the question. Let
us hear no more of "degrading asceticism," or of the "unmanliness
and superstition of bodily austerities."
The fault of this essay consists in the fact that the writer says
he uses the word "intellect" in its popular sense, while his
argument supposes it to be taken in its abstract, philosophical
sense. In relation to the question at issue, the popular sense is
not the philosophical one. The question of human perfection, as
put by the enemies of the church and the railers at her ascetic
principles and practices, is: Does not the Catholic Church teach
that man perfects himself alone in the spiritual order, and that
all human science is but vanity and vexation of spirit, and,
therefore, better left aside? And is not this as a consequence a
"degrading" standard to set before humanity, and one which tends
to superstition, ignorance, mean-spiritedness, as well as
criminal neglect of health and personal cleanliness? Is not
intellectual ability a talent, and was not the servant of the
gospel condemned for returning his to his lord unimproved? This
question the writer of the present essay does not meet, as we had
hoped he would. For ourselves, we judge, as the writer
acknowledges in his second essay, if we read him aright, that
there is such a thing as intellectual perfection, artistical,
mechanical, and even muscular perfection, each in their own
order, but inferior in character, aim, and end to the perfection
of the spiritual nature, which latter perfection it is not only
lawful but obligatory to cultivate, even at the expense of either
of the former.
To advance in spiritual perfection is the first and highest duty
of man. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his justice." If one
can advance in any other perfection at the same time without
detriment to the first, all well and good. There is no danger
that the devil's Advocate will object to his canonization on the
score of his great intellectual superiority, his wonderful
mechanical genius, or the firmness and beautiful development of
his muscles. But let any of these things prove detrimental to his
spiritual perfection, as they without doubt frequently do, then
he must shut up his books or smash his violin, as the case may
be.
The essay by Mr. Wilberforce, _On some Events Preparatory to
the English Reformation_, will be found an exceedingly
interesting paper. That _On the Inspiration of Scripture_,
by Archbishop Manning, presents a concise view of the teaching of
the church, and the different opinions of Protestant and Catholic
theologians on that subject. All the essays are, in fact,
literary productions of a high order, and merit the perusal of
every scholar of English Catholic literature.
-------
{144}
Lacordaire's Letters To Young Men.
Edited by the Count de Montalembert.
Translated by the Rev. James Trenor.
Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1867.
This volume is composed of letters written to his young friends
whilst the author was engaged in the most arduous and responsible
duties. They are not studied productions of the great Dominican's
literary genius, but rather simple outpourings of paternal love
and solicitude toward those young men for whose spiritual
direction he was at once so wise a guide, so zealous a pastor,
and so warm a friend. They reveal the wealth of affection which
enriched his own heart, and the consecration of that affection to
the highest and noblest purpose of life--the perfection and
salvation of souls. These letters have been published that other
young men may also listen to his wise counsels, and receive that
direction and encouragement which the writer was so eminently
qualified to bestow.
Those which refer to the painful steps that fidelity to the truth
and loyalty to the church led him to take in reference to M. de
la Mennais will be found exceedingly interesting. There is no
book that we could wish to see more extensively circulated among
and read by the young men of our day than this collection of
letters. The perusal of them will do much toward strengthening
that bond of holy friendship and mutual confidence which exists
between youth and the priesthood, so truly beneficial to the one
and full of consolation to the other.
--------
Extracts From The Fathers And Church Historians.
W. B. Kelly,
8 Grafton Street, Dublin.
For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
126 Nassau Street, New-York.
This volume contains choice selections from the fathers,
faithfully translated into English.
---------
Modern History; from the coming of Christ and change of the
Roman Republic into an Empire, to the year of our Lord 1867,
with questions for the use of schools.
By Peter Fredet, D.D.
22d edition, revised, etc.
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 566 and 38.
Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1867.
A Compendium Of Ancient And Modern History--with questions,
adapted to the use of schools, with an appendix, etc.--from the
Creation to the year 1867.
By M. J. Kerney, A.M.
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 431.
Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1867.
These works are excellent epitomes of history, and are very
popular in the Catholic schools of the United States and the
Canadas. The first of them, Fredet's History, is a useful volume,
and gives the reader a clear and correct idea of modern history,
especially if he has not time to read the more voluminous
histories of the various countries of the world. The present
edition of both these volumes is brought down to the year 1867,
and the account of our late terrible war is written with candor
and without bias, the bare facts and dates of battles being
given. They are gotten up in good, serviceable style for schools.
---------
The Bohemians Of The Fifteenth Century.
Translated from the French of Henri Guenot,
by Mrs. J. Sadlier. New-York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.
This is a very correct translation of a beautiful little tale by
M. Guenot, illustrating the peculiar habits and manner of living
of that strange people, generally called Gipsies, who appeared in
Europe about the time selected by the author for his
illustration. The story is well told in the original, with an
attention to time and place characteristic of the best French
writers of fiction, and in the English version before us it loses
nothing in accuracy or even in vivacity of style. It is an
excellent book for young readers, and will doubtless find a large
circulation among that class.
--------------------
{145}
The Catholic World.
Vol. VI., No. 32. November, 1867.
Unpublished Letters Of General Washington.
Two years ago, Count Henri de Chastellux gave to the world,
through the pages of _Le Correspondent_ of Paris, a
translation of thirteen letters of Washington's never before
printed. They were addressed to the Marquis de Chastellux, that
gallant and accomplished French nobleman who fought with the
patriot army during our revolutionary war, serving as
major-general under Rochambeau, and of whose subsequent travels
in America we gave some account in an early number of THE
CATHOLIC WORLD. Washington seems to have entertained a sincere
regard for this distinguished soldier and man of letters, who,
besides being in complete harmony with the founder of the
American republic in his views of philosophy and politics, was a
gentleman of most amiable private character, agreeable manners,
and extensive information. After his return to France he kept up
a correspondence with Washington as long as he lived, the last
letter in the present collection bearing date only six months
before the marquis's death. Although it cannot be said that
Washington's letters reveal any facts of importance not already
known, they are not devoid of historical interest, apart from the
value which all confidential communications from his pen must
possess in the eyes of patriotic Americans. We are indebted to
the efforts of the Abbé Cazali in procuring copies of the
original from the Count Henri de Chastellux, who was kind enough
to copy them himself. To both of these gentlemen we return our
most sincere thanks. The first is dated at New-Windsor, January
28th, 1781. Count de Chastellux had just arrived at Newport,
where the French army was then quartered.
I.
My Dear Sir: I congratulate you on your safe arrival in good
health at Newport, after travelling through so large an extent
of the theatre of war in America. Receive my thanks for your
courtesy in informing me of the same, and also for making me
acquainted with the Comte de Charlus. His prepossessing
appearance is a sufficient indication of the amiable qualities
of his mind, and fails not to produce at first view a favorable
impression upon all who see him.
{146}
After spending several days with us at headquarters, he has
gone to Philadelphia, accompanied by Count Dillon.
I left them at Ringwood, whither I went to repress a partial
revolt at Pompton among the New-Jersey troops, who, after the
example of those of Pennsylvania, mutinied and refused to obey
their officers. The affair happily ended without bloodshed. Two
of the ringleaders were executed on the spot, and order had
been completely restored before I left.
I am at a loss for words to express my appreciation of your
approval and friendship, and the value I attach to them. It
shall be the desire and happiness of my life to merit their
continuance, and to assure you on every occasion of my
admiration for your character and virtues. I am, dear sir, your
most obedient servant,
G. Washington.
II.
New Windsor, May 7, 1781.
Dear Sir: Permit me, on this occasion of writing to you, to
begin my letter with congratulations on your recovered health,
and I offer them sincerely.
Colonel Menoville put into my hands two days since your favor
of the 29th ultimo. If my inclination was seconded by the
means, I should not fail to meet this gentleman as the friend
of my friend; and if it is not in my power to comply with his
wishes on the score of provisions, I will deal with him
candidly by communicating the causes.
I am impressed with too high a sense of the abilities and
candor of the Chevalier Chastellux to conceive that he is
capable of creating false hopes. His communication, therefore,
of the West Indies intelligence comes with merited force, and I
would to God it were in my power to take the proper advantage
of it! But if you can recollect a private conversation which I
had with you in the Count de Rochambeau's chamber, you will be
persuaded it is not; especially when I add, that the want of
which I then complained exists in much greater force than it
did at that moment; but such preparations as can be made, I
will make for the events you allude to. The candid world and
well-informed officer will expect no more.
May you participate in those blessings you have invoked hereon
for me, and may you live to see a happy termination of a
struggle which was begun, and has been continued, for the
purpose of rescuing America from impending slavery, and
securing to its inhabitants their indubitable rights, in which
you bear a conspicuous part, is the ardent wish of, dear sir,
your most obedient and most affectionate servant,
G. Washington.
III.
New Windsor, June 13, 1781.
My Dear Chevalier: I fear, from the purport of the letter you
did me the honor to write from Newport on the 9th, that my
sentiments respecting the council of war held on board the
_Duke de Bourgogne_, (the 31st of May,) have been
misconceived, and I shall be very unhappy if they receive an
interpretation different from the true intent and meaning of
them. If this is the case, it can only be attributed to my not
understanding the business of the Duke de Lauzun perfectly. I
will rely, therefore, on your goodness and candor to explain
and rectify the mistake, if any has happened.
{147}
My wishes perfectly coincided with the determination of the
board of war to continue the fleet at Rhode Island, provided it
could remain there in safety with the force required, and did
not impede the march of the army toward the North river; but,
when Duke Lauzun informed me that my opinion of the propriety
and safety of this measure was required by the board, and that
he came hither at the particular request of the Counts
Rochambeau and de Barras to obtain it, I was reduced to the
painful necessity of delivering a sentiment different from that
of a most respectable board, or of forfeiting all pretensions
to candor by the concealment of it.
Upon this ground it was I wrote to the generals to the effect I
did, and not because I was dissatisfied at the alteration of
the plan agreed to at Wethersfield. My fears for the safety of
the fleet, which I am now persuaded were carried too far, were
productive of a belief that the generals, when separated, might
feel uneasy at every mysterious preparation of the enemy, and
occasion a fresh call for militia. This had some weight in my
determination to give Boston (where I was sure no danger could
be encountered but that of a blockade) a preference to Newport,
where, under some circumstances, though not such as were likely
to happen, something might be enterprised.
The fleet being at Rhode Island is attended certainly with many
advantages in the operation proposed, and I entreat that you,
and the gentlemen who were of opinion that it ought to be
risked there for these purposes, will be assured that I have a
high sense of the obligation you mean to confer on America by
that resolve, and that your zeal to promote the common cause,
and my anxiety for the safety of so valuable a fleet, were the
only motives which gave birth to the apparent difference in our
opinions.
I set that value upon your friendship and candor, and have that
implicit belief in your attachment to America, that they are
only to be equalled by the sincerity with which I have the
honor to be, dear sir, your most obedient, and obliged, and
faithful servant,
G. Washington.
IV.
Philadelphia, January 4, 1782.
My Dear Chevalier: I cannot suffer your old acquaintance, Mrs.
Carter, to proceed to Williamsburg without taking with her a
remembrance of my friendship for you.
I have been detained here by Congress to assist in making the
necessary arrangements for next campaign, and am happy to find
so favorable a disposition in that body to prepare vigorously
for it. They have resolved to keep up the same number of
regiments as constituted the army of last year, and have called
upon the States in a pressing manner to complete them.
Requisitions of money are also made; but how far the abilities
and inclinations of the States individually will coincide with
the demands is more than I am able, at this early period, to
inform you. A further pecuniary aid from your generous nation,
and a decisive naval force upon this coast in the latter end of
May or beginning of June, unlimited in its stay and operations,
would, unless the resources of Great Britain are inexhaustible,
or she can form powerful alliances, bid fair to finish the war
in the course of next campaign, (if she mean to prosecute it,)
with the ruin of that people.
The first, that is, an aid of money, would enable our financier
to support the expenses of the war with ease and credit,
without anticipating a change in those funds which Congress are
endeavoring to establish, and which will be productive in the
operation.
{148}
The second, a naval superiority, would compel the enemy to draw
their whole force to a point, which would not only be a
disgrace to their arms by the relinquishment of posts, and the
States which they affect to have conquered, but might
eventually be fatal to their army, or, by attempting to hold
these, be cut off in detail. So that in either case the most
important good consequences would result from the measure.
As you will have received in a more direct channel than from me
the news of the surprise and recapture of St. Eustatia by the
arms of France, I shall only congratulate you on the event, and
add that it marks, in a striking point of view, the genius of
the Marquis de Bouillé for enterprise, and for intrepidity and
resources in difficult circumstances. His conduct upon this
occasion does him infinite honor.
Amid the numerous friends who would rejoice to see you at this
place, none (while I stay here) could give you a more sincere
and cordial welcome than I should. Shall I entreat you to
present me to the circle of your friends in the army around
you, with all that warmth and attachment I am sensible of, and
to believe that with sentiments of the purest friendship and
regard I have the honor to be, etc.,
G. Washington.
V.
Headquarters, Newburg,
Aug. 10, 1782.
My Dear Chevalier: I love and thank you for the sentiments
contained in your letter of the 5th. I look forward with
pleasure to the epoch which will place us as conveniently in
one camp as we are congenial in our sentiments. I shall embrace
you when it happens with the warmth of perfect friendship.
My time, during my winter residence in Philadelphia, was
unusually (for me) divided between parties of pleasure and
parties of business. The first, nearly of a sameness at all
times and places in this infant country, is easily conceived;
at least, is too unimportant for description. The second was
only diversified by perplexities, and could afford no
entertainment. Convinced of these things myself, and knowing
that your intelligence with respect to foreign affairs was
better and more interesting than mine, I had no subject to
address you upon; thus, then, do I account for my silence.
My time since I joined the army in this quarter has been
occupied principally in providing for, disciplining, and
preparing, under many embarrassments, the troops for the field.
Cramped as we have been and still are for the want of money,
everything moves slowly, but, as this is no new case, I am not
discouraged by it.
The enemy talk loudly and very confidently of peace; but
whether they are in earnest, or whether it is to amuse and
while away the time till they can prepare for a more vigorous
prosecution of the war, time will evince. Certain it is, the
refugees at New York are violently convulsed by a letter which
ere this you will have seen published, from Sir Guy Carleton
and Admiral Digby to me, upon the subject of a general
pacification and acknowledgment of the independency of this
country.
Adieu, my dear Chevalier. A sincere esteem and regard bids me
assure you that, with sentiments of pure affection, etc.,
G. Washington.
{149}
VI.
Newburg, Dec. 14, 1782.
My Dear Chevalier: I felt too much to express anything the day
I parted with you. A sense of your public services to this
country and gratitude for your private friendship quite
overcame me at the moment of our separation. But I should be
wanting to the feelings of my heart, and do violence to my
inclination, were I to suffer you to leave this country without
the warmest assurances of an affectionate regard for your
person and character.
Our good friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, prepared me (long
before I had the honor to see you) for those impressions of
esteem which opportunities and your own benevolent mind have
since improved into a deep and lasting friendship--a friendship
which neither time, nor distance can ever eradicate.
I can truly say that never in my life did I part with a man to
whom my soul clave more sincerely than it did to you. My
warmest wishes will attend you in your voyage across the
Atlantic, to the rewards of a generous prince--the arms of
affectionate friends--and be assured that it will be one of my
highest gratifications to keep a regular intercourse with you
by letter.
I regret exceedingly that circumstances should withdraw you
from this country before the final accomplishment of that
independence and peace which the arms of our good ally has
assisted in placing before us in such an agreeable point of
view. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to accompany you
after the war in a tour through the great continent of North
America, in search of the natural curiosities with which it
abounds, and to view at the same time the foundation of a
rising empire. I have the honor, etc.,
G. Washington.
P.S.--Permit me to trouble you with the inclosed letter to the
Marquis de Lafayette.
VII.
Headquarters, Newburg,
May 10, 1783.
My Dear Chevalier: The affectionate expressions in your
farewell letter of the 8th of June from Annapolis gave a new
spring to the pleasing remembrance of our past intimacy, and
your letter of the 4th of March from Paris has convinced me
that time nor distance can eradicate the seeds of friendship
when they have taken root in a good soil and are nurtured by
philanthropy and benevolence. That I value your esteem, and
wish to retain a place in your affections, are truths of which
I hope you are convinced, as I wish you to be of my sincerity
when I assure you that it is among the first wishes of my heart
to pay the tribute of respect to your nation, to which I am
prompted by motives of public consideration and private
friendships; but how far it may be in my power to yield a
prompt obedience to my inclination is more than I can decide
upon at present.
You have, my dear Chevalier, placed before my eyes the exposed
situation of my seat on the Potomack, and warned me of the
danger which is to be apprehended from a surprise; but as I
have an entire confidence in it, and an affection for your
countrymen, I shall bid defiance to the enterprise, under a
full persuasion that, if success should attend it and I cannot
make terms for my releasement, I shall be generously treated by
my captors, and there is such a thing as a pleasing captivity.
At present both armies remain in the situation you left them,
except that all acts of hostilities have ceased in this quarter
and things have put on a more tranquil appearance than
heretofore.
{150}
We look forward with anxious expectation for the definitive
treaty to remove the doubts and difficulties which prevail at
present, and our country of our newly acquired friends in New
York, and other places within these States, of whose company we
are heartily tired. Sir Guy, with whom I have had a meeting at
Dobb's Ferry for the purpose of ascertaining the epoch of this
event, could give me no definitive answer, but general
assurances that he was taking every preparatory measure for it;
one of which was, that, a few days previous to the interview,
he had shipped off for Nova Scotia upward of 6000 refugees or
loyalists, who, apprehending they would not be received as
citizens of these United States, he thought it his duty to
remove previous to the evacuation of the city by the king's
troops.
The Indians have recommenced hostilities on the frontiers of
Pennsylvania and Virginia, killing and scalping whole families
who had just returned to the habitations, from which they had
fled, in expectation of enjoying them in peace. These people
will be troublesome neighbors to us, unless they can be removed
to a much greater distance, and this is only to be done by
purchase or conquest. Which of the two will be adopted by
Congress, I know not. The first, I believe, would be cheapest
and perhaps most consistent with justice. The latter most
effectual.
Mrs. Washington is very sensible of your kind remembrance of
her, and presents her best respects to you, in which all the
gentleman of my family who are with me cordially and sincerely
join. Tilghman, I expect, has before this entered into the
matrimonial state with a cousin of his whom you may have seen
at Mr. Carroll's near Baltimore. My best wishes attend Baron
Montesquieu, and such other gentlemen within your circle as I
have the honor to be acquainted with. I can only repeat to you
assurances of the most perfect friendship and attachment, etc.
G. Washington.
VIII.
Princeton, October 12, 1783.
My Dear Chevalier: I have not had the honor of a letter from
you since the 4th of March last, but I will ascribe my
disappointment to any cause rather than to a decay of your
friendship.
Having the appearances, and indeed the enjoyment of peace,
without the final declaration of it, I, who am only waiting for
the ceremonials, or till the British forces shall have taken
their leave of New York, am held in an awkward and disagreeable
situation; being anxiously desirous to quit the walks of public
life, and, under my own vine and my own fig-tree, to seek those
enjoyments and that relaxation which a mind that has been
constantly upon the stretch for more than eight years stands so
much in want of.
I have fixed this epoch to the arrival of the definitive
treaty, or to the evacuation of my country by our newly
acquired friends. In the mean while, at the request of
Congress, I spend my time with them at this place; where they
came in consequence of the riots at Philadelphia, of which,
doubtless, you have been fully informed, for it is not a very
recent transaction.
They have lately determined to fix the permanent residence of
Congress near the falls of Delaware, but where they will hold
their session till they can be properly established at that
place is yet undecided.
{151}
I have lately made a tour through the Lakes George and
Champlain as far as Crown Point; then, returning to
Schenectady, I proceeded up the Mohawk river to Fort Schuyler,
(formerly Fort Stanwix,) crossed over to the Wood creek, which
empties into the Oneida Lake and affords the water
communication with Ontario; I then traversed the country to the
head of the eastern branch of the Susquehanna, and arrived at
the Lake Otsego, and the portage between that lake and the
Mohawk river at Canajoharie.
Prompted by these actual observations, I could not help taking
a more contemplative and extensive view of the vast inland
navigation of these United States from maps, and the
information of others, and could not but be struck with the
immense diffusion and importance of it, and with the goodness
of that Providence which has dealt her favors to us with so
profuse a hand. Would to God we may have wisdom enough to make
a good use of them. I shall not rest contented till I have
explored the western part of this country, and traversed these
lines (or great part of them) which have given bounds to a new
empire. But when it may, if it ever should, happen, I dare not
say, as my first attention must be given to the deranged
situation of my private concerns, which are not a little
injured by almost nine years absence and total disregard of
them.
With every wish for your health and happiness, and with the
most sincere and affectionate regard, etc.,
G. Washington.
IX.
Mount Vernon, February 1, 1784.
My Dear Chevalier: I have had the honor to receive your favor
of the 23d of August from L'Orient, and hope this letter will
find you in the circle of your friends at Paris, well recovered
from the fatigues of your long inspection on the frontiers of
the kingdom.
I am, at length, become a private citizen on the banks of the
Potomack, where, under my own vine and my own fig-tree, free
from the bustle of a camp and the intrigues of a court, I shall
view the busy world with calm indifference, and with that
serenity of mind which the soldier in pursuit of glory and the
statesman of a name have not leisure to enjoy. I am not only
retired from all public employments, but am retiring within
myself, and shall lead the private walks of life with heartfelt
satisfaction. After seeing New York evacuated by the British
forces on the 25th of November, and civil government
established in the city, I repaired to Congress and surrendered
all my powers, with my commission, into their hands on the 23d
of December, and arrived at this cottage the day before
Christmas, where I have been close locked in frost and snow
ever since. Mrs. Washington thanks you for your kind
remembrance of her, and prays you to accept her best wishes in
return. With sentiments, etc.,
G. Washington.
X.
Mount Vernon, June 2, 1784.
My Dear Sir: I had the honor to receive a short letter from you
by Major l'Enfant. My official letters to the Counts d'Estaing
and Rochambeau (which, I expect, will be submitted to the
members of the Cincinnatis in France) will inform you of the
proceedings of the General Meeting, held at Philadelphia, on
the 3d ult., of the reasons which induced a departure from some
of the original principles and rules of the society.
{152}
As these have been detailed, I will not repeat them, and as we
have no occurrences out of the common course, except the
establishment of ten new States in the western territory, and
the appointment of Mr. Jefferson (whose talents and worth are
well known to you) as one of the commissioners for forming
commercial treaties in Europe, I will only repeat to you the
assurances of my friendship, and express to you a wish that I
could see you in the shade of those trees which my hands have
planted, and which by their rapid growth at once indicate a
knowledge of my declination and their willingness to spread
their mantles over me before I go home to return no more. For
this their gratitude I will nurture them while I stay.
Before I conclude, permit me to recommend Colonel Humphreys,
who is appointed secretary to the commission, to your
countenance and civilities whilst he remains in France. He
possesses an excellent heart and a good understanding. With
every, etc.,
G. Washington.
XI.
Mount Vernon, September 5, 1785.
My Dear Sir: I am your debtor for two letters, one of the 12th
of December, the other of the 8th of April. Since the receipt
of the first I have paid my respects to you in a line or two by
a Major Swan, but, as it was introductory only of him, it
requires an apology rather than entitles me to a credit in our
epistolary correspondence.
If I had as good a knack, my dear Marquis, [Footnote 23] as you
have at saying handsome things, I would endeavor to pay you in
kind for the many flattering expressions of your letters,
having an ample field to work in; but as I am a clumsy laborer
in the manufactory of compliments, I must first profess my
unworthiness of those which you have bestowed on me, and then,
conscious of my inability of meeting you upon that ground,
confess that it is better for me not to enter the list, than to
retreat from it in disgrace.
[Footnote 23: By the death of his brother, Philippe Louis of
Chastellux, on the 26th January, 1784, the Chevalier had
taken this title. ED. C. W.]
It gives me great pleasure to find by my last letters from
France that the dark clouds which overspread your hemisphere
are yielding to the sunshine of peace. My first wish is to see
the blessings of it diffused through all countries, and among
all ranks in every country, and that we should consider
ourselves as the children of a common Parent, and be disposed
to acts of brotherly kindness toward one another. In that case
restrictions of trade would vanish: we should take your wines,
your fruits, and surplusage of such articles as our necessities
or convenience might require and in return give you our fish,
our oil, our tobacco, our naval stores, etc.; and in like
manner should exchange produce with other countries, to the
reciprocal advantage of each. And as the globe is large, why
need we wrangle for a small spot of it? If one country cannot
contain us, another should open its arms to us. But these
halcyon days (if they ever did exist) are now no more. A wise
Providence, I presume, has decreed it otherwise, and we shall
be obliged to go on in the old way, disputing and now and then
fighting, until the great globe itself dissolves.
I rarely go from home, but my friends in and out of Congress
sometimes inform me of what is on the carpet. To hand it to you
afterward would be circuitous and idle, as I am persuaded you
have correspondents at New York, who give them to you at first
hand, and can relate them with more clearness and precision.
{153}
I give the chief of my time to rural amusements; but I have
lately been active in instituting a plan which, if success
attends it, and of which I have no doubt, may be productive of
great political as well as commercial advantages to the States
on the Atlantic, especially the Middle ones. It is the
improving and extending the land navigations of the rivers
Potomack and James, and communicating them with the western
waters by the shortest and easiest portages and good roads.
Acts have passed the assemblies of Virginia and Maryland
authorizing private adventurers to undertake the work.
Companies, in consequence, are incorporated, and that on this
river is begun. But when we come to the difficult parts of it,
we shall require an engineer of skill and practical knowledge
in this branch of business, and from that country where these
kinds of improvements have been conducted with the greatest
success. With very, etc.,
G. Washington.
XI.
Mount Vernon, August 18, 1786.
My Dear Marquis: I cannot omit to seize the earliest occasion
to acknowledge the receipt of the very affectionate letter you
did me the honor of writing to me on the 22d of May, as well as
to thank you for the present of your _Travels in America_,
and the translation of Colonel Humphreys's poem, all which came
safely to hand by the same conveyance.
Knowing as I did the candor, liberality, and philanthropy of
the Marquis de Chastellux, I was prepared to disbelieve any
imputations that might militate against those amiable
qualities, for characters and habits are not easily taken up or
suddenly laid aside. Nor does that mild species of philosophy
which aims at promoting human happiness ever belie itself by
deviating from the generous and godlike pursuit. Having,
notwithstanding, understood that some misrepresentations of the
work in question had been circulated, I was happy to learn that
you had taken the most effectual method to put a stop to their
circulation by publishing a more ample and correct edition.
Colonel Humphreys (who spent some weeks at Mount Vernon)
confirmed me in the sentiment by giving a most flattering
account of the whole performance. He has also put into my hands
the translation of that part in which you say such and so many
handsome things, that (although no sceptic on ordinary
occasions) I may, perhaps, be allowed to doubt whether your
friendship and partiality have not, in this one instance,
acquired an ascendency over your cooler judgment.
Having been thus unwarily, and I may be permitted to add,
almost unavoidably betrayed into a kind of necessity to speak
of myself, and not wishing to resume that subject, I choose to
close it for ever by observing, that as, on the one hand, I
consider it an indubitable mark of meanspiritedness and pitiful
vanity to court applause from the pen or tongue of man, so on
the other, I believe it to be a proof of false modesty or an
unworthy affectation of humility to appear altogether
insensible to the commendations of the virtuous and enlightened
part of our species. Perhaps nothing can excite more perfect
harmony in the soul than to have this string vibrate in unison
with the internal consciousness of rectitude in our intentions
and an humble hope of approbation from the supreme Disposer of
all things.
{154}
I have communicated to Colonel Humphreys that paragraph in your
letter which announces the very favorable reception his poem
has met with in France. Upon the principles indifferent to the
applause of so enlightened a nation, nor to the suffrage of the
king and queen, who have pleased to honor it with their royal
approbation.
We have no news this side the Atlantic worth the pains of
sending across it. The country is recovering rapidly from the
ravages of war. The seeds of population are scattered far in
the wilderness; agriculture is prosecuted with industry. The
works of peace, such as opening rivers, building bridges, are
carried on with spirit. Trade is not so successful as we could
wish. Our State governments are well administered. Some objects
in our federal system might probably be altered for better. I
rely much on the good sense of my countrymen, and trust that a
superintending Providence will disappoint the hopes of our
enemies. With sentiments, etc.,
G. Washington.
XIII.
Mount Vernon, April 25, 1788.
My Dear Marquis: In reading your very friendly and acceptable
letter of the 21st of December, 1787, which came to hand by the
last mail, I was, as you may well suppose, not less delighted
than surprised to come across that plain American word, my
wife! A wife! Well, my dear Marquis, I can hardly refrain from
smiling to find you are caught at last. I saw, by the eulogium
you often made on the happiness of domestic life in America,
that you had swallowed the bait, and that you would as surely
be taken (one day or another) as you were a philosopher and a
soldier. So your day has at length come. I am glad of it with
all my heart and soul. It is quite good enough for you. Now you
are well served for coming to fight in favor of the American
rebels, all the way across the Atlantic ocean, by catching that
terrible contagion, domestic felicity, which, like the
small-pox or the plague, a man can have only once in his life,
because it commonly lasts him (at least with us in America--I
don't know how you manage these matters in France) for his
whole lifetime. And yet, after all the maledictions you so
richly merit on the subject, the worst wish which I can find it
in my heart to make against Madame de Chastellux and yourself
is, that you may neither of you ever get the better of this
same domestic felicity during the entire course of your mortal
existence.
If so wonderful an event should have occasioned me, my dear
Marquis, to have written in a strange style, you will
understand me as clearly as if I had said, (the simple truth in
plain English,) Do me the justice to believe that I take a
heart-felt interest in whatsoever concerns your happiness. And
in this view I sincerely congratulate you on your auspicious
matrimonial connection. I am happy to find that Madame de
Chastellux is so intimately connected with the Duchess of
Orleans, as I have always understood this noble lady was an
illustrious pattern of connubial love, as well as an excellent
model of virtue in general.
While you have been making love under the banner of Hymen, the
great personages of the North have been making war under the
inspiration, or rather the infatuation, of Mars.
{155}
Now, for my part, I humbly conceive you have had much the best
and wisest of the bargain. For certainly it is more consonant
to all the principles of reason and religion (natural and
revealed) to replenish the earth with inhabitants, rather than
to depopulate it by killing those already in existence.
Besides, it is time for the age of knight-errantry and mad
heroism to be at an end. Your young military men, who want to
reap the harvest of laurels, don't care (I suppose) how many
seeds of war are sown. But for the sake of humanity it is
devoutly to be wished that the manly employment of agriculture,
and the humanizing benefits of commerce, would supersede the
waste of war and the rage of conquest. That the swords might be
turned into ploughshares, the spears into pruning-hooks, and,
as the Scripture expresses it, the nations learn war no more.
I will now give you a little news from this side of the water,
and then finish. As for us, we are plodding on in the dull road
of peace and politics. We, who live at these ends of the earth,
only hear of the rumors of war, like the roar of distant
thunder. It is to be hoped our remote local situation will
prevent us from being swept into its vortex.
The constitution which was proposed by the federal convention
has been adopted by the States of Massachusetts, Connecticut,
Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Georgia. No State has
rejected it. The convention of Maryland is now sitting and will
probably adopt it; as that of South Carolina is expected to do
in May. The other conventions will assemble early in the
summer. Hitherto there has been much greater unanimity in favor
of the proposed government than could have been reasonably
expected. Should it be adopted, (and I think it will be,)
America will lift up her head again, and in a few years become
respectable among the nations. It is a flattering and consoling
reflection that our rising republic has the good wishes of all
the philosophers, patriots, and virtuous men in all nations,
and that they look upon it as a kind of asylum for mankind. God
grant that we may not disappoint their honest expectations by
our folly or perverseness! With sentiments, etc.,
G. Washington.
P.S.--If the Duke de Lauzun is still with you, I beg you will
thank him, in my name, for his kind remembrance of me, and make
my compliments to him.
_May 1st_.--Since writing the above, I have been favored
with a duplicate of your letter in the handwriting of a lady,
and cannot close this without acknowledging my obligations for
the flattering postscript of the fair transcriber. In effect,
my dear Marquis, the characters of this interpreter of your
sentiments are so much fairer than those through which I have
been accustomed to decipher them, that I already consider
myself as no small gainer by your matrimonial connection.
Especially as I hope your amiable amanuensis will not forget at
the same time to add a few annotations of her own to your
original text.
I have just received information that the convention of
Maryland has ratified the proposed constitution by a majority
of 63 to 11.
--------
{156}
Aimée's Sacrifice.
A Tale.
Chapter I.
The sun was sinking in the horizon, and the sky was overspread
with a glorious array of many-colored clouds--those hues which
artists so vainly try to reproduce on canvas, and which it is
still more impossible to describe in words. It was a soft, balmy
summer evening, the 14th of August, and nature seemed as if ready
to join with faithful hearts in keeping the coming feast and to
give them a faint shadow of the glories of heaven. Very fair was
the landscape which lay outspread before the spectator's eye from
the churchyard of the little village of St. Victor, raised as it
was on a slight eminence above the rest of the village.
Beech-woods, softly undulating hills, fertile dales, cottages
scattered here and there, and the sea shining like silver in the
far distance, formed the delightful prospect; and the old curé,
as he traversed the churchyard which alone separated the modest
presbytery from the church, could never prevent himself from
pausing to admire the wonderful beauty of the scene. On this
evening particularly, he stood looking up into the gorgeous sky
with the earnest, wistful gaze of one who would fain pierce
through "each tissued fold" of that marvellous curtain of blue
and gold.
The little church of St. Victor did not boast much architectural
beauty, and the churchyard was filled with simple green mounds
and wooden crosses, with here and there a few shrubs and wild
flowers, showing that it was the resting-place for the poor and
the lowly. The village itself was very small, but there were many
outlying hamlets, so that on Sundays a goodly congregation filled
the church. While the curé was still standing absorbed in
thought, a side-door of the church gently opened, and a young
girl, about eighteen, very simply-dressed, but with a grace in
her appearance and movements which showed her to be above the
peasant rank, came out. The face which she raised as she
approached the curé was radiant with beauty and with innocence;
the lines of care had not yet marked their furrows on the smooth
brow or cheeks; but there was a shade, as if cast by coming
sorrow, over the countenance, and on the long, dark eyelashes
tears were still trembling.
"Well, my child," said the curé, "are your labors over?"
"Yes, father," she replied; "I have finished everything, and I do
think Our Lady's altar looks beautiful. The ferns make such a
good background and show all the flowers to advantage. Oh! I
think it will look lovely at benediction to-morrow, and we will
take such pains with the music! O father!" she continued, "if
mamma could but come and see it and hear Mass! I did so hope she
would be well enough. I have prayed so often for it." And her
eyes filled with tears.
"Ah! Aimée," said the curé, "sometimes our prayers are very blind
ones, and, like the apostles of old, we know not what we ask. I
have just been to see your mother--"
{157}
"And how did you find her? what do you think of her, father?"
said Aimée eagerly. "I do think she is a _little_
better--just a trifle, you know!"
The priest made no answer for a moment, then he said: "Aimée, I
do not think she is better, and she has asked me to speak to you.
She would not have sorrow come on you too suddenly. My child, my
poor child, your mother is going fast where she will no longer
need an earthly altar, and where she may gather flowers in the
gardens of eternal bliss. You have loved her well, my poor Aimée;
will you not give her up to His keeping who hath loved her best
of all?"
Aimée had clasped her hands tightly together, and the color had
faded from her cheek. She raised her eyes to the sky above, still
radiant with its glorious hues. Within those masses of golden
clouds she fancied she could see the pathway which should lead to
the paradise of God. She turned her eyes to earth again, and,
bowing her head, she said, "_Fiat voluntas tua_. Father,"
she continued, "I have all but known this for weeks past. I have
seen it in the doctor's face, in yours, but I strove to hide it
from myself."
"I have hesitated to speak sooner," said the priest, "but this
day a letter has come from your uncle in England for your mother,
enclosed to me. I took it to her; and its contents are such that
it made us feel the time has come when you must face the truth
with her and listen to her counsels for the future."
Aimée closed her eyes in sudden anguish, while a sharp pain shot
through her heart. "The future, father," she said--"the future
without _her?_"
"Courage, dear child," answered he. "Life is not long. When we
look back on the years, they seem but as a day. Even for the
young, who knows what its length maybe?" And Aimée knew from the
tone of his voice that he was thinking of the fair young sisters,
of the merry brothers, one week laughing gayly in the old Chateau
de Clareau and planning their future; the next, standing on the
scaffold, already wet with the blood of their father and mother.
This scene he had witnessed as a young man, escaping by miracle
from a similar fate. And it is not to be wondered that from
henceforth life had seemed to him but a troubled and rapidly
passing dream.
"I must go to the church, now," said the curé, after a moment's
pause. Aimée followed him, and, entering in, sank on her knees at
the foot of Our Lady's altar, so recently decked by her own
nimble fingers. The church was silent, and the last rays of the
setting sun came through the west window, made lines of golden
light upon the pavement, and cast a halo around the head of the
young girl who knelt there absorbed in prayer. Never had Aimée
prayed before as she prayed now. It is not till sorrow is fairly
upon us, till we realize that our individual battle is begun,
that the bitterness which only our own heart knows is really at
our lips--that we pray with intensity. Aimée poured out her
whole heart, and offered herself to do the will of God in all
things. She asked that his will might be done in her and by her;
she renounced the happiness of life, if it were necessary for its
accomplishment.
In after years, Aimée looked back upon that prayer, and felt that
her offering on the threshold of her life had indeed been
accepted.
The sunset had faded; at last twilight had settled on the earth,
when Aimée left the church and hastened home.
{158}
Chapter II.
Before we follow her footsteps, we must pause for a few instants
to tell the past history of Aimée's mother. Marie Angelique de
Brissac was, like the curé, the sole survivor of a numerous
family, who all perished in the Revolution. She, then a mere
child, escaped in the arms of her foster-mother, who conveyed her
to England, and devoted her whole life to bringing up the little
girl and procuring for her a good education. When Marie was about
seventeen, she insisted on sharing her old nurse's burdens, and
procured daily pupils. She taught the children of a surgeon in
the small country town where the old French woman had taken up
her abode. And it so happened that Captain George Morton, of her
majesty's ----th cavalry, was thrown from his horse and broke his
leg at the very door of Mr. Grant's house. His recovery was
tedious, and he chafed exceedingly at the confinement, and became
at last so irritable and peevish that poor Mrs. Grant, unable to
please him, delegated the task to her young French governess. The
result may be easily foreseen. George Morton loved Marie
passionately, and was beloved in return. They were speedily
married; and as George Morton knew it would be useless to ask his
father's consent, he did without it, and then wrote to announce
his marriage to the old man, and ask leave to bring his bride to
the paternal mansion in Russell Square, London. The spoilt and
favorite son of a rich merchant, indulged in every whim he could
recollect, George was little prepared for the storm of anger that
burst upon him for the step he had taken. Mr. Morton had lost his
wife many years before, and devoted himself--heart and soul,
body and mind--to the acquisition of wealth, in which pursuit he
was warmly aided by his eldest son, Ralph. But the whole hearts
of the two silent, cold, apparently sordid-minded men were set on
George, the handsome, careless, liberal, merry younger son.
George was to make a great match, to sit in parliament, and in
time attain a peerage; and as, according to rumor, Lady Adelaide
Oswald was only too willing to enable him to take the first step
in the programme, the news of George's marriage to a penniless
French governess was more than the concentrated pride of the two
natures could bear. George was forbidden ever to communicate with
his family again, and his handsome allowance was cut off. George
laughed heartily, told his wife the cloud would soon pass,
thanked Heaven he was not in debt, and declared it would be an
agreeable novelty to have to live on his pay and the interest of
the few thousands he had inherited from his mother. In less than
two years after his marriage he was again thrown from his horse,
and met this time with such mortal injuries that he never spoke
again, and expired in a few hours. His fellow-officers did all
they could for the young, broken-hearted widow and his infant
daughter. The commanding officer wrote to Mr. Morton to implore
help, but the appeal was in vain. It was then thought better to
purchase a small annuity for Mrs. Morton with the little funds
George had died possessed of; and as she had heard that one of
the early friends of her family had been appointed curé to the
little village of St. Victor, she determined upon going there, at
least for a time. There her old nurse, who followed her
everywhere, died, and there she continued to live and educate her
child. Time had softened her great sorrows, and her existence had
been for many years a happy and tranquil one.
{159}
Her child grew up in beauty and grace, and possessing every
disposition of heart and mind a mother could desire. If she had a
fear, it was that her nature was too gentle, too pliant, too
ready to forget herself for others, to enable her to battle alone
with a hard and cruel world. Aimée Morton was one of those beings
whom nature seems to intend should be always safely sheltered
from the struggles of life. They should lean on some nature
stronger than their own, like the tendrils which wind themselves
round a tree. But when Mrs. Morton spoke of this fear of hers to
the curé, he only smiled, and bade her remember that it is the
meek who inherit the earth. When, however, Mrs. Morton perceived
that consumption was making rapid strides in her constitution, a
pang of mortal agony shot through her when she thought of what
was to be Aimée's fate, left alone in a pitiless world. The curé
was an old man, and she could not, therefore, hope that he could
long watch over and protect her darling child. Besides, Mrs.
Morton's annuity ceased with her life, and there were no means at
St. Victor for Aimée to earn her bread. She was well educated;
her mother had taken great pains in teaching her, and the curé
had made it his delight to increase her stock of knowledge.
George Morton's father had long since been dead, and Ralph had
succeeded to the full enjoyment of the old man's wealth. No sign
of relenting had come from that death-bed to the unoffending
widow and orphan of his once loved son. And now, emboldened by
the approach of death, which so levels the distinction of earth
in the eyes of those just hovering on eternity, Mrs. Morton wrote
to Ralph, telling him she was on the brink of the grave, and
imploring his help for the child she would leave behind her. She
enclosed her letter in one from the curé and doctor confirming
her statement.
And after many days' suspense the answer had come.
Aimée and her mother lived in a little cottage close by the
presbytery. It had originally been but a peasant's cottage, and
it did, in fact, contain but four small rooms; but Mrs. Morton
had gradually transformed it into a most graceful little home.
Creepers twined round the white walls, and roses peeped in at the
window. A pretty garden surrounded the house; while inside, the
furniture, though simple, was gracefully arranged; flowers,
books, and pictures adorned the little sitting-room, and an air
of refinement pervaded the dwelling. In that sitting-room,
reclining in an easy-chair, propped up with pillows, lay Mrs.
Morton. A stranger would have been astonished to find that Aimée
could possibly have been in ignorance as to her mother's state;
but the change had come so gradually that it was not to be
wondered at that the poor child had fondly hoped on even to the
last. But to other eyes the emaciated form, the sunken eyes, the
hectic glow, the short, dry cough, told their own tale. Aimée
hastened to her mother, and was clasped in her arms in a long,
close embrace.
"You know all, my darling?" said she.
"Yes, sweet mother, the curé has spoken." And Aimée resolutely
steadied her voice and drove back the rising tears. "Be at peace
about me, mother dear. God has given you to me for a long time: I
must not grudge you to him, if he wants you now."
{160}
"My own child!" said Mrs. Morton. And she fondly kissed the
bright, soft brown hair of the head lying on her shoulder. "God
guard thee ever, and he _will_ guard thee. He is the Father
of the orphan. Aimée, I will trust him about you."
"And may be it won't be very long, you know, mother," said Aimée.
"You are going home before me: you will be waiting for me on the
other side."
A long, silent kiss was Mrs. Morton's answer.
"And this letter, mother--may I see it?"
"Yes, dearest, here it is." And a letter in a thick, blue
envelope, with a large, red, official-looking seal, was put into
her hands. Its contents were brief, and might have been supposed
rather to refer to an assignment of goods than the future fate of
an orphan niece.
Mr. Ralph Morton stated that, in the event of Mrs. George
Morton's death, he was willing to adopt her daughter Aimée, to
provide for her during his life, and to leave her a sufficiency
at his death, provided her conduct was such as he should approve
of; that before her arrival in England he should require copies
of his brother's marriage certificate and the child's baptismal
register; that he should be willing to pay all expenses of her
journey to England so soon as he should receive intimation of her
readiness for departure; but that he wished it to be distinctly
understood that he would have nothing to do with his niece during
Mrs. Morton's lifetime, nor would he pay any debts contracted by
that lady, or hold any further communication with her. The blood
rushed to Aimée's cheek and brow as she read the last sentences.
"Even on the threshold of the grave, could not that last insult
have been spared?" thought she. She gave a glance at her mother's
peaceful face, and realized that it is precisely on that
threshold that insult loses its sting. Mr. Morton's taunt had no
power to move the heart so soon to be done with earth.
From this day the mother and daughter often spoke together of the
time when they should be separated, and Aimée received many a
wise counsel from her mother's lips, to be treasured up for days
to come. Mrs. Morton told her all she knew of the character of
the uncle who would soon be her only relative. Very early in life
he had been disappointed in his affections and treated with great
treachery. From that hour he grew hard, morose, and unfeeling,
and threw himself with all the strength of his iron nature into
the acquisition of wealth. Still, however, his strong affection
for his brother George had survived the wreck of his better
nature, and George had always firmly believed that Ralph's anger
would in the event of his death be ended, and that he would
extend protection to his wife and child.
"And therefore, my child," said Mrs. Morton, "I felt compelled to
write once more to your uncle, believing that in doing so I was
fulfilling what would have been my husband's will; and it will
comfort you to feel, when you are with him, that you are doing
what your father would have wished." Mr. Morton was, Mrs. Morton
believed, a man totally without religion. She counselled Aimée to
bear the trials of her lot patiently, to do all she could to
conciliate her uncle, and to draw him to a better life; but, if
she found her life in his house was more than her strength could
bear, or if any principle were in danger, she was to try and seek
employment as a governess. The curé was going to furnish her with
a letter of introduction to a French priest in London, who would
in that case advise her how to act.
{161}
And so the days went on. September, which happened to be that
year a warm, radiant summer month, flew by without any
perceptible change in the invalid; but early in October came cold
north winds, rain, and mists. Mrs. Morton was taken suddenly
worse, and the last sacraments were administered. After receiving
them, she rallied and was able to be lifted from her bed to a
sofa placed near the window. Aimée hardly left her for an
instant; she grudged that any one else but herself should render
any service to the being so soon to leave her. One night Mrs.
Morton awoke from an uneasy sleep; the day was beginning to
break, and, as the feeling of suffocation which she often
experienced in bed came on, Aimée assisted her to the sofa, and
then kneeling by her side, they both watched the sun arise in his
glory, just purpling the day above, then making the heavens
glorious with his presence. Mrs. Morton opened her eyes and took
one long gaze on the earth which looked so fair, and on the
beautiful sky. Then she turned to her daughter, and she laid her
head on that loving breast.
"I am going from you, my Aimée," she said; "but remember always,
I am _not gone to a Stranger_."
Aimée pressed her lips softly, and Mrs. Morton seemed to sleep.
In that attitude the old servant Marthe found them when she
entered the room an hour later. And then only did Aimée wake to
the consciousness that her mother had slept into death, and that
she had heard her last words. Those words rang in Aimée's ears as
she performed the last sacred offices to the dead. Solemnly she
fulfilled her task; there were no tears in the large, soft eyes
or on the pale cheek; she compassed those dear limbs in their
shroud; she crossed the wasted hands upon the breast, and laid
the crucifix, so loved in life, between the fingers; then, when
the curé entered the room, she turned to him and said: "Father,
she is not gone to a Stranger." [Footnote 24]
[Footnote 24: These words were used by an Irish girl on her
mother's death.]
"No," he answered; "to her Friend and Brother, and who is also
yours and mine, my child. Leave, then, this poor, earthly
tabernacle, Aimée, for a while, and come and meet her at his
feet." And Aimée went with him to Mass.
Chapter III.
It was all over: the wasted form of Marie Angelique de Brissac
Morton was laid in the quiet grave, where the rays of the rising
sun would play upon the grass; where the shadow of the sanctuary
wall would shelter it; where wild roses and sweet-brier would
scent the air; where the curé would come daily to say a _De
Profundis_; and which the faithful villagers, who had loved
the sleeper well, would always reverently tend. There Aimée left
her there she shed her last tears in the early morning before
she began her journey; there she knelt at the curé's feet for his
last blessing, and the old man's voice faltered as he pronounced
the words. Mrs. Morton's death and Aimée's departure had robbed
his life of the little sunshine that it had possessed; but he
murmured not, and rather rejoiced that tie after tie was cut
which should bind him to the love of earth. With far more
calmness than could have been expected, Aimée bade farewell to
the only home and friends she had ever known, and set out to meet
her new and untried future.
{162}
She had never been further than to the country town nearest her
village, and the journey astonished and bewildered her. More than
one compassionate and admiring glance was cast on the slight,
lovely girl, attired in such deep mourning, and whose eyes were
so dim with unshed tears. A trusty farmer of St. Victor, saw her
to the sea-coast, and put her into the charge of the captain of
the vessel in which she was to reach England. He in his turn
consigned her to the guard of the train. At length, Aimée found
herself standing in the great wilderness of a London railway
station, with people jostling, pushing, vociferating, swearing
around her, each intent on his own business, and all unmindful of
others. A footman at last came up to ask her name, and, finding
she was Miss Morton, told her he was sent for her. He showed her
to a fly, which was waiting, and having found her luggage, she
was soon rolling through the streets. At those long, dreary,
interminable streets Aimée looked with a kind of awe and
oppression. She was thankful when the carriage stopped at the
door of one of the large, gloomy-looking mansions to be found in
Russell Square. Another footman opened the door, and she entered.
No voice welcomed her, no hand was stretched out to meet hers, no
smile greeted her. A housemaid appeared to lead her up-stairs.
She found herself in possession of a large room, furnished in the
heavy style in fashion forty years ago. A luxurious four-post
mahogany bedstead half-filled the apartment, hung with dark-brown
damask; the window-curtains were of the same hue. There was a
massive wardrobe, chairs which could hardly be moved, and an
empty fireplace. Aimée shuddered, but not with cold; and, when
the door closed behind the servant, she threw herself into a
chair and wept bitterly. Presently she rose, weeping still, but
it was to cast herself on her knees and press her crucifix to her
lips. She soon grew calm; the sense of loneliness passed away.
She had a Friend who never left her, in whose company the
dreariest room was bright; and Aimée rose comforted and at peace.
She went to the window and looked out. Below her was a small
paved court, and beyond the house a vista of other houses and
lanes; not a speck of green or a flower met her eye; but she
looked higher still, and she saw the sky, very cloudy at that
moment certainly; "but then," thought she, "it will be often
blue, and I can always look at it." And so she tried to enliven
the prospect. A knock at the door interrupted her musings, and
there entered a cheerful, elderly woman, who courtesied
respectfully, and announced she was Mrs. Connell, the
housekeeper. As her eyes travelled over Aimée's sad, wan face and
deep black, an expression of compassion and interest came into
her countenance. "Do you want anything, miss?" she asked. "Sure,
it was only this morning that Mr. Morton told me you were coming,
and so things are hardly straight for you. Will you take some
tea, ma'am? Dinner won't be served for an hour."
"Is my uncle at home?"
"No, miss, and will not be for half an hour; then he goes to
dress, and then dinner is served. Why, Miss Morton," said the
good woman, brightening as she saw Aimée's crucifix on the table,
"you're a Catholic! To be sure, I never thought of that, though I
knew Mr. George had married a French lady."
"Are you one, Mrs. Connell?" said Aimée, with a smile.
{163}
"To be sure, miss. I am an Irish woman, as perhaps you may know."
But as Aimée had never heard English save from her mother and the
curé, Mrs. Connell's accent was quite lost upon her. She felt,
however, she had found a friend; and she gladly accepted Mrs.
Connell's help in unpacking and getting ready for the formidable
interview with her uncle. They met in the drawing-room a few
moments before dinner. Mr. Morton put out two of his fingers with
an icy, "How are you?" after which he relapsed into silence. When
dinner was announced, he gave her his arm, and they went into the
dining-room. Two footmen and a butler waited. The plate was
magnificent, the dinner very fine; but not one word was addressed
to the poor, lonely girl, too terrified to eat. Once or twice she
made a desperate effort to break the ice of her own accord, but
she found evidently that this was disliked, and she gave it up.
And so day succeeded day, and there was no alteration in her
uncle's behavior. He might have been deaf and dumb as far as
intercourse with him was concerned. His orders about her--few,
brief, and decisive--were given to Mrs. Council. She was to
furnish herself with clothes from certain shops which he named,
and whose bills were to be sent to him. As soon as possible, she
was to leave off her heavy mourning. She was never to go out
alone; and as for exercise, the Square Gardens would suffice. And
having delivered himself of these sentiments, Mr. Morton
apparently considered his duty to his orphan niece was done. He
provided her with neither employment nor amusement; he gave her
no pocket money; and she had nothing but a small sum which
remained to her when all the expenses at St. Victor were paid.
The young girl, brought up, as she had been, in the open country,
accustomed to sea and mountain air, to work in her garden, and
take long, rambling walks to the hamlets round the village, felt
like a caged bird pacing up and down the gravel paths of Russell
Square, and watching the London blacks settle on the leafless
trees. She enjoyed one comfort, that of the daily walk to Mass
with Mrs. Connell; and be the weather what it might, the two
figures of the old woman and young girl might be seen flitting
through the dusk to the nearest Catholic church. Still it was
almost impossible to avoid losing both health and spirits in such
an atmosphere. She was very courageous, and she struggled
resolutely against depression and _ennui_, a word of which
she for the first time began to understand the meaning. She wrote
long letters to the curé, and his answers, containing every scrap
of village news, were eagerly devoured, as well as some beautiful
thoughts on higher themes which he never failed to give her. She
pulled down the long disused books in her uncle's library, and,
guided by a list the curé had given her--for in the days of exile
he had attained a good knowledge of English literature--she read
a good deal. She practised on the old, long-disused piano in the
drawing-room, much to Mrs. Connell's delight. She tried to teach
herself Italian; and, as visiting the poor was strictly forbidden
by her uncle, she spent some of her own money in buying
materials, and made clothes for them. Then, in the Square
Gardens, she made friends with the children who with their
nurse-maids overspread the place. She soon became their friend,
favorite, and slave, was alternately a horse for Master Walter
and a lady in waiting for Miss Beatrice, or a perpetual fountain
of story-telling to the whole tribe. Society she saw literally
none; one guest only ever sat at Mr. Morton's table, and his
appearance Aimée soon learnt to dread rather than desire.
{164}
Mr. Hulme was Mr. Morton's partner, a little wiry man with sharp
ferret eyes, and his harsh cynical conversation was far worse to
Aimée than her uncle's silence. He took little notice of her; but
it was deeply painful to the poor girl to have all that she held
most sacred treated as a fit subject for scorn and ridicule, to
hear honor and faith and nobility and truth scoffed at as
impossibilities. Many natures might have been warped by hearing
such sentiments; but Aimée's childlike faith and innocence were a
secure shield, and not one of Mr. Hulme's coarse remarks ever
clung to her memory.
Chapter IV.
Every now and again Aimée understood that _she_, though not
directly named, formed the subject of conversation between the
two partners. She was in some way connected with the return of
"Robert," though who Robert was, or where he was coming from, she
had not the slightest conception, and she felt too weary at heart
to indulge much curiosity. Christmas came, and poor Aimée's heart
was sore indeed. At such a period the happiest family has some
sad memories--there are some vacant places at the board, some
voices whose tone we listen for in vain; but with Aimée what a
change since last year! She could not but think of the midnight
Mass, the gathering of the villagers, the sky radiant with stars,
her mother's kiss, the curé's blessing; how, later in the day,
she had waited on the poor and gladdened many a heart, and how
she had trimmed the church's arches with holly, and how she had
dressed the _crèche_. Now there were no such delights for
her; still she drove back her tears. She thought of her mother's
Christmas in heaven, really singing the angelic song. And in the
dingy London chapel a few holly-berries were glistening, and upon
the altar was the same Lord, the same Friend and Comforter; and
Aimée, as she walked home through the streets, when a fog was
beginning to turn to rain, and when every object looked a dirty
brown color, felt in her heart that she possessed the greatest
blessing the festival could bring--_peace of heart_.
She dreaded the dinner because she feared Mr. Hulme would be
present; but on entering the drawing-room she found, to her
surprise, a gentleman whom she had never seen before. He was
lying back in one of the easy-chairs, a newspaper in his hand, as
if quite at home. On her entrance he sprang to his feet, and
Aimée saw he was a young man about five-and-twenty, with a fair,
open countenance beaming with good humor and cheerfulness.
"Miss Morton, I presume. Allow me to introduce myself, as there
is no one at hand to perform the ceremony. I am Robert Claydon,
at your service, nephew to the redoubtable Mr. Hulme. I am not
vain enough to suppose he has talked of me in my absence."
"I have heard him speak of some one called Robert," said Aimée,
smiling.
"I have been in Holland these three months," he replied, "on
business of the firm, and only returned last night."
The entrance of Mr. Morton and Mr. Hulme put a stop to the
conversation; but Aimée soon found that dinner was a very
different matter in presence of the new guest.
{165}
Mr. Hulme was in the highest good humor, Mr. Morton less icy than
usual, while Robert's flow of spirits seemed inexhaustible. All
the little incidents of an ordinary journey from Hamburg to
London were told in such a manner as to make them amusing; and
when Aimée went to bed that night, she felt as if a ray of
sunshine had suddenly lightened her life. Sunshine, indeed, was
the word that could best express the effect produced by Robert
Claydon's presence. There was sunshine in his laughing blue eyes,
in his merry smile, in his joyous voice. Having learned the
secret of personal happiness, his one desire was to make others
happy, and morose indeed were the natures he did not gladden; and
Aimée soon found that he was not only bright and genial, but
noble in character and heart.
Mr. Hulme had long intended to make Robert his heir, and since
the arrival of Aimée, the partners had formed the scheme of
marrying her to Robert, and thus keeping the property of the firm
intact. Her wishes in the matter the old men little thought of,
nor were Robert's much considered, except that they each knew too
well Robert would not be dictated to in so important a matter as
the choice of a wife.
It was, however, not long after his return to England that the
"firm" intimated the purport of their august will to Robert.
"The course of true love never did run smooth," was his smiling
answer. "This little Aimée is, I believe, the very ideal I have
imagined to myself for a wife, and by all laws of romance, you,
our respected uncles, ought to forbid the match, or cut us off
with a shilling, instead of actually urging us on; but now,
remember," added he, "a fair field, or I am off the bargain. No
using of commands to the poor little maiden. I will win her on my
own merits and after my own fashion, or not at all." And so the
weeks passed on, and Robert began seriously to doubt whether he
had really made progress. Aimée was always pleased to see him;
she had lost all shyness and embarrassment in his presence. There
is no self-possession so perfect as that given by simplicity, and
Aimée, who rarely thought about herself, was always at her ease.
She trusted Robert implicitly, and had learned to tell him about
her home, her former pursuits, and even of her darling mother.
She never tried to analyze her feelings; she only knew that her
whole life was changed since that Christmas-day by the constant
intercourse with this new friend; and Robert, whose whole heart
was given to her, feared that she only regarded him with sisterly
affection, and he feared to speak the words which might, instead
of crowning his hopes, banish him from her side.
One evening in the early spring, Aimée was sitting at the piano
trying some new music Robert had given her. Robert was not far
off, and Mr. Hulme and Mr. Morton were lingering, according to
their custom, in the dining-room. A servant entered with letters.
"Are there any for me?" said Aimée, turning round eagerly. "The
French letters often come by this post, and it is so long since I
heard from St. Victor."
"Yes," said Robert, bringing the letter to her, "here it is,
post-mark, foreign stamp, and all."
"But not his handwriting?" said Aimée in a surprised tone, and
she tore the letter open. A sudden paleness overspread her face,
and the letter fell from her hands, and she looked up into
Robert's face with an expression of mute agony.
{166}
"My poor child!" said Robert, in a tone so gentle, so full of
sympathy, that Aimée broke down.
"He is gone!" she sobbed out; "my last, my only friend."
"Nay, not so," cried Robert; "I would give my life for you, my
Aimée--my love--my love! O darling! _can_ you care for me;
can you give me your heart for mine?"
She gave one look only from her innocent eyes, still full of
tears, but that one glance sufficed; it removed all doubt from
Robert's mind. He felt that he was indeed beloved with a woman's
first and ardent attachment; and gathering her into his arms, he
bade her weep out her sorrows on his breast, henceforth to be her
refuge. Henceforth their joys and their sorrows were to be in
common. After a time they read the letter together. It was from
the doctor of St. Victor, and told how the old curé had died
suddenly while kneeling before the altar in silent prayer--a
frequent custom of his throughout the day. He had fallen
sideways, his head resting on the altar-step, a smile of
childlike sweetness on his lips, his rosary twined about his
hands, his breviary by his side--a soldier with his armor on, he
had been called by his Master to join the church triumphant. For
such a loss there could be no bitterness, and Aimée's sorrow was
calm and gentle. And round her life now there hung a halo such as
had never brightened it before. She had been happy with her
mother, and in her village, with the springtide joy of childhood
and early youth; but now the rich, full summer of her life was
come. True it was, no voice, save poor Mrs. Connell's, wished her
joy. She had no mother or sister or even friend to tell out the
many new thoughts that her position brought to her mind; but, to
make up for this, she found she had won a heart such as rarely
falls to the lot of mortal.
To the lonely girl Robert was literally all--mother, and brother,
and lover in one. Her happiness, not his own gratification, was
the pervading thought of his life. She was not only loved, but
watched over tenderly and cared for with exceeding
thoughtfulness. There was, of course, nothing to wait for; and as
soon as the settlements were drawn up, Easter would have come,
and then the marriage would take place. Knowing Aimée's love for
the country, Robert took a cottage in one of the pretty villages
that surround London, and there, as he planned, they could garden
together in the summer evenings and sometimes take a row upon the
Thames.
Meanwhile, Robert took Aimée away as much as possible from the
gloomy atmosphere of Russell Square. They went together to the
Parks and to Kensington Gardens, where the trees were fast
beginning to put on their first, fresh green; and they went
together to the different Catholic churches, for the beautiful
services which abound in such variety during Lent; and during
their walks to and fro Aimée learned more and more of the
nobility of the mind that was hereafter to guide and govern her
own. They were no ordinary lovers, these two; their affection was
too pure, too deep, too _real_ to need much outward
demonstration, or many expressions of its warmth. They knew each
possessed the other's heart, and that was enough. Their
conversation often ran on grave subjects; and often, leaving the
things of earth, they mounted to the thoughts of a higher and
better life--and Aimée found, to her astonishment, that the young
merchant, active in business, the laughing, merry Robert in
society, was in reality leading in secret a life of strict
Christian holiness, and that the secret of the perpetual sunshine
of his nature proceeded from his having found out where alone the
heart of man can find it.
{167}
Deep as was his love for her, Aimée knew it was second only to
his love for his Creator; and at the call of duty he would not
hesitate to sacrifice the dearest hopes of his life. Here, she
felt, she could not follow him; her love for him very nearly
approached idolatry. The thought was painful, and she banished it
from her mind, and gave herself up to the full enjoyment of her
first perfect dream of bliss.
It was a late Easter, and the feast came in a glorious burst of
spring, Only a brief ten days now intervened between Aimée's
marriage-day. Already the simple bridal attire was ready; "for,"
as Mrs. Connell observed, "there was nothing like being in time;"
and the orange-flowers and the veil were already in the good
housekeeper's charge, and she looked forward with no little
pleasure to the novel sight of a wedding from her master's gloomy
abode. Robert wished Aimée to see the house he had taken for
their future home; and early in Easter week Mrs. Connell
accompanied them thither, to give her sage advice as to the
finishing touches of furniture and house-linen. It really was a
little gem of a house, surrounded with fairy-like gardens, with
tall trees shading it on one side, and the silver Thames shining
in the foreground; and as Aimée stood, silent with delight,
before the open French window of her drawing-room, Robert showed
her a little steeple peeping through the trees, and told her the
pretty new Catholic church was not five minutes' walk from their
abode. "And this tiny room, dearest," said he, opening a
miniature window adjoining the drawing-room, "I thought we would
make into a little oratory, and hang up those pictures and
crucifix which belonged to your dead mother."
Aimée's head fell on his shoulder. "Robert, I feel as if it were
much _too bright_ for earth. The curé always seemed to be
trying to prepare me for a life of suffering, for a sad future,
for a heavy cross. Long before mamma's death, he used to speak so
much in the confessional of the love of suffering, of
_enduring_ life--and I always believed he had some strange
insight into the future. But where is the suffering in my lot
now, Robert, I ask myself sometimes, _where is the cross?_"
"It will come, my dear one," answered he with his bright smile;
"never fear, God gives us sunshine sometimes, and we must be
ready for the clouds when they come, but we need not be looking
out for them. We may have some great trials together--who knows?
But now come and look at the way I am going to lay out my
garden." Aimée followed him without answering, but in her heart
there swelled the thought that, _with him_, no trial could
be really great.
On returning to town, Robert took leave of Aimée at the station
and put her and Mrs. Connell into a car, and promised to return
to Russell Square for dinner. As the car rolled through the
streets, now bright and cheerful in the sunlight, Aimée thought
of her first journey through them six months before, and how her
life, then so sad, had so strangely brightened; and it was with a
radiant face that she entered the gloomy portal of her uncle's
house.
The footman stopped Mrs. Connell as she followed her young
mistress. "My master has come home," he said, "and asked for you,
and precious cross he was because you wasn't in; he seems ill
like, for he sent for a cup of tea."
{168}
"Master at home! a cup of tea!" ejaculated Mrs. Connell in
dismay, and she hastened to the study to find Mr. Morton
shivering over the fire, and so testy and irritable it was
difficult to know what to do for him. He was evidently ill, but
would not hear of sending for a doctor. "Nonsense, he was never
ill; he should dine as usual," he exclaimed sharply; but when
dinner-time came, he was unable to partake of it, and his illness
was so evidently gaining on him that he yielded to Robert's
persuasion, and Dr. Bruce was summoned. The doctor ordered his
patient to bed, looked serious, and promised to come again in the
morning. By that time Mr. Morton was delirious, and it was with
no surprise that the household learnt the illness was a low
typhus fever. A nurse was sent for to assist Mrs. Connell. Aimée
was forbidden to approach the bedroom, and the wedding was
postponed.
Chapter V.
Robert's first wish had been to send Aimée away, but she shrank
from the idea, and as Dr. Bruce considered the risk of infection
had already been run, he did not press the point. He was careful
to take her out as much as possible into the open air, and to
prevent the silence and gloom of the house from depressing her.
Mr. Morton's life was in the utmost danger, and therefore, do
what they would, they could not be so cheerful as before.
Hitherto the lovers had, by a tacit consent, avoided the mention
of Aimée's uncle; for the six months that had elapsed since she
had entered his doors had made no difference apparently in Mr.
Morton's feelings toward her. He was as icy as ever; and when her
engagement was announced, he never wished her joy or seemed glad
of it for her sake. Cold and hard he naturally was, but Aimée
could not but feel that he had an actual dislike to her; for he
would smile now and then at Mr. Hulme's jokes, and his manner to
Robert often verged on cordiality. With her only he was
invariably silent, stern, and freezing; and poor Aimée's heart,
so full of affection, so ready to be grateful for the little he
did for her, felt deeply pained. But now Robert and she spoke
anxiously of that soul which was hanging in the balance between
life and death. He had lived without God, in open defiance of his
laws, in avowed disbelief of the very existence of his Maker, and
now was he, without an hour's consciousness, without any space
for repentance, to be hurried into the presence of his Judge?
They shrank in horror from the thought; and many were their
prayers, many were the Masses offered up that God in his mercy
would not cut off this man in his sins. Their prayers were
granted; he did not die, and after three weeks of intense
anxiety, the crisis passed, and he began to mend. Mental
improvement was not to be perceived with returning health. No
expression of gratitude for having escaped death crossed his
lips--apparently the shadow of death had not terrified him--he
rose up from his sick-bed as hard, as cynical, as icy as before.
And Aimée's fond hope that at last he would thaw to her was
disappointed. As soon as Mr. Morton could leave his room, Dr.
Bruce prescribed change of air; and it was arranged that Robert
and Aimée should accompany him. Mrs. Connell was so thoroughly
used up with nursing that she was to be sent to take a holiday
among her friends in Ireland.
{169}
It was hard work to persuade Mr. Morton to go at all, still
harder to find a place to suit him; he moved from spot to spot,
till at last, to his companions' surprise, he seemed to take a
fancy for a wild spot on the North Devon coast, and there settled
down for some weeks. It was a most out-of-the-way spot, and the
only place in which they could reside was a homely village inn.
It pleased him, however, and day by day he rapidly regained his
strength. Robert and Aimée were well contented; the beauty and
quiet of the place were delightful, and not a mile from it was a
Catholic church, which happened to be served by a priest who had
known Robert in his boyhood. Great was Aimée's pleasure in
listening to their laughing reminiscences of bygone years, and
greater still was her happiness when she chanced to be left alone
with Father Dunne, and he spoke of Robert, of his innocent
childhood, his holy life, the bright example he set in his
position, and assured her that few women had won such a prize as
she had for life. Then Aimée's heart swelled with joy and pride.
On one lovely day in June, Aimée was specially happy; for her
uncle's improvement was so marked, Robert had been asking her to
fix an early day in July for their wedding. Mr. Hulme and Mrs.
Connell could join them, and they could be married at this little
church, which had become dear to them, and Father Dunne could
pronounce the nuptial benediction. Aimée greatly preferred this
to being married in London, and her heart was very light. That
morning she had knelt by Robert's side at communion. She could
not help observing the rapt, almost celestial expression of his
face afterward. It was the Feast of the Sacred Heart, and Father
Dunne had Benediction early in the afternoon.
As they walked to church together, their conversation turned on
religious subjects, and Robert spoke in a more unreserved way
than he had ever done before. He spoke of Heaven, the rest it
would be after earth's toils, of the sweetness of sacrifice, of
the joy of God's service. Aimée was silent. He looked down into
her face.
"Well," he said, smiling, "is it not true?"
"O Robert!" she cried, "your love is heaven to me now! Is not,
oh! is not mine so to you?"
"No, my Aimée," he answered, gravely yet sweetly; "my heart's
darling, God first, then you."
"I cannot!" she answered, in a stifled voice.
"You will soon, darling, never fear. I prayed this morning that
our love might be sanctified, might draw us closer to God--and I
feel it will be so. Pray with me for it at Benediction."
So they went and knelt before the altar, and their Lord blessed
them as they bent before him. Passing out of church, Father Dunne
joined them, and remarked on the beauty of the evening.
"We shall go with my uncle on the cliff," said Aimée, "and watch
the coast."
"And perhaps I shall meet you there," answered the priest, "for I
have a sick call from which I can return in that direction." So
saying, he turned into another road.
Mr. Morton was ready when they returned to the inn, and the three
passed up on the cliff and wandered on far beyond their usual
distance. They came to a part where the cliff was one sheer sheet
of rock descending to the beach, save one large crag which jutted
out, and on one side obscured the view.
{170}
Aimée had a great horror of looking down any steep place, and
shrank back from the cliff, while Mr. Morton, who despised her
weakness, always chose to walk at the very edge.
"See here, little one," said Robert, "here is a safe place for
you." An iron stanchion had been thrust into the ground, and a
thick rope was carelessly coiled round it. "It must be used for
throwing signals to the boats below," said Robert, "but you can
lean against it, Aimée."
"I think I shall step on that crag, Robert," said Mr. Morton, "if
you will lend me an arm. I want to catch the whole view at once."
"O uncle!" said Aimée, in a tone of terror.
"Do you think it is very prudent, sir?" remarked Robert. "It is
none too wide to stand on."
"Oh! very well," said Mr. Morton testily, "if you are afraid, I
shall go by myself." Robert's merry laugh was the only answer,
and, giving his arm to Mr. Morton, they both descended.
Aimée hid her face, sick with terror. She heard their voices for
a minute, then, O horror! what was that? A crash, a rush, a
sudden shout of pain! She rushed to the edge to see the crag
detach itself from the rock, and the two figures falling. She saw
both clutching for some support--she saw both catch hold of
different bits of rock jutting out--she knew, for her senses were
sharpened by fear, that they could not long sustain their weight.
She thought of the rope, rushed for it, uncoiled it, and ran
back. All was the work of one moment. An unnatural activity
seemed to possess her. She was like one in a dream. She saw the
rope would not reach both; she must choose between them; and
Another could see her! But on the still evening air, with her
ears quickened unnaturally, she heard oaths from one; from the
other, "Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit."
Aimée threw the rope to Mr. Morton, and saw him catch it. The
next instant she heard another crash--a dull _thud_, as of
something falling--and nature could bear no more. Aimée fell on
the ground insensible just as Father Dunne, and some laborers
alarmed by the shout in the distance, came running to the spot.
When Aimée woke to consciousness, she was in her own bed at the
inn. Her first thought was, that she had been dreaming; but she
started back, the landlady was walking by her, and now came
forward, trying to put on an appearance of composure.
"My uncle?" said Aimée.
"Lies in bed, miss, and going on well," answered the good woman
hurriedly.
Aimée gave one searching look into Mrs. Barton's face, and sank
back on her pillow. In another moment the door opened, Mrs.
Barton disappeared, and Father Dunne stood by her side. The
silent look at him was all she gave.
"Yes, my child," he said, "your sacrifice has been accepted, and
Robert is with those who follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth."
And then, sitting down beside her, the priest drew out the truth
which, by a sudden instinct, he had all but guessed. No one but
he ever knew it; it was generally believed that Robert had failed
to catch the rope when thrown to him--he had fallen on the beach,
and was dashed to pieces. Aimée could not look upon his form or
kiss for the last time the pale, cold face. He had passed in one
brief instant from her sight for aye. In the heat of noonday her
sun had gone down.
{171}
From this fresh shock to his constitution Mr. Morton could not
rally; he was fearfully shaken and bruised, but he lingered many
weeks, and Aimée waited on him with a daughter's care. And at
last the stern heart was softened, and Mr. Morton implored mercy
from the God he had so long offended. He died a sincere penitent;
and the grief for Robert's death caused a salutary change in Mr.
Hulme also. Aimée had now become a great heiress, but money
cannot heal a broken heart. She would fain have remained in the
little village where the tragedy of her life had been worked out,
and devote herself to the poor; but Father Dunne would not allow
it, and to him she now looked for guidance and help. He made her
go to Italy and Rome in company with some quiet friends of his
own for two years; and time and the sight of the woes of others
gradually softened Aimée's grief. And by degrees a great peace
stole over her spirit; a love deeper than hers for Robert took
possession of her heart; and the hour came when she acknowledged
that in sacrifice lay much sweetness. She did not live many
years; she distributed her large fortune among various good
works. A fair church replaces the humble building in which Robert
and she for the last time prayed together, and a convent stands
near the spot where he breathed out his last sigh to God. And
when her work was done, death came to Aimée; and, with a smile on
her lips, and joy in her eyes, she went to meet again those
fondly loved, so strangely lost on earth.
--------
Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.
Abbot Pambo once asked Abbot Antony what he should do. The
venerable man replied: Do not rely too much upon your own
sanctity; never have useless regrets for what has passed, and
always be watchful over your tongue and your appetite.
Saint Gregory used to say: God requires these three things of
every man who has been baptized; strong and living faith,
moderation in speech, and chastity of body.
Abbot Joseph the Theban said: There are three classes of men who
are pleasing in the sight of the Lord. The first are those who,
though weak, accept temptations with a thankful heart. The second
are those who perform all their actions before God with purity of
heart and without human motives. The third are those who subject
themselves to the commands of their spiritual Father and entirely
renounce their own will.
{172}
Abbot Cassian narrates of Abbot John that, when he was on his
deathbed and preparing to depart with joyful soul, his brethren
stood around him and earnestly besought that he would leave them
as an heritage a compendium, as it were, of sanctity, by means of
which they might rise to that perfection which is in Christ. Then
he with sighs replied: I have never done my own will, nor have I
ever taught any one anything which I have not previously done
myself.
Abbot Pastor said: To be watchful, to examine one's self, to be
discreet, are the three great duties of the soul.
They tell of Abbot Pambo that, when about to die, he said to
those holy men who stood near: From the time when I first came to
this place and built my cell and dwelt therein, I do not remember
to have eaten bread that I did not gain by the labor of my hands,
nor have I ever repented of any thing that I have said up to this
very hour. And thus I go to the Lord, I who have not even begun
to serve God.
Abbot Sisois said: Be abject and cast pleasures away; be free and
secure from the cares of the world, and you shall have rest.
A brother once asked a father how one may acquire a fear of the
Lord. And he replied: If a man practise humility and poverty, and
judge not another, he shall surely fear the Lord.
A certain father used to say: If thou hate one who speaks ill of
thee, speak ill of no one; if thou hate him who calumniates thee,
do not calumniate anyone; if thou hate him who injures thee or
takes away what is thine, or does any thing of a like nature, do
none of these things to any one. He who can observe this rule
shall be saved.
--------
All Souls' Day.
1866.
On every cross or slab, a wreath--on some,
Two, three, or more--of radiant autumn leaves,
Mingled with gold and white chrysanthemum;
Even the nameless, unmarked grave receives
Some pledge from mortal love
Unto peace-parted souls, we trust, with God above.
The choral chaunt is hushed, the Mass is said:
Noon, but already the last pilgrim gone:
Brief visits pay the living to the dead,
But once a year we meet o'er those we mourn.
I wait unwatched, alone,
To muse o'er some once loved, o'er many more unknown.
{173}
That cross of marble, with its sculptured base,
Guards the blest ashes of a friend whose form
Was half my boyhood; his arch, laughing face--
The last you'd take to front a coming storm,
Or dare what none else durst:
Read how he fell, of all the best and bravest, first!
Another pastor near him lies asleep,
Fresh wreaths, love-woven, mark the newer sod;
Each lettered white cross bids me pause to weep
Some lost companion or some man of God.
Beneath this sacred ground,
More friends I number than in all the world around.
There, side by side, far from the forfeit home
For which they vainly bled, three soldiers rest,
In sight of the round peak, whose bannered dome
Crowns the defiles wherein the fiery crest
Of a dead nation paled
Before the heights, where erst the great Virginian failed.
Westward, a little higher up the steep,
Rests a young mother--on her cross, a bar
Of golden music: since she fell asleep
The world she left has somehow seemed ajar;
Those patient, peaceful eyes,
With which she watched the world, diffused sweet harmonies.
For she was pure--pure as the snows of Yule
That hailed her birth: pure as the autumnal snow
That flecked her coffin: she was beautiful,
Heroic, gentle: none could ever know
That face and then forget:
Though vanished years ago, her smile seems living yet.
And near her, happy in that nearness, lies
The world-worn consul by his best-loved child--
The first rest of a life of sacrifice:
The native stars, that on his labors smiled
So rarely, o'er the wave
Beckoned him to the peace of home--and of the grave.
Here, too, a relic of primeval ways
And statelier manners, mingled with the grace
Of Israel: in the evening of her days,
Baptized at fourscore--strongest of her race,
Yet twice a child--that rain
Supernal leaving all those years without a stain.
{174}
And thou, young soldier, teach me how to turn
From earth to heaven, as in the solemn hour
Thy soul was turned. Ah! well for thee to learn
So soon that festal board and bridal flower
May foil the out-stretched hand:
That life's best conquest is the holy afterland.
Holding the very summit of the slope,
A pointed chapel, girt with evergreen
And frailer summer foliage--still as hope--
Watches the east for morning's earliest sheen:
Beneath it slumbers one
For whom the tears of unextinguished grief still run.
A twelve-month mourned, yet deeper now the loss
Than when first fell the slowly sudden doom,
And on her pale breast lay the unmoving cross:
Lone tenant of that solitary tomb,
Love's daily widowed prayer
Still craves reunion in thy chambered sepulchre.
The sunset shadow of this chapel falls
Upon a classmate's grave: a rare delight
Laughed in his youth: but, one by one, the halls
Of life were darkened, till, amid the night,
A single star remained--
Bright herald of the paradise by tears regained.
High in the bending trees the north wind sings,
The shining chestnut to my feet is rolled
The shivering mountains, bare as bankrupt kings,
Sit beggared of their purple and their gold:
The naked plain below
Sighs to the clouds, impatient of its robe of snow.
Death is in all things: yet how small it seems,
God's chosen acre on this mountain-side:
A speck, a mote: while yonder cornland gleams
With hoarded plenty, stretching far and wide.
A hundred acres there
Content not one: one acre serves a thousand here.
Ah! we forget them in our changing lot--
Forget the past in present weal or woe;
But yet, perchance, more angels guard this spot
Than wander in the living fields below:
And, as I pass the gate,
The world without seems strangely void and desolate.
--------
{175}
The Function of the Subjective in Religion. [Footnote 25]
[Footnote 25: This Paper was read before the Academia of the
Catholic Religion, in London, June 11, 1867, by Very Rev. W.
H. Anderdon, D.D., M.A. Oxon.]
Any one not a Catholic, but fairly acquainted with the church's
past and present, if he had to define by a term her prevailing
character, would use some such word as _unchangeable_. He
might use it with admiration, as historians have done; or with
vexation and anger, as controversialists do. He might regard it
as a quality that raised the church above, or kept it behind the
age; made it venerable and noble, or deprived it of all
progressive and free spirit. But, with evil report or good
report, and in whatever contrast with the communions around it,
which rise and fall, are modified and melt away, he would confess
the church to be unchangeable.
The Catholic accepts this statement, and completes it by adding
the cause of the church's preternatural sameness. He calls it
"the pillar and ground of the truth;" the perpetual home and
impregnable fortress of the divine revelation. The
characteristics of the one faith, he says, follow those of the
one Lord, as the shadow attends the substance which projects it.
The mystical spouse is immutable in faith and morality, because
with her divine Lord there is "no change nor shadow of
vicissitude." The passage of centuries, phases of human society,
rise, progress, and dissolution of theories and religious
opinions leave her where they found her; because "Jesus Christ is
yesterday and to-day, and the same forever." "_Tempus non
occurrit Ecclesiae_;" because He is "Alpha and Omega, the
beginning and the end," "who inhabiteth eternity."
This is but to say that religion is essentially objective.
Religion, if true, is divine; if divine, above the recipient; if
above him, authoritative; if authoritative, over him,
uninfluenced by him. It is the mould and matrix in which he is to
be cast and receive shape; not the material on which his mind is
to work by process of individual judgment. This objective
character enters so completely into the idea of revelation, that
the wonder is, how the term "private judgment" should have found
place in the language of professing Christians. When did it
arise? Who was its author? Was it pre-Lutheran? May we not rather
say, it was pre-Adamite? He who led our parents astray in
Paradise, by a suggestion of private judgment, had already
inaugurated what he has since taught men to call the "right" of
exercising it, when he revolted against the foresight given to
him of his Maker's future incarnation. And the apostle, more
closely to our point, condemns all subjective religious opinions
when he says, "If thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the
law, but a judge." To judge implies superiority of intelligence,
better means of knowing, and the capacity of a teacher: to learn
is the acknowledgment of inferiority, and the submission of
desiring to receive. But if revelation could be modified by the
mind of the receiver, that is, if faith could be subjective, the
disciple would be exalted into a critic, and private judgment
would occupy the position of faith. The "doer of the law" and the
"judge" would change places. This breaks up the whole tribunal,
and implies a revolt against the primary authority of revelation.
{176}
Hence, nothing is more common with us than to say, that the
revelation which comes from God, and is proposed by the church,
admits of no criticism short of absolute rejection. To one,
indeed, who has never yet received this full revelation, to
criticise is a necessary act, and lies on the way toward
accepting. The case of the Bereans is here in point, and of those
Athenians who believed when St. Paul preached on Mars' Hill.
Dionysius the Areopagite and Damaris criticised equally with the
Epicureans and Stoics, to show the apostle was a "babbler;"
though with a different result. But to one who has inherited the
faith, or has been brought by private judgment, guided by the
notes of the church, which are _preambula fidei_, up to the
threshold, and then by an act of supernatural belief has passed
within, every after-criticism means rejection. True religion must
ever refuse to be treated by its disciples as opinion. If faith,
it is not opinion; if it were opinion, it would cease to be
faith. The choice as to revelation is a simple alternative:
accept the whole and believe; reject the whole and disbelieve.
_Ou Catholique, ou Déiste_, as Fénélon said long ago.
No one, then, can retain his Catholic sense, and speak of
accommodating faith, or subjective religion. We have lately heard
one voice from out of doors uttering incoherent words about a
"maximum" and a "minimum," which are supposed to have some
undefined point of junction and cohesion. [Footnote 26] But such
invitations and embassies of peace sound to us like the uncouth
attempts of the Thracian ambassador, in the ancient comedy, to
explain in something like Greek a message into which his native
tongue largely enters. It is hard to make such a foreign dialect
intelligible to those who are accustomed to the pure Attic of the
church's voice.
[Footnote 26: Dr. Pusey lately, in a letter to one of the
public newspapers, reported a conversation which he had held
with a foreign layman, who expressed his opinion that the
Anglican _maximum_ and the Catholic _minimum_ might
be found to coincide sufficiently to form the basis of some
kind of union. In his _Eirenicon_, also, pp. 17, 18, he
quotes some words from Du Pin, Dr. Doyle, an another, in
proof of what he calls "the large-hearted statements of Roman
Catholics of other days."]
So far we have advanced by negation. There can be nothing
subjective in a revelation propounded by omniscience, and through
an infallible organ. To suppose criticism or modification of
dogma in the mind of the recipient, is like supposing motion
during a process of photography, or of crystallization. It
implies free agency indeed; but it destroys the truth and
accuracy of the whole process. "Be still, and see that I am God."
In this stillness, which is passiveness in one sense, and this
intuitive gaze upon truths revealed, consists the high
prerogative of faith. This forms its noble attribute, and lifts
it to a sovereignty over all other acts of the human
intelligence.
On the other hand, what place is to be found in true religion for
the _subjective_ principle? In what department does or can
the Catholic system adapt itself to the manifold diversities
between men, enter into their idiosyncrasies, and speak to them
individually? Can it become to each of us the personal and
intimate thing, which may converse with us as a friend while we
submit to it as an authoritative guide? Does it take account of
me, with my turn of character and peculiar needs, while it
promulgates canons and definitions for my acceptance, in common
with the two hundred millions who own its sway? Granted that
Catholicity is objective in its essence, is it subjective in any
of its qualities or manifestations?
{177}
To see the breadth of this question, it should be viewed in
connection with the acknowledged needs of human nature. The first
requisite to a soul is truth; and it may be said, its first act
is an act of desire after truth, even abstract. But as primary,
too, is man's need of some one above himself to inspire a
reverential and a personal love. In order to love, indeed, he
must first know; for neither will nor affections can go forth
toward the utterly unknown. Still, in religious truth, love is
the perfection of knowledge. "The end of the commandment is
charity, from a pure heart, and a good conscience, and an
unfeigned faith." We are created, not like the heavenly bodies,
to move by unerring laws; nor like plants, to receive form and
tincture undistinguishably, specimen from specimen; nor like the
inferior orders of animal life, that build, migrate, seek their
prey, by an instinct inherited and invariable. Man is a creature
of idiosyncrasies. His thoughts, tastes, and bent, his mode of
apprehending truths recognized and believed, assimilating them
into himself, and developing them in action, constitute each
individual a being diverse, in all that _can_ be subjective,
from his brother and nearest friend. In all that can be
subjective: for the very turn of these remarks will show that I
would carefully guard myself within the limits of that
expression. Now, the true religion appeals to man as man; and is
herein distinguished from every other, which addresses a side or
a section only of the human character and needs. The spirit of
true religion is neither the pseudo-enthusiasm of the
non-conformist, nor the surface-uniformity of the establishment,
nor the false mysticism of the Society of Friends. Her appeal,
like herself, is Catholic: to the four quarters of the globe, to
the race that peoples earth and occupies ages, and for whom
Christ died.
While, therefore, religion exacts the unquestioning assent of
all, whatever their antecedent systems, modes of thought, or
training, we might expect even beforehand that she would come
with some adaptive power that would appeal to each. Objective to
the intelligence and faith, we are permitted to desire that she
should also manifest herself as subjective to the spiritual
affections. For her mission is neither to reduce the individual
to a machine nor to fuse her multitudes into one uniform,
undistinguishable mass. She claims their unreserved and interior
assent to _dogma_; for she is the embassadress of the Most
High, sent into all the world, to preach the gospel to every
creature. "There are no speeches nor languages" where that voice
is not heard: nor any where it falters or gives an uncertain
sound. But she wins the objects of her mission, meanwhile, one by
one, to _devotion_, by adapting herself to the characters
and specialties of her millions and races. The church knows how
to modulate her authoritative tone, till it sinks into the
whisper of a mother teaching her child to lisp its first prayer.
We seem now to have arrived at the distinction of which we are in
search. It is surely no play of words nor mere subtlety to say
that true religion must possess both the characteristics we have
named: it must be objective and subjective together. Man, let us
repeat, finds in himself a twofold desire to know and to love.
His great desire after truth was the first and prevailing
temptation under which he fell: "You shall be as gods, knowing
good and evil."
{178}
Having in his fall grasped at the shadow and let go the
substance, he lost his perception of the true light and his hold
upon the true love. Ignorance and concupiscence came in together.
But he retained his yearning after the two-fold inheritance he
had thus forfeited: an attraction to truth and a need of love.
Hence the various and contradictory systems of mythology which
overran the heathen world, under their double aspect (if we may
so use the terms) of doctrine and devotion. Out of the depths of
their debasement, and amid all their extravagance, they witnessed
to the agonized desire after truth in which, says the apostle,
the whole creation groaned and travailed in pain together.
Now, what was lost in the first Adam has been abundantly restored
in the second. The "grace and truth" which "came by Jesus Christ"
is the divine remedy for this twofold loss by the original fall:
it restores light to man, the light of revelation; and love, the
supernatural love of Divine Goodness. It is "faith that worketh
by charity." And let us observe, between light and love there is
an obvious difference: light may be described as objective, love
as subjective; light is universal, love is personal; light is
received upon the eye, whereas love springs up in the heart; and
while light is diffused indiscriminately, love varies with the
individual. In the future perfection of the glorified soul, light
and love will be commensurate. "When he shall appear," says the
apostle, "we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."
Here, in pilgrimage and imperfection, the members of the church
militant possess three gifts in unequal degrees. Light is
perpetually outstripping love, and we know more than we practise.
Still, the efforts of the church are ever exerted to preserve to
her children each of these great gifts, light and love; to
perpetuate and extend the one, to heighten and intensify the
other. She is "the light of the world." By her creeds, canons,
definitions of doctrine, by her schools of theology, her
doctorate and censorship, by the vigilance of the sacred office,
by the perpetual exercise of that instinct of truth which is her
attribute and inheritance, she preserves, whole and undefiled,
"the faith once delivered to the saints." Her multiplied prayers,
each enriched with its special indulgence, various, yet blending
in one harmony and one whole like the chords of a lute or the
flowers in a parterre, provide abundantly not for the mere and
absolute needs of her children's souls, but, moreover, for what
may be called their religious tastes and special turn of
devotion. For example, the faithful laity are invited, if they
have an attraction for it, to unite with her clergy and religious
in reciting the canonical hours, which form her chief prayer.
This is their "common prayer-book," if you will; but common only
to those who prefer to communicate in it. To others of a
different attraction, there is still supply for the demand.
We need only transport ourselves into the heart of some great
Catholic city, to see with what unrestrained variety our brethren
of the one communion unite in prayer. Let us go to Rome, "the
mother of us all," the heart and centre of Christendom. In that
great seat and organ of life, of vital functions and warmth,
whose pulsations thrill to the extremities of the mystical body,
what is practically going on? what meets the eye and ear? You
pass under the walls of some monastic choir, from which the deep
voices of a score of monks or the slenderer tones of cloistered
nuns arrest you.
{179}
They have been trained, not by art, but simply by long practice
of united prayer, to recite the divine office, as if theirs were
not several voices blending, nor several intelligences and souls
woven, in a devotion, but, like the early church, "one heart and
one soul." You enter; it is not in the retrochoir alone, nor
behind the grate, that the work of prayer and praise is going on.
The church is more or less filled for vespers; it is a feastday;
and a certain proportion, with their vesper-books in the ancient
language or in their own familiar tongue, follow the words. A
secular priest has turned in at the open door, on his way to some
avocation, and is whispering another portion of his breviary.
Near him kneels a child saying the penance for its last
confession, or an old woman with her beads. Others examine their
consciences and make their acts of contrition, for the
confessionals will be occupied when vespers are over. Throughout
the nave move three or four, quietly following the stations of
the cross. On this side is an altar to the sacred heart; a member
of the confraternity kneels before it: he is saying some of the
prayers indulgenced for that devotion. A childless mother with
slow steps passes on to pray for her dead child at the altar for
the souls in purgatory. She does not distract others there, who
are praying for their parents, or for the poor souls in general,
or the most abandoned, the most rich in merits, or the nearest to
its release. Her next neighbor offers up her own sick child to an
image of the Mother of Compassion. You make way for a small
tradesman leaving the church for his evening meal; he will then
hasten to take his hours of night-watching and prayer in some
closed sanctuary, before the Most Holy, exposed day and night for
the _Quarant' ore_. By his side, sharing his night-watch,
will kneel a nobleman of ancestral name, whose family has
furnished popes to the Christian world. These two men are members
together of the association for perpetually adoring the Blessed
Sacrament; and they meet there before the Supreme, in the true
"liberty, equality, fraternity" which the world aims at and the
church alone produces. What is that sound of hymns coming down
the street? A procession headed by a cardinal bearing a large and
rude cross: he is followed by the brothers of another distinct
confraternity, "the lovers of Jesus and Mary," and a miscellany
of devout people. They are on their way to the Colosseum, where
they, too, will make the stations of the cross, and chant their
hearty and almost passionate strophes of contrition in the old
consecrated amphitheatre. All is movement, all is affectionate
liberty, warmth, and ease. You turn into any church that occurs,
and transport your chair from part to part of the building; for
you are free of the whole by the birthright of your baptism into
the one body. Go from this altar to that; range, as it were, up
and down the creed, now in meditation, now in vocal prayer, now
alone with God, now cheered on and animated by the presence of
those who pray with you. Now it is _latria_, now
_hyperdulia_; now again _dulia_, then back again to
_latria_; then contemplation, then any of the former
resumed. Your guardian angel is at your side; you recognize it
and address him. Your patron saint, the patrons of your friends
for whom you are anxious, St. Peter, St. Joseph, our Lady; and
the Divine Guest in the tabernacle; all are there, each (if I may
say it) awaiting you in turn.
{180}
Whatever the feeling of the moment, or your bent of character, or
special needs, there is your yearning met, and your soul's food
and remedy supplied. "Thou didst feed thy people with the food of
angels, and gavest them bread from heaven, prepared without
labor; having in it all that is delicious, and _the sweetness
of every taste_. For thy sustenance showed thy sweetness to
thy children, and, serving every man's will, it was turned to
what every man liked." [Footnote 27] And this unity in variety,
this elasticity and freedom, change, and appropriation, and
trustful individuality, is it or is it not the [Greek text]
which the apostle recommends?
[Footnote 27: Wisd. xvi. 20, 21.]
Rising, again, from the manifold devotions pursued by the
faithful for themselves to that in which the priest stands for
them all in the most holy place, the central devotion round which
all others revolve, the adorable sacrifice of Mass, we see the
same unity in the same variety. There is still a subjective
action of the individual heart, grounded on an objective dogma
embraced by all. Faith and love are coincident; we adore in our
own way what is independent of our adoration, though presented to
it. The words I am about to quote are put in the lips of one who
is defending the faith, newly found by him, against the objection
of some of his former friends that the Mass is a formal,
unreasonable service.
"To me," he answers, "nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so
thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass, said as it is among us. I
could attend Masses for ever and not be tired. It is not a mere
form of words--it is a great action, the greatest action that can
be on earth. It is not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use
the word, the evocation of the Eternal. He becomes present on the
altar in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow and devils
tremble. This is that awful event which is the scope and the
interpretation of every part of the solemnity. Words are
necessary, but as means, not as ends. They are not mere addresses
to the throne of grace; they are instruments of what is far
higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on, as if
impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go: the whole is
quick; for they are parts of one integral action. Quickly they
go; for they are awful words of sacrifice: they are a work too
great to delay upon. Quickly they pass; because, as the lightning
which shineth from one part of the heaven to the other, so is the
coming of the Son of Man. ... As Moses on the mountain, so we too
'make haste and bow our heads to the earth, and adore.' So we,
all around, each in his place, look out for the great advent,
'waiting for the moving of the water.' Each in his place, with
his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with
his own intention, with his own prayers, separate but concordant,
watching what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its
consummation; not painfully and hopelessly following a hard form
of prayer from beginning to end, but, like a concert of musical
instruments, each different, but concurring in a sweet harmony,
we take our part with God's priest, supporting him, and yet
guided by him. There are little children there, and old men, and
simple laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing
for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are innocent
maidens, and there are penitent sinners; but out of these many
minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great action is the
measure and the scope of it." [Footnote 28]
[Footnote 28: Newman's _Loss and Gain_, pp. 265-7.]
{181}
This union of a changeless creed with an adaptive devotional
system, of dogmatic authority with elasticity and play, and of
unquestioning submission with the freest choice, has one obvious
consequence. It renders the church unintelligible to the world,
and to all professors of the world's many religions. A casual
observer, looking on the Catholic system from without its pale,
is at a loss to reconcile attributes which to him appear
inconsistent. Why, he asks, should the church be so unswerving
under one aspect, yet so pliant under another? If she will not
yield one jot or tittle of doctrine, why allow so large an
oscillation in forms of devotion? or, if she aims at
accommodating and condescending in the latter, why remain
inflexible in the former? He would perhaps add: The Catholic
system has advantages over others in virtue of this her spirit of
adaptation, so far as it reaches. But it is partial! The same
economy and consultation for individual minds should extend into
the sphere of its dogma; then the character of the church would
be consistent, its response to the demands of the age would be
satisfactory, and its triumph might be complete.
We are here only concerned with one side of this supposed
theorist's difficulty. The answer is surely as follows:
1. On one hand, the church is objective, or what he would call
unaccommodating in her teaching, because she is the guardian
and depository of supernatural truth. All truth is objective,
because it is the reflection of the mind of God, and the
subject-matter of his revelation. Hence, in spite of the
infidel's sarcasm that between Homoousion and Homoiousion there
is but an iota, and an iota (he adds) that divides the
Christian world, the church will neither add to nor take from
the "form of sound words" committed to her by that one small
letter. That jot, that tittle stands against the return and
salvation of countless souls till they shall themselves erase
it; for the question involved is nothing less than the fulness
of the truth and revelation of God. Human statements in
religion aim at a compromise; the church, like Job under trial,
"still continues in her simplicity." They would avoid extremes;
she is zealous for the full and explicit enunciation of the
whole deposit of faith. Whatever portions of dogmatic teaching
can still be retained, apart from the faith, are in constant
process of disintegration and fusion: _diminutae sunt
veritates a filiis hominum._ But, on the other hand, if
there can be degrees and measures where all is essential truth,
the church may be said to become more dogmatic, and so, if
possible, more objective, as her life proceeds. This, it is
plain, is a simple result from her office of perpetual teacher;
it is the fulfilment of the primary commission, "[Greek text]."
She must expand her teachings to the needs of the day, and meet
emergent heresies by fresh definitions. Hence, to take some
salient points history presents to us, the objectivity of
_Homoousion_ against Arius, of _Theotokos_ against
Nestorius, of _Filioque_ against the heresies of the East,
of _Transubstantiation_ against Luther and others, of the
_Immaculate Conception_ in our own day.
{182}
2. All this being so, and being one great ground of objection
against the church, why is her system so _subjective_, all
the while, in other departments? She seems to men to err as
much on the other side by overcondescension and adaptation. We
need not linger over such charges as that of Macaulay, who,
following perhaps in the steps of the _Provincial
Letters_, accuses certain theologians of accommodating even
the moral law to retain men within the Catholic unity; as
thinking, unless I misquote him, "that, if a man must needs be
a libertine, that was no reason for his being a heretic
besides." An impression less hurtful certainly, and less
gratuitous, though equally false, pervades much that we find in
other non-Catholic writers. The church seems to them to lay
herself out in her devotional functions, to captivate the
senses and the imagination. We might adduce a _catena_ of
passages to prove this impression of theirs, from
controversialists assuming the fact and reasoning upon it, down
to tourists recording their personal experiences of the
Continent. A leading article in a prominent journal on some
recent celebrations at Boulogne, and, with a deeper personal
impression, the descriptions of newspaper correspondents on the
late centenary and canonizations in Rome, contribute their
quota to swell this great tradition or popular belief. The
church, according to such theorists, is wide enough to
compensate for the inflexibility of her dogma by pliancy,
adaptation, and attractiveness in all besides. Like the old
Roman tyrants, they would say, whose home and whose spirit she
has inherited, she is prodigal to her subjects of the _Panem
et Circenses_, that take off their attention from the
thraldom in which they are held. There is a story of
Bolingbroke being present at high Mass in the Chapel Royal, in
Paris. Struck with the majesty of the function, he turns to a
friend and whispers, "If I were king of France, I would allow
no one to perform this but myself." The anecdote is no unfair
sample of the popular impression made by Catholic ceremonies on
those who misunderstand them, because they disbelieve the
truths which they clothe. They are taken to be the result of a
design and deliberation to arrest the imaginative faculty, and
thus to maintain supremacy over the will. That the will owns
the church's supremacy is a patent fact; the supposed captivity
of the imagination through eye and ear is, to such thinkers,
one chief _rationale_ of it. She leads captive, they say,
the intellect of her votaries, but she has the art to gild
their chains by the richness and beauty of her ceremonial.
To consider this assertion for a moment. May we not advance the
direct contrary? May it not be said that, if, apart from
experience, we were to speculate on the probable ceremonies with
which the church would surround the adorable sacrifice, and the
solemn administration of her sacraments, our anticipations would
outrun what she actually has decreed? Let us instance the
ceremonies of the Mass. What is here that does more than
_carry_, so to say, the great mystery round which they
cluster? Give it as a problem to a political theorist, to a
Bolingbroke, or to a minister of public worship, to invent and
combine certain ceremonies, in order to express the highest act
of a nation's worship. The function is to be one that shall
symbolize such a belief as the Catholic belief in the adorable
sacrifice. I think it may safely be said, the result produced
would be something of more outward show, more complicated, and
more arresting to the eye and the imagination, than is seen in
the ceremonies of solemn high Mass.
{183}
To meet more broadly the assertion that the devotional system of
the church is unduly subjective, that is, overpliant to the
varieties of her children. She condescends, she adapts herself,
she seems to mere spectators to be one great economy. We accept
the charge, not in their sense. Why should the church not be so?
The changelessness of the faith being first secured, her problem
then is, the greatest devotion of the greatest number. "I am made
all things to all men, that I might by all means save some." This
is her mission: to attract souls, to win them, and to save them.
She would not attract them, were she not beautiful; nor gather
them in, were she not all-sided; nor save the mass of them, were
she not elastic. There is no stiffness about the church, or she
would not work with breadth and freedom. It is St. Peter's net,
and is drawn, as the prophet says, "with cords of Adam." She is
not antiquarian, or she would only affect the mind of each age as
a venerable record or curious relic of the past. The church is
not primitive, mediaeval, or modern; not Celtic, Teutonic,
southern, classical, barbarian, Scythian, bond, or free, in any
exclusive sense. She is simply Catholic; that one title
interprets all. And being the church of the "great multitude
which no man can number, of all nations, and languages, and
peoples, and tongues," she authorizes their popular devotions by
sanction and permission.
When we grant or assert that the church in her devotional aspect
is adaptive, elastic, or (to return to our term) subjective, what
is this but to say that she has _life_? Life as distinct
from machinery, stereotype, or routine. It is saying that she has
a living intelligence, spiritual instinct, a faculty to
discriminate between essentials and non-essentials in her
worship, and a versatility and a resource to apply, to modify, to
expand the non-sacramental and therefore accidental channels of
grace to her children. Because she is thus alive with the
indwelling life of the Paraclete who abides with her for ever,
and thus animated with a supernatural wisdom and maternal
charity, she is prompt to seize occasions, and to extemporize
combinations _to the greater glory of God_. Hers is an ever
quick and energizing power, exerted over man as man, and over all
men indifferently. In the inspired words of the wise man: "Being
but one, she can do all things; and remaining in herself the
same, she reneweth all things, and through nations conveyeth
herself into holy souls." Wisd. vii. 27. What the philosopher
claimed as being man, she claims as being the church of men:
_Nihil humanum a me alienum puto._ She raises no question on
the form of government or previous training, any more than on the
clime or color of the "Trojans or Tyrians" within her realm. She
translates her prayers, and imparts her indulgences in as many
tongues as were found in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. In
the political sphere she will bless the banners and chant a _Te
Deum_ on the triumphs of every righteous cause, whether the
tricolor and stripes of a republic or the blazonings of an
ancient monarchy. And so in her devotional element, finding more
stability of character in some provinces of her kingdom, more
versatility and impulse in others, some of her children more
given to contemplation, some to a larger amount of vocal prayer,
she accepts these differing conditions without disturbance or
hesitation. Wise householder and faithful stewardess, as the
gospel declares her to be, the church brings out from her
treasury things new and old.
{184}
She adopts and sanctions every new devotion that has been
inspired into her saints: the rosary of St. Dominic, the scapular
of St. Simon Stock, the discipline of St. Peter Damian, the
meditations of St. Benedict, the spiritual exercises of St.
Ignatius and his systematized methods of prayer. Nothing is a
dangerous novelty, while she has inerrancy of judgment. No
dubious expression or practice can spread, or even live, while in
her hand is the sword of the Spirit, [Greek text]. No fervor can
lead to ill-regulated enthusiasm while she exercises the twofold
office, to animate and to control.
In direct contrast with this divine adjustment and harmony stand
the arrangements of that communion in the midst of us which has
so long claimed the title of a church. England, as represented by
her rulers, three hundred years ago, breaking from the centre of
unity, and disowning every link with St. Peter's chair, isolated
thenceforward and self-contained, had before her a three-fold
task. She was to extemporize at once doctrine, discipline, and
devotion. The process was in many ways remarkable. But its chief
feature for our present purpose is one especial travesty and
reversal of the due order of things which was then exhibited.
While doctrine, by the necessity of the case, became subjective,
the formularies or "common prayer" were stereotyped or frozen
into a form that was well named _uniformity_, and might in a
kind of perverse sense be called objective. The Anglican
communion is the reed where the Catholic Church is the oak; but
_en revanche_, she is stiff and wooden where the church is
pliant and tender. She has bent to every breath of doctrine:
then, as if in tribute to the principle of stability, has bound
down her children to pray, at least, by rule. She does not pipe
to them that they may dance, and mourn to them that they may
lament. There is no modulation in her pastoral reed; no change of
expression in her fixed uniformity of demeanor. An exception must
here be made for the ritualist exhibitions of these later years;
but it is an exception which proves the rule. Ritualism is a
protest against the cold negations of the Establishment. It is in
turn protested against with more energy by the indignant good
sense of the country, and, so far as they venture, by the
country's bishops. The clergy appear in colored stoles, and are
met by a mandate to "take off those ribbons." Decorations must be
removed from the communion-table before consecration of the
church can take place. Each opening flower is nipped by the
breath of episcopal authority,
"'Et mox
Bruma recurrit iners."
Not to speak, then, of ritualism, but of the genuine spirit of
the establishment. This holds the even tenor of its way,
undisturbed by signs and seasons, and days and years. The
established church does not quench her tapers on Good Friday
because she does not light them on Easter morning; has no rubric
for stripping her altars, and gives no encouragement for their
decoration. She sprinkles no ashes on Ash-Wednesday, sings no
alleluias for the Resurrection, lights no candles, says no Mass
on Candelmas. Like something learned by rote and spoken by a
machine, her ministers address their flocks in the self-same
language, whether the morning usher in the annual solemn fast or
the queen of festivals. Their form most truly styles itself, "The
Order for Morning and Evening Prayer, daily to be said and used
throughout the year."
{185}
This is the objectivity of the established church, as "authorized
by act of Parliament, holden in the fifth and sixth years of our
said late sovereign lord, King Edward the Sixth, ... with the
alterations and additions therein added and appointed by this
statute," "_Primo Elizabethae._"
Nor was this stereotyped, unelastic method optional with them. It
was a necessity of the position of the establishment from its
beginning. Having torn down the altar and set up the
reading-desk, abolished the daily sacrifice, and made the lion
and unicorn stand in the holy place, converted the priest into a
minister, and succeeded, under the hydraulic pressure of royal
mandates, in forcing two sets of doctrines to coexist within the
space of one communion, the framers of the new order of things
had, as a chief part of it, to invent a form of prayer. This form
must be comprehensive as to doctrine, uniform as to expression;
subjective in the first, quasi-objective in the latter. It was to
provide for Catholics in heart who had not fortitude for
martyrdom, and for honest sacramentarians kneeling with them at
the same communion-rail. After several alterations, therefore, in
which the presence of the Most High was affirmed or denied, and,
as far as man could affect it, was restored or taken away, as now
a higher, now a lower school prevailed, the new religion welded
together two forms of administration--the Catholic and the
Zwinglian--and simply left the choice of doctrine to the
receiver. It was a process that brings to mind the ancient
punishment of chaining the living prisoner to the corpse of his
dead comrade; and the language ever since of those in the
Anglican communion who have aspired after something nearer to God
than a memorial rite has been: "Unhappy man that I am, who shall
deliver me from the body of this death?"
Want of space prevents our drawing out a contrast which here
naturally presents itself. It would be, on one side, the solemn
and heart-stirring functions of the church during her round of
fast and festival: the day that ushers in her Lent, the
_Gloria_ hushed, organ and alleluias silent, the wailing
_Tenebrae_, the strange, disjointed Mass of the
pre-sanctified on Good Friday, which is Calvary, with the rocks
rent and the sun hidden; then the burst of Easter morning, when
all is light and triumph; or again, the three Masses of
Christmas, symbols of our Lord's triple nativity. These, and much
that might be added, would form an epitome of _Durandus_,
and writers who have followed him, on the symbolism of the
church's functions. What would appear on the other side? Silence
is perhaps its best description, lest a thing in its own nature
so fearful to contemplate as man's attempts to create in
opposition to his Creator should present too forcibly its
ludicrous aspect. It does not appear to have been very
attractive, even in its cradle, to judge from the act, which sets
forth that "all and every person and persons ... shall diligently
and faithfully ... endeavor themselves to resort to their parish
church, ... where common prayer and such service shall be used,
... and then and there to abide orderly and soberly during the
time of common prayer, preachings, or other service of God there
to be used and ministered, upon pain of punishment by the
censures of the church, and also upon pain that every person so
offending shall forfeit for every such offence twelve pence, to
be levied by the church-wardens of the parish where such offence
shall be done, ... of the goods, lands, and tenements of such
offender, by way of distress."
{186}
No wonder they who love the established church should fix their
special admiration on the feature of her simplicity. The act of
uniformity enforced by Procrustes was as simple a process, and
with as simple a result. In both cases, it was a cutting down,
paring away, shortening, disjointing, dislocating. Only, as they
who decreed the form and measurements of the new religion, unlike
Procrustes, had to reconstruct as well as simply to wrench and
amputate, they added that other process to their labor; and under
difficulties which have excited the compassion of their disciples
in all later time for a system of theology and theological
devotion is as complex and delicate, to say the least, as the
human frame: you cannot give back the sinews and organs you have
removed, nor restore action to the joints you have sundered. We
have lived to see the result of such simplifying as went on in
the sixteenth century. After a career which has given time for
irreconcilable schools to exhibit their full divergence, the
communion so arranged seems likely to fall to pieces on the very
question of ritualism. "We never, sir," says a popular clerical
writer to the _Times_ newspaper, "we never shall have peace
again in the church until some plain order of conducting the
service is made more or less imperative, confused rubrics relaid
down in clear language, and some court established, easy of
access, cheap, and speedy in process, by which it may be
adjudged, as well in the case of clergy as of bishops, whether
the parties accused of false teaching or false practice are
guilty according to a rational, legal interpretation of our
formularies in the spirit in which for three centuries they have
been conducted." [Footnote 29]
[Footnote 29: "S.G.O." in the London _Times_, June 10, 1867.]
The simplicity of the church of England has steered too precise a
mean between the symbolism and suggestive ceremonies of the
church that believes, and the absence of all form on the part of
those who do not. Her preamble, "of ceremonies, why some be
abolished and some retained," like other compromises, aims at
pleasing everybody and ends in pleasing no one. With one party,
as Milton says in an expressive line,
"New Presbyter is but old priest writ large."
With the other, the minister must be a priest, the communion,
Mass, and the Catholic service restored. This comes of inventing
a religion in a hurry, patching up a provisional government by
rebels who have disowned a time-honored throne. This comes of
arraying one's self in the shreds of what one's self has rent
from the seamless garment. So much for aiming at what a prelate
of that communion has recently called "a satisfying amount of
ritual," which is to clothe no idea, stand for nothing beyond
itself, and soothe the senses without appealing to the faith. So
much for the arrogance of deciding that the "godly and decent
order of the ancient fathers had been altered, broken, and
neglected, by planting in uncertain stories and legends, with a
multitude of responds, verses, vain repetitions, commemorations,
and synodals;" not to speak of the "hardness of the rules called
the _Pie_, and the manifold changings of the service."
We shall wait to see the result of that "satisfying amount of
ritual" in which it is proposed to invest a service purely
Protestant; whereabout on the scale the satisfaction is to be
placed, and so, whom it is intended to satisfy. One ritual system
alone has a gift from heaven to answer and fulfil the yearnings
of the soul.
{187}
One act of uniformity alone is worthy of a thought to the
worshipper. The creed rehearses it: "I profess that there are
truly and properly seven sacraments of the new law instituted by
our Lord, and necessary for the salvation of mankind." Then, "I
also receive and admit the received and approved ceremonies of
the Catholic Church in the solemn administration of the aforesaid
sacraments." It is to express the invisible, and to fence round
what is all sacred, and to respond by the tribute of man to the
gift of God, that the church has ordained these details of beauty
and solemnity. It is essentially as an homage and a reverence to
her Lord. This does not contradict what has been said above
either of the variety or of the adaptive character of Catholic
devotions. For we are here speaking not of devotions as voices of
human expression toward God, but of sacraments, the channels of
his communications with man.
Let me now only mention two other chief instances of the
subjectivity of the church's dealings with her children. The
whole theory, then, of intentions in prayer is a proof of the
adaptive character of Catholic devotion. The _Pater, Ave,
Gloria, Credo, the Veni Creator, Miserere, Memorare_, these
are, as it were, so many notes in the church's scale. Let me here
adopt, though I should also modify, the words of a great writer
on a kindred subject. They apply, partly at least, to that on
which our thoughts are turned:
"There are seven notes in the scale; make them thirteen, yet
what a slender outfit for so vast an enterprise! What science
brings so much out of so little? Out of what poor elements does
some great master in it create his new world! Shall we say that
all this exuberant inventiveness is a mere ingenuity or trick
of art, like some game or fashion of the day, without reality,
without meaning? We may do so; and then, perhaps, we shall also
account the science of theology to be a matter of words; yet,
as there is a divinity in the theology of the church which
those who feel cannot communicate, so is there also in the
wonderful creation of sublimity and beauty of which I am
speaking. ... Is it possible that that inexhaustible evolution
and disposition of notes, so rich yet so simple, so intricate
yet so regulated, so various yet so majestic, should be a mere
sound, which is gone and perishes? Can it be that those
mysterious stirrings of heart, and keen emotions, and strange
yearnings after we know not what, and awful impressions from we
know not whence, should be wrought in us by what is
unsubstantial, and comes and goes, and begins and ends in
itself? ... No; they have escaped from some higher sphere; ...
they are echoes from our home; they are the voice of angels, or
the _Magnificat_ of saints, or the living laws of divine
governance, or the divine attributes; something are they
besides themselves, which we cannot compass, which we cannot
utter." [Footnote 30]
[Footnote 30: Newman's _Sermons before the University of
Oxford_. 2d edition, pp. 349, 350.]
The beauty of this extract, from perhaps one of the greatest
passages of its eminent author, may be my apology for its length.
What Dr. Newman here says of the evolution of musical harmony
from simple elements may be applied to the vast fabric of
intentions, reaching to no less than three worlds, the church
militant, triumphant, and purifying, which we are taught to build
out of such few brief prayers as a child might utter.
{188}
Once more: the variety of the religious orders, congregations,
institutes, existing in the church, and marked by her approval,
afford a further proof of her adaptation to the various needs and
characters of men. The system which recognizes the sanctity of
marriage by elevating it to the rank of a sacrament proclaims
also the superiority of the "best part" chosen by Mary, "which
shall not be taken from her;" and, within this first great
principle of classification among the church's children,
separating between the secular and the religious life, and
strictly subjective in the sense in which the word has here been
used, we find an almost endless diversity of what are technically
called "religions." The cloistered and the uncloistered; and
among the former, the eremitic and the conventual, with their
subdivisions; among the latter, a devotion special and
concentrated upon every malady to which man is heir. Brothers of
the hospitals, brothers of Christian doctrine, communities
devoted to the leper, the lunatic, the ordinary sick, the
hopelessly diseased, the poor as such, the young, the orphan, the
ignorant, the upper classes, the middle rank, the homeless
pauper, the pilgrim, the penitent, the convict, the galley-slave,
the felon condemned to die.
This very glory of the King's daughter, her beauty in the variety
with which she is surrounded, the subjective provisions she makes
for each of her children called to religion, has been made by
writers of more than common shallowness an argument against her
unity. It is difficult to treat with gravity a distortion of the
truth so perverse. "Look," says a platform orator--"look at the
divisions of the Church of Rome. She taunts us with our
dissensions. It is true, we have our high church, and our low,
and our broad; there are those amongst us who hold the
sacramental principle, and those who deny it. But Rome, too, has
her divisions, as deep and as fundamental. Has she not her
Franciscans and her Dominicans, her Benedictines and her
Seculars, her Jesuits, and I know not who besides? Have not her
religious orders and her secular canons, in times past, carved
grotesque caricatures of each other in the gargoyles and
_misereres_ of their respective churches? And yet, with her
characteristic effrontery, she dares to tell us that she is one!"
It was well answered. You might with equal reason argue that an
army was not one, not one in its operations and campaign, nor
moving at the nod of one commander, because it had its several
branches and "arms" of the service; its light horse, troops of
the line, skirmishers, cavalry for the charge, heavy artillery.
Rather, the essential unity of the whole is all the more
demonstrated by the distinct lines and modes of operation
belonging to each department. Herodotus is at much pains to
detail the different nationalities and customs of warfare in the
army of Xerxes before he proceeds to narrate their combined
descent upon Greece. And to return to our thesis: the objective
unity of the religious orders throughout the church's long life,
in all that ever concerned her faith and essential teaching, has
been enhanced, made conspicuous, and shown to be supernatural, by
their acknowledged subjective diversity in much beside.
But we are not here in need of a Catholic apologist. A vivid and
popular writer, if not of history, yet of widely accepted
historical romance, had the intelligence to perceive this very
characteristic of the church.
{189}
He has thrown no little power into developing the truth, that the
Catholic system is thus universally subjective, has a place for
every one, rejects none of earth's children, and can retain them,
find them employment, and communicate to them happiness, within
the ample breadth of her unity.
He describes the merely local characters of the Church of
England, and her consequent inability to make way in foreign
missions. He has a fling at what he calls the polity of the
Church of Rome as the very masterpiece of human wisdom. It is, he
says, a system of tactics to be regarded with reluctant
admiration. Then more particularly: "She thoroughly understands,
what no other church has ever understood, how to deal with
enthusiasts. In some sects, particularly in infant sects,
enthusiasm is suffered to be rampant. In other sects,
particularly in sects long established and richly endowed, it is
regarded with aversion. The Catholic Church neither submits to
enthusiasm nor proscribes it, but uses it. She considers it as a
great moving force, which in itself, like the muscular powers of
a fine horse, is neither good nor evil, but which may be so
directed as to produce great good or great evil, and she assumes
the direction to herself. ... She knows that, where religious
feelings have obtained the complete empire of the mind, they
impart a strange energy, that they raise man above the dominion
of pain and pleasure, that obloquy becomes glory. She knows that
a person in this state of enthusiasm is no object of contempt. He
may be vulgar, ignorant, visionary, extravagant; but he will do
and suffer things which it is for her interest that somebody
should do and suffer. She accordingly enlists him in her service,
assigns to him some forlorn hope, and sends him forth with her
benedictions and her applause."
Then, after showing how the Anglican system expels from itself
the enthusiasm it can neither wield nor control, he proceeds to
draw his contrast:
"Far different is the policy of Rome. The ignorant enthusiast
whom the Anglican Church makes an enemy, and, whatever the
polite and learned may think, a most dangerous enemy, the
Catholic Church makes a champion. She bids him nurse his beard,
covers him with a gown and hood of coarse, dark stuff, ties a
rope round his waist, and sends him forth to teach in her name.
He costs her nothing. He takes not a ducat away from the
resources of her beneficed clergy. He lives by the alms of
those who respect his spiritual character and are grateful for
his instructions. He preaches not exactly in the style of
Massillon, but in a way which moves the passions of uneducated
hearers; and all his influence is employed to strengthen the
church of which he is a minister. To that church he becomes as
strongly attached as any of the cardinals whose scarlet
carriages and liveries crowd the entrance of the palace on the
Quirinal. In this way the Church of Rome unites in herself all
the strength of establishment, and all the strength of dissent.
With the utmost pomp of a dominant hierarchy above, she has all
the energy of the voluntary system below. It would be easy to
mention very recent instances in which the hearts of hundreds
of thousands, estranged from her by the selfishness, sloth, and
cowardice of the beneficed clergy, have been brought back by
the zeal of the begging friars. At Rome the Countess of
Huntingdon would have a place in the calendar as St. Sabina,
and Mrs. Fry would be foundress and first superior of the
blessed order of Sisters of the Gaols.
{190}
Place Ignatius Loyola at Oxford: he is certain to become the
head of a formidable secession. Place John Wesley at Rome: he
is certain to be the first general of a new society devoted to
the interests and honor of the church. Place Johanna Southcote
at Rome: she founds an order of barefooted Carmelites, every
one of whom is ready to suffer martyrdom for the church; a
solemn service is consecrated to her memory; and her statue,
placed over the holy water, strikes the eye of every stranger
who enters St. Peter's."
Such thoughts as I have endeavored to suggest will not be vain,
if they lead us to recognize the attributes and credentials of
the church in her mission to the world, not less in the
comparison of part with part among her manifestations, than in
the harmony of the whole. She is as divine, as Catholic, as
faithful to her trust, and as unerring in her functions, in the
subjective character of her devotions, as in the objectivity of
her teaching. Nothing surely can be more attractive to the
imagination, more winning to the heart, or more persuasive to the
will than the condescension and personal care of that which is
all the while lofty in its attributes and authoritative in its
claims and power. The church is a mother while she is a queen,
and we her children no less than her subjects and disciples. She
teaches us to pray while she commands us to believe; and gives a
personal experience of her science in the one, while affording
abundant proof of her embassy and her inerrancy in the other.
Thus, while I am enlightened by her truth, I am fostered by her
charity. The need of which I am conscious in myself, _das
Ich_, for something on which to feed the faculty within me for
supernatural love and personal devotion, is as completely met and
fulfilled as any craving for a truth above myself, _das nicht
Ich_, which comes down to me from heaven that it may raise me
thither. "Descendit" says St. Augustine, "_misericordia, ut
ascendat miseria._"
--------
Imogen.
She was all compact of beauty,
Like the sunlight and the flowers;
One of those radiant beings
That prove this world of ours
Not utterly forsaken
By the angel host of God,
Since now and then its valleys
By their holy feet are trod.
If her hair was black and glossy
Or golden-hued and bright,
Or if her eyes were azure,
Or dark and deep as night,
I know not--this truth only
Do I know or care to know;
Never a lovelier maiden
Blest this weary world below.
In the castle ruled her father,
And his lands stretched miles away
_Mine_ toiled down in the hamlet
For his daily bread each day;
Too far apart were we.
Too high wert thou for me,
O Lady Imogen!
{191}
When the meadow was all golden
With the cowslips' May-day bells,
And the sweet breath of the primrose
Came up from fragrant dells;
When the blackbird and the throstle
Whistled cheerly in the morn,
And the skylark, quivering upward,
Rose singing from the corn;
Then when the blessed spring-time
Filled with beauty all the earth,
From her father's lordly castle
Would this maiden wander forth,
Where the violets were blooming
In unfrequented dells;
O'er the mead where zephyrs pilfered
Fragrance from the cowslips' bells.
Wheresoever beauty lingered,
There this radiant maiden strayed,
And beauty by her presence
More beautiful was made;
The sunshine looked more golden
As it gleamed around her head;
And the grass more green and living
Rose up beneath her tread;
And the flowers more bright and fragrant
To greet her coming grew;
And mad with love and music
The birds about her flew.
Oh! she was the loveliest maiden
That ever eye did see;
She was sunshine, she was music,
She was all the world to me.
But she never knew the passion
That set my soul aflame;
That hid me by the hedge-row
To watch whene'er she came,
To see her glorious beauty,
Like a star from heaven, go by.
Oh! to see her but one moment
God knows that I would die,
O peerless Imogen!
{192}
They bore her to the abbey
With the pomp of princely woe,
With steeds and hearse and snowy pall,
And white plumes drooping low:
And high, proud heads were bending
In her funereal train,
And princely eyes were weeping
Heavy tears like summer rain.
I far off followed slowly,
No tears were in mine eye;
'Twas not for one so lowly
To weep for one so high;
But, oh! since she hath vanished,
With her have seemed to go
All the beauty, all the music,
Of this weary world below!
Dead, dead, and buried, Imogen!
E. Young.
--------
The Jesuits In North America. [Footnote 31]
[Footnote 31:
_The Jesuits in North America, in the Seventeenth
Century_.
By Francis Parkman. Boston:
Little, Brown & Co. 1867.
_History and General Description of New France_,
By the Rev. P. F. X. de Charlevoix, S.J.
Translated with notes, by John Gilmary
Shea. In six vols. Vols. i. and ii.
New York: John Gilmary Shea. 1866
_History of the Catholic Missions among
the Indian Tribes of the United States_
By John Gilmary Shea.
New York: Edward Dunigan & Brother. 1855.]
The illustrious Society of Jesus, which has sanctified by its
martyrs every corner of the earth, has reaped more glory probably
in North America than any other missionary order, though it was
not the first to enter the field. The Franciscans, the
Dominicans, and other devoted soldiers of the cross who followed
in the footsteps of the Spanish adventurers in the south,
established flourishing missions, some of which have lasted to
this day. They labored with a zeal and singleness of purpose
which could not be surpassed, and a large proportion of them gave
up their lives for the faith; but unfortunately the crimes of
their countrymen have been permitted, by the prejudice of modern
writers, to tarnish the renown of these heroic preachers, and the
cruelties of a Cortez are better remembered than the virtues of
the Spanish Dominicans. The Jesuits in the northern parts of the
continent have received more justice in history. About their
character and achievements there is only one voice. Oppression
and outrage have fortunately kept away from their path.
{193}
It was, moreover, their practice to live almost wholly aloof from
their own countrymen, and to compose their Christian settlements
entirely of Indian converts. They may not have surpassed their
brethren of other orders in devotedness or in perseverance; but
they have a renown in modern Protestant literature which has no
equal except in the glorious record of the early Christian
persecutions.
When the Jesuits first came to Canada, the Franciscans had been
before them, but there was little trace left of the Christianity
which they had planted. The capture of Quebec by the English, in
1629, almost wholly obliterated the mission, and it was not until
the colony was restored to France, in 1632, that the history of
missionary enterprise in that part of America really begins. One
of the first steps of the French government then was to secure a
body of priests, to labor in their recovered possessions. The
work was offered to the Capuchins, but they declined it. It was
then given to the Jesuits, and on the 18th of April, 1632, two
priests, Le Jeune and De Nouë, with a lay-brother named Gilbert,
set sail from Havre for Quebec. It was but a cheerless home in
which, after a three months' tempestuous voyage, they set about
installing themselves. Their predecessors had left on the
outskirts of the settlement two wretched wooden buildings,
thatched with long grass and plastered with mud. One of them had
been half-burned by the English, and was still in ruins. Here the
three missionaries fixed their home, and prepared for the
reception of the brethren who were soon to follow them. One of
the buildings was converted into a store-house, stable,
work-shop, and bakery. The other contained four principal rooms.
One was fitted up as a rude chapel, one as a refectory, one as a
kitchen, and the fourth as a sleeping-room for workmen. Four
small rooms, the largest eight feet square, opened off the
refectory, and here, when the rest of the little band arrived,
six priests were lodged, while two lay-brothers found shelter in
the garret. The whole establishment was surrounded by a palisade.
About the end of May, Champlain arrived, to resume the command of
Quebec, and with him came four more Jesuits--Brébeuf, Masse,
Daniel, and Davost. The superior of the little community was
Father Le Jeune. Of the others, Masse, whom by reason of his
useful qualities they nicknamed "Le Père Utile," had been in
America before. His special duty was to take care of the pigs and
cows, upon which the missionaries relied for a great part of
their sustenance. De Nouë had charge of the eight or ten laborers
employed about the "residence." All the fathers, in the intervals
of leisure left from their duties of preaching, saying mass and
vespers, hearing confessions at the fort of Quebec, catechising a
few Indians, and striving to master the enormous difficulties of
the Algonquin and Huron languages, worked with the men, spade in
hand.
To learn the language was at first the greatest of all their
troubles. There were French interpreters in the colony, fur
traders who had spent years among the tribes, and were almost as
savage as the Indians themselves. But these men were no friends
to the Jesuits, and one and all refused their assistance. Father
Le Jeune gives an amusing description of his perplexity, as he
sat with an Indian child on one side, and a little negro boy left
by the English on the other, neither of the three able to
understand the language of the others.
{194}
Convinced that there was little to be taught and little to be
learned in that way, he set off one morning to visit a band of
Indians who were fishing on the St. Lawrence. He found their bark
lodges set up by the brink of the river, and a boy led him into
the hut of an old squaw, his grandmother, who hastened to give
him four smoked eels on a piece of birch bark. There were several
other women in the lodge, and while they showed him how to roast
his eels on a forked stick, or squatted around the fire, eating
their rude meal, and using their dogs as napkins, the good father
made strenuous attempts to talk a little broken Algonquin, eking
out his defect of words with such pantomime as he could invent.
All, however, was in vain. If he trusted to what he could pick up
from straggling fishing parties, it might be years before he
could fairly begin to preach the gospel to these poor tribes of
the wilderness. In his difficulty he had recourse to the saints.
It was not long before what he deemed the direct interposition of
Providence came to his aid. Several years before an Indian who
had been converted by the Recollects, and baptized by the name of
Pierre, had been taken to France and partially educated. He had
lately returned to Canada, and not only relapsed into his old
savage way of life, but apostatized from the faith. Nothing was
left of his French education save a few French vices and a
knowledge of the French language. He often came to the fort
begging drink and tobacco, but he shunned the Jesuits, of whose
rigid virtue he stood in horror. But one day, about this time,
Pierre incurred the displeasure of the French commandant, and the
fort was closed against him. Repulsed by a young squaw whom he
wanted to make his wife, and unfitted by his French education for
the hard and precarious life of a hunter, he went to the priests
for food and shelter. Le Jeune hailed him as a gift from heaven
in answer to his prayers. He installed the poor wretch in the
mission-house, begged for him at the fort a suit of cast-off
clothes, and set zealously to work to learn from him the
mysteries of the Algonquin language. "How thankful I am," wrote
Le Jeune, "to those who gave me tobacco last year! At every
difficulty I give my master a piece of it to make him more
attentive."
The terribly severe winter was passed in studies such as these,
in practising with snow-shoes, and teaching Indian children.
Bands of savages often encamped near the mission-house in the
course of their hunting journeys, and Le Jeune, whenever they
appeared, would take his stand at the door and ring a bell. The
children would gather round him, and leading them into the
refectory, which also served as a school-room, he would teach
them the Pater, Ave, and Credo, with an Indian prayer which he
had composed with the assistance of Pierre, show them how to make
the sign of the cross, and explain portions of the catechism. The
exercises closed with the singing of the Lord's prayer in
Algonquin rhymes, and after that each pupil was rewarded with a
porringer of peas. As spring approached, Pierre began to bethink
himself of the fasting and prayers of Lent, and ran off one day
to a party of Englishmen, at Tadoussac, where he drowned in
liquor the small remnant of his Christianity. Then he joined his
two brothers, one a famous hunter named Mestigoit, the other the
most noted sorcerer or "medicine-man" of the tribe.
{195}
The next autumn Father Le Jeune was invited by the Indians to
join a hunting party, in which these three brothers were
included; not that they valued the good missionary's company, but
they were shrewd enough to suspect that, if he went with them, he
would be well supplied with provisions. Father de Nouë had gone
on a similar expedition in the winter, and returned nearly dead;
but Le Jeune resolved to risk it, and in the latter part of
October, with twenty Indians, embarked in canoes on the St.
Lawrence. Landing after a while, and being joined by two other
bands, they spent five months trudging through the trackless and
snow-covered wilderness; sleeping by night in the stifling huts
which they made by digging holes in the snow and building over
them a covering of poles and birch bark; hunting by day the
beaver, the moose, and the caribou; often half-starved when game
failed, and holding the most disgusting orgies of gluttony when
it was plenty. Somebody had unfortunately put among the priest's
stores a small keg of wine. Pierre stole it and got drunk, and
when Mestigoit had sobered him by a liberal application of
scalding water, which took all the skin off his face and breast,
the apostate (as Le Jeune always calls him) vowed to revenge
himself by killing the missionary whose strong drink had brought
him into trouble. The poor father fled to the woods until
Pierre's frenzy had passed away, and there, he says, "though my
bed had not been made up since the creation of the world, it was
not hard enough to prevent me from sleeping." We have no space to
follow the narrative of this hard winter. The days were spent in
hunger and exhausting toil, the nights in frightful discomfort.
The huts, in a space some thirteen feet square, were made to
accommodate nineteen savages, men, women, and children, not to
speak of a number of wild and hungry dogs. A fire of pine-knots
in the centre filled the place with a blinding, acrid smoke, and
at times they could breathe only by lying flat on their faces
with their mouths to the cold ground. In this horrible den, the
dogs fought for his food, and the savages, instigated by the
sorcerer, loaded him with insults and shocked his ears with their
filthy conversation. The sorcerer, whose pretensions he
ridiculed, and whose influence he lost no opportunity of
undermining, hated him with an especially malignant animosity.
Under pretence of teaching him Algonquin, he palmed off upon the
priest the foulest words in the Indian language, so that poor
Father Le Jeune's attempts to explain the mysteries of the faith
were often interrupted by shouts of laughter. On Christmas day
there had been a great scarcity of game, and the party were in
danger of famishing. The incantations of the medicine man had
failed. In despair the savages came to Le Jeune, and begged him
to try his God. The sorcerer showed some gleam of faith. Even
Pierre gave signs of repentance. The missionary was filled with
hope. He wrote out two prayers in Algonquin. He hung against the
side of the hut a crucifix and a reliquary, and bade the Indians
kneel before them and repeat the prayers, promising to renounce
their superstitions and obey Christ if he would save them from
perishing of hunger. Then he dismissed the hunters with his
blessing. At night they came back successful. A feast was
ordered. In the midst of the repast, Le Jeune arose to remind
them of their promise; but Pierre, who had killed nothing, was
sulky and incredulous. He said, with a laugh, that it was not the
crucifix and prayers which had brought them luck.
{196}
The sorcerer cried out to the missionary, "Hold your tongue! you
have no sense!" And the multitude, whose good disposition had
vanished with their hunger, took their cue from him, as usual.
All this was discouraging enough, nor was it the worst; and when
Father Le Jeune, at three o'clock one April morning, knocked at
the door of his humble mission-house, and was received in the
arms of his brother apostles, it was with the melancholy
reflection that his painful and perilous journey had been, except
as a tour of observation, little more than a failure. An absolute
failure, however, it certainly was not. Careful reconnoissances
must always precede great campaigns. It was only by pushing out
into the heart of the pagan realm which they had come to conquer,
that the soldiers of Christ could determine where they might best
make their main assault and in what quarter a victory ensured the
most glorious results. The missionaries were but a handful; the
field before them was immense; they could only cultivate such
portions of it as promised the richest harvest. They had now
learned that the Algonquins were comparatively few in number, and
of little influence or importance among the North American
tribes. Wandering to and fro as they did from year's end to
year's end, it was impossible to establish among them the sort of
Christian settlements or missions which the Jesuits proposed
founding as centres from which the light of truth might radiate
through the wilderness. But further westward, on the shores of
the great lakes, dwelt numerous stationary tribes, among whom
strongholds of the faith might be erected. The conversion of any
considerable part of these people would affect many kindred
tribes, and so it might be possible to found in the heart of the
forest a great Christian empire. As the first basis for their
operations, they chose the Hurons, on the lake which bears their
name. These people, they learned, had populous villages, knew how
to till the ground, and carried on some trade with neighboring
nations. Their ferocity exceeded that of the Algonquins. A
prisoner who bore the torture bravely was cooked and eaten, that
his captors might increase their own courage; and the
missionaries spoke of the Huron country as the chief fortress and
donjon-keep of the demon, "_une des principales forteresses et
comme un donjon des démons_." The distance to be traversed, by
the only route it was possible to follow, was about nine hundred
miles. The way was dangerous and painful. The goal to be reached
was possibly martyrdom--certainly continuous suffering of body
and mind. Three missionaries, Brébeuf, Daniel, and Davost,
offered themselves for the enterprise. Le Jeune's duties as
superior obliged him to confine his labors to the neighboring
Algonquins. It was not easy, however, for the little band of
apostles to carry their heroic purpose into execution. Every year
a company of several hundred Hurons used to visit Quebec, to
barter their furs and tobacco for kettles, hatchets, knives,
cloth, beads, and other commodities. It was resolved that the
priests should return with them when they made their next annual
journey. The Hurons came in July, 1633, six or seven hundred of
them, with a hundred and forty canoes. They staid four days,
trading, gambling, feasting, and holding a council with the
French officers at the fort. Champlain introduced the three
missionaries, and commended them to the care and friendship of
the Indians.
{197}
They were received at first with acclamations of delight, and the
chiefs of different villages disputed for the honor of
entertaining them. But before the hour of departure came, they
changed their minds. The Indians went away and the priests
returned to the mission-house. Here they spent a year studying
the Huron language. At the end of a twelvemonth, the Indians came
again. A second time they were besought to take the Jesuits back
with them. They consented, wavered, refused, hesitated, the
missionaries begging to be received, as if the hardships they
would have to suffer were the greatest of privileges. At last
Father Brébeuf made a vow to St. Joseph. At once, he says, the
Indians became tractable, and the whole party embarked in the
frail canoes for the shores of Lake Huron. Their route was up the
Ottawa river, through Lake Nipissing, down French river, and
along the shores of the great Georgian Bay of Lake Huron. The
voyage occupied thirty days. The three missionaries were in
separate canoes, barefoot, lest their shoes should injure the
vessel, toiling laboriously at the paddle, wading often through
the rapids and pushing or pulling up their barks, and doing their
share of the burden of transportation at the long and frequent
portages. They had no food but a little corn crushed between two
stones and moistened with water. The Indians treated them with
great harshness, stole or threw away a part of their baggage,
including most of their books and writing materials, and finally
deserted Father Daniel and Father Davost on the way. When Brébeuf
reached the end of the voyage, on the shores of Georgian Bay, his
Indian companions threw his baggage on the ground, left him to
his own resources, and trudged off to their villages, some twenty
miles distant. Brébeuf, however, was not disheartened. He threw
himself upon his knees and thanked God who had preserved him so
far. Then he proceeded to examine the country. He knew the spot
well, for before the suspension of the Canada missions which
followed the capture of Quebec, he had passed three years among
the Hurons of this region, at an Indian town which had since been
burned. Hiding his baggage and the sacred vessels in the woods,
he set off in search of the new town, which he knew had been
built a few miles from the site of the old one. It was evening
when he reached it. A crowd who recognized his tall, soldier-like
figure and black robes ran out to meet him, shouting for joy at
his return. They took him to the lodge of one Awandoay, the
richest and most hospitable of the Hurons. After many days his
two lost brethren rejoined him. Daniel had been picked up by
another party of Indians. Davost had been left among the
Algonquins on Allumette Island, and now appeared half-dead with
famine and fatigue. With them came four French laymen from
Quebec. Awandoay received them all, and as soon as they had
determined to make this village, which the natives called
Ihonatiria, the headquarters of their mission, all the
inhabitants of the place, as well as the people of the
neighboring town of Wenrio, fell to and built them a house. It
was a structure of sapling poles and sheets of bark, thirty-six
feet long, and about twenty feet wide, built after the Huron
fashion; but the priests, with the aid of their tools, made
several improvements of the interior, which were to the savages a
never-failing source of wonder and admiration. They divided their
dwelling into three rooms. The first was a store-house; the
second, a sleeping chamber, kitchen, workshop, refectory, and
school-room, all in one; the third was the chapel.
{198}
Thus the Huron mission, which had been founded several years
previously, and broken up before it was thoroughly established,
was opened anew. Other priests soon came out from France to join
it. Garnier, Chaumonot, Chabanel, and the illustrious martyr
Isaac Jogues were among the Jesuits who gathered around this
lodge in the wilderness in the course of the next few years. In
the summer-time, when most of the Indians were away on their
hunting or trading excursions, and the villages were quiet, the
missionaries renewed their strength for labor and suffering by
the exercise of the annual retreat according to the instructions
of St. Ignatius. It was in winter that their hardships were the
greatest. By day they trudged long, weary miles through the snow
and wet to visit neighboring villages; by night their short rest
was disturbed and their ears shocked by the horrible orgies,
incantations, and superstitious rites in which the Hurons used to
pass their winter leisure. There were the hideous ceremonies by
which their sorcerers pretended to cure the sick; the licentious
practices by which they sought to propitiate the demons of
pestilence and famine; sometimes the awful tortures of captives
taken in war, and their agonizing deaths, in which the good
fathers, though every nerve shuddered with horror at the dreadful
sight, sometimes found consolation in making a convert of the
dying wretch, and washing out his sins at the last moment in the
saving waters of baptism. At every opportunity they collected the
children of the village at their house; and Brébeuf, vested in
surplice and cap, led them in chanting the _Pater Noster_,
translated into Indian rhymes, taught them the Hail Mary, the
Creed, and the Commandments, taught them to make the sign of the
cross, and gave a few simple instructions. A present of two or
three beads, or raisins, or prunes sent them away happy and
ensured their coming again. Once in a while the adults were
induced to listen to instruction, and invited to discuss the
principal points of religious doctrine. They grunted "Good" or
"That is true" at every proposition, but for a long, long time
very few were willing to embrace the faith to which they gave so
ready an assent. Like the fishes who listened to St. Anthony's
sermon,
"Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way."
Still, they were ready enough to visit the hut of the
missionaries, and examine their marvels of ingenuity and skill,
the fame of which had gone abroad throughout the whole Huron
nation. They would sit on the ground by the hour, watching the
clock and waiting for it to strike. They thought it was alive,
and dignified it with the title of "Captain." "What does the
Captain say?" they would often ask.
"When he strikes twelve times," the Jesuits answered, "he says,
'Hang on the kettle;' and when he strikes four times he says,
'Get up and go home.'"
So at noon visitors were never wanting to share the Captain's
hospitality; but at the stroke of four they all departed, and the
missionaries gathered round the fire and discussed the
intricacies of the Huron language. Among the other wonders of the
lodge there was a hand-mill which the savages were never tired of
turning. A magnet proved a great puzzle to them; and there was a
magnifying-glass which transformed a flea into a frightful
monster, and, we may suppose, filled them with alarm.
{199}
They conceived an overpowering respect for the wisdom and
supernatural powers of the black-gowns, and had for them also,
upon the whole, a genuine good will; but there were moments when
their influence, and even their safety, were endangered by the
violence of the Indian superstitions. Once in a season of drought
a "rain-maker" persuaded the Hurons that the red color of the
cross which stood before the Jesuits' dwelling frightened away
the bird of thunder. It was about to be cut down. The priests
begged them to paint it white, and see if the thunder would come.
It was done, but rain still kept aloof.
"Your spirits cannot help you," said the fathers; "ask the aid of
him who made the world, and perhaps he will hear your prayers."
The Indians were induced to promise obedience to the true God.
Nine masses were offered in honor of St. Joseph, and every day
there were solemn processions and prayers. In a few days there
were heavy falls of rain, and the Hurons conceived an exalted
idea of the power of French "medicine." But alas for their
promises! They were soon forgotten.
In the autumn and winter of 1636, the Huron towns were swept by a
contagious fever, accompanied by the small-pox. Three of the
Jesuits--Jogues, Garnier, and Chatelain--were seized with the
fever, but the protection of Providence raised them up for the
relief of their poor red-skinned brethren. In the depth of winter
the missionaries went from village to village, visiting every
hut, tending the sick, bringing them such few delicacies as their
scanty stores afforded, and pressing their religious instructions
at every available occasion. But it was hard to make an
impression on the stolid hearts of the savages. They comprehended
the pains and fires of hell, but they could not understand the
happiness of heaven. They had no wish to go after death to a
place where there would be neither war nor hunting, and where,
they feared, the French would give them nothing to eat. Nor, when
the Huron had at last been persuaded that heaven was good for
Indians as well as Frenchmen, was it easy to produce in him the
proper dispositions for baptism. He felt no contrition, for he
believed that he had never committed sin. "Why did you baptize
that Iroquois?" asked a dying neophyte; "he will get to heaven
before us, and when he sees us coming he will drive us out." This
was disheartening; but once for a few days there was a gleam of
consolation. The whole village of Ossossané resolved to embrace
the faith of the black-robes, to give up their superstitions, and
to reform their manners. One of their principal sorcerers
proclaimed in a loud voice, through the streets of the town, that
the God of the French was henceforth their Master. Nine days
afterward a noted sorcerer came to Ossossané, and the Indians
held a grand medicine feast, hoping to secure the aid of God and
the devil at once. The superstitious rites were all renewed; the
nights grew hideous with yells of incantation, and magic figures
to drive away the demon of pestilence were put up on every house.
The danger to the missionaries now became imminent. When they
left their hut in the morning, it was with a well-grounded doubt
whether they should ever return. The sacrament of baptism, which
it was a part of their daily labor to administer to dying
children, came to be looked upon as a pestiferous charm.
{200}
They could only give it by stealth, sometimes letting fall a drop
from a spoonful of sugared water, with which they pretended to
cool the patient's parched lips, or else touching the skin with a
moist finger or the corner of a wet handkerchief. The mysterious
black-robed magicians were now regarded as the cause of the
pestilence; and had it not been for the awe in which they were
held by the savages, their lives would quickly have been at an
end. As it was, they were everywhere repulsed and insulted.
Children pelted them from behind huts, friends looked at them
askance, and the more violent of their enemies clamored for their
death. The picture of the last judgment which hung in their
chapel was taken to be a charm of direful power. The litanies
which they chanted together were incantations pregnant with
plague and famine. The clock was a malignant demon, and the poor
"Captain" had to be stopped. In August, 1637, a great council of
the Hurons, including deputations from four nations, was held to
deliberate upon the affairs of the confederation. The chief,
whose office it was to preside over the feast of the dead, arose,
and in a set speech accused the Jesuits of being the cause of the
calamities that afflicted them. One accuser followed another,
Brébeuf replying to their charges with ingenuity and boldness.
The debate continued through the night. Many of the Indians fell
asleep, and others went away. One old chief as he passed out said
to Brébeuf, "If some young man should split your head open, we
should have nothing to say." "What sort of men are these?" cried
out another impatiently, as the Jesuit went on with his harangue;
"they are always saying the same thing, and repeating the same
words a hundred times." Another council was called to pronounce
the sentence of death. The priests appeared before it with such
unflinching courage that their judges, struck with admiration,
deferred the decree. Still it seemed as if their fate could not
be long deferred. They wrote a farewell letter to their superior,
Father Le Jeune, and committed to the care of an Indian convert
the most precious properties of the mission, the sacred furniture
of the altar, and the vocabulary which they had compiled of the
Huron language. Then they gave a parting feast, after the Indian
custom of those who were about to die. The intrepidity manifested
by this proceeding was not without its effect. The animosity of
the savages became less intense, and though the persecution
continued, and the lives of individual members of the little band
were more than once attempted, the project of a massacre was for
the present abandoned.
By the end of the year 1638, the mission had seven priests who
spoke Huron, and three more who were learning it. There were
about sixty converts, and at Ossossané a commodious chapel of
wood had been built by the labor of artisans sent for the purpose
from Quebec. The original intention of the Jesuits was to form
permanent missions in each of the principal Huron towns. This,
however, proved impracticable, and a spot was chosen on the
little river Wye, near Matchedash Bay of Lake Huron, for a great
central station, to which they gave the name of Sainte Marie. The
Huron towns were now apportioned into districts, and a certain
number of priests assigned to each. Father Garnier and Father
Jogues made an ineffectual attempt to establish a mission among
the Tobacco nation, two days' journey to the south-west.
{201}
But their evil reputation had preceded them. The children cried
out, when they saw them approach, that famine and pest were
coming. Every door was closed against them; and when in despair
they left the town, a band of young braves followed them, hatchet
in hand, to put them to death. Under cover of the darkness they
made their escape, and Father Jogues, with Father Raymbault,
afterward passed around the northern shore of Lake Huron, and
preached the faith among the Ojibwas, as far as Sault Sainte
Marie, at the outlet of Lake Superior. In the mean time Brébeuf
and Chaumonot went on a mission to the powerful and ferocious
Neutral nation which inhabited the country between lakes Erie and
Ontario, on both sides of the Niagara river. They visited
eighteen of the Neutral towns. In all they were received with a
storm of insults, blows, and maledictions. The Hurons had been
afraid to kill them, dreading the vengeance of the French at
Quebec; but they had sent secret emissaries to incite the
Neutrals against them, and had promised nine French hatchets to
the tribe which should be their executioners. Brébeuf was the
object of their special hatred. This glorious man, whom Parkman
calls the truest hero and the greatest martyr of the Huron
mission, was feared with an intensity which none of his
companions inspired. But in the midst of his persecutions God
consoled him with heavenly favors. Celestial visions comforted
him in his toilsome journeys through the forest. He saw the image
of a vast and gorgeous palace, and a voice assured him that such
was to be the reward of those who dwell in hovels for the cause
of God. Angels appeared to him, and more than once the Blessed
Virgin and his dear patron, St. Joseph, were revealed to his
sight. Now, when the Neutral nation shut him out of their lodges,
half famished and nearly frozen, the apparition of a great
cross--"large enough," he said to his brethren, "to crucify us
all"--came slowly up from the country of the Iroquois. It seems
like a warning of the glorious fate which awaited him, and to
those heroic souls who longed for martyrdom as the bright crown
of their labor, we cannot doubt that it was also a sweet
consolation.
The day of persecution, however, was only dawning. The sufferings
of the past few years were as nothing in comparison with the
torments that were to follow. In the summer of 1642, the mission
had been reduced to great destitution, and Father Jogues was sent
to Quebec to obtain clothing, writing materials, wine for the
altar, and other necessary stores. He returned with the annual
fleet of Huron canoes, having with him two young French laymen,
René Goupil and Guillaume Couture, who had attached themselves
without pay to the mission, and a few Indian converts. They were
passing the Lake of St. Peter, in the St. Lawrence river, when
they were suddenly attacked by a war-party of Mohawks. The
greater part of the Hurons leaped ashore and took to the woods.
The French and their converts made fight for a while, but were
soon overpowered. Father Jogues sprang into a clump of bulrushes
and might have escaped, but, seeing Goupil in the hands of the
savages, he came forward, resolved to share his fate. Couture,
too, got away, but came back to join his companions. In his
excitement he shot dead one of a band of Mohawks who sprang upon
him. The others rushed upon him, tore away his finger-nails with
their teeth, gnawed at his fingers like wild beasts, and thrust a
sword through one of his hands.
{202}
The Jesuit threw his arms about his friend's neck, but the
Indians dragged him away, beat him till he was senseless, and
when he revived lacerated his fingers as they had done those of
Couture. Goupil was then treated in the same manner. They set off
with their prisoners for the Mohawk towns, rowing across Lake
Champlain and Lake George. Thirteen days of horrible suffering
were passed on the journey. At last they reached a palisaded
village, built upon a hill on the banks of the Mohawk river. At
the entrance the prisoners were forced to run the gauntlet. Then
they were placed on a high platform, disfigured, livid, and
streaming with blood, and the crowd proceeded to "caress" them. A
Christian Algonquin woman, a prisoner among them, was compelled
to cut off the priest's left thumb with a clam-shell. Goupil was
mutilated in the same manner. The torture lasted all day. At
night the captives were stretched on their backs with limbs
extended, and their wrists and ankles fastened to stakes. The
children now amused themselves by placing live coals on their
naked bodies. For three days more they were exposed on the
scaffold; then they were led to two other Mohawk towns in turn,
and at each the tortures were repeated. Once some Huron prisoners
were placed on the same platform with them, and Father Jogues
found an opportunity to convert them in the midst of the torture,
and to baptize them with a few rain-drops from an ear of corn
that had been thrown to him for food. Couture, having won the
respect of the savages by his intrepid bearing, was adopted into
one of their families, and gained in time great influence over
them. Goupil was one day detected making the sign of the cross on
the forehead of a child, and for this was killed by a blow from a
hatchet, falling at the feet of Father Jogues, who gave him
absolution before he expired. The priest himself, warned every
hour that his death was near, and hated by his captors, who
thought he brought bad luck to their hunting parties, was dragged
around from place to place, now following the hunters through the
forest, now laboring in the villages to convert the old men and
squaws, or baptize dying children. He brought firewood for his
masters, did their bidding without a murmur, was silent under
their abuse; but, when they reviled his faith, he rose with a
majestic air, and rebuked them as one having authority.
He had been nearly a year in slavery when the Indians took him
with them on a trading visit to the Dutch at Fort Orange,
(Albany.) We can imagine how his heart must have beat at the
sight of a white face after his long banishment but he had no
thought of turning back after his hand had once been put to the
plough, and no plans of escape entered his mind. While here,
however, he learned that the Indians of the village had at last
resolved to kill him as soon as he returned. He had found means
to warn the French at Three Rivers of intended treachery on the
part of some Mohawk visitors, and the savages had determined to
be revenged. To trust himself longer in their hands would not be
heroism, but foolhardiness. A Dutch settler named Van Curler
offered him a passage, in a little vessel then lying in the
Hudson, either to Bordeaux or Rochelle. The Jesuit spent a night
in prayer, and then resolved to accept the proposal. With the
assistance of his Dutch friends, and after several narrow escapes
from detection, he got away from his savage masters by night,
rowed to the vessel in a boat which the settlers left for his use
on the shore, and was kindly received by the sailors and stowed
away in the hold.
{203}
There he remained half-stifled for two days and a half, while the
enraged Mohawks ransacked the settlement and searched the vessel.
For better security until the day of sailing, he was then
concealed in the garret of a house on shore, where his host stole
the provisions that the kind-hearted Dutchmen sent for his use.
The Dutch dominie, Megapolensis, visited him here, and did all he
could for his comfort. At last, an order came from Manhattan that
he should be sent down to the Director-General Kieft, who
exchanged his squalid Indian dress for a suit of Dutch cloth, and
gave him passage in a small vessel to Falmouth. After various
adventures, having fallen into the hands of robbers in the
English port, and made his way to France in a coal-vessel, he
presented himself, on the morning of the 5th of January, 1644,
clad in tatters, at the door of the Jesuit college in Rennes. He
asked for the father rector, but was told that he was busy and
could not be seen. "Tell him, if you please," said Father Jogues,
"that a man from Canada would speak a few words with him." The
Canada mission was an object of deep interest at this time all
through the society, and the father rector, though he was about
vesting for mass, ordered the man to be admitted. He asked many
questions about the affairs of Canada, and at last inquired if
the stranger knew Father Jogues.
"I know him very well," was the reply.
"The Iroquois have taken him," continued the reverend Superior.
"Is he dead?"
"No," answered the missionary, "he is alive and at liberty. I am
he." Then he fell on his knees and asked the rector's blessing.
His arrival was celebrated, as we might well suppose, with great
rejoicing. He was summoned to Paris, where the queen kissed his
mutilated hands and the whole court strove to honor him. The
blandishments of the great, however, gave no pleasure to this
scarred veteran of Christ's army. He longed to be again in the
field, and in two or three months he sailed once more for Canada.
In the mean time the missions had fared ill. Violent warfare
raged between the Iroquois confederation (of which the Mohawks
formed a part) and the Hurons and Algonquins. In one respect and
for a short time this was of some benefit to the faith, for the
Algonquins, threatened with destruction by their more powerful
enemies, became docile, and listened more readily to the
exhortations of the French priests. Yet they were rapidly
approaching extermination. Whole villages were destroyed in the
periodical incursions of the Iroquois. The neophytes were
massacred. The missionaries were intercepted on their journeys.
Father Joseph Bressani was captured on his way to the Huron
country in the spring of 1644. One of his Indian companions was
roasted and eaten before his eyes. The father himself was beaten
with sticks until he was covered with blood. His hands were
fearfully mutilated. His fingers were slit; one day a nail would
be burned off; the next, a joint. He was made to walk on hot
cinders. He was given up to the children to be tortured. He was
hanged by the feet with chains. He was tied to the ground, and
food was placed upon his naked body that the dogs might lacerate
him as they ate. Ten weeks afterward he wrote to the
father-general at Rome: "I do not know if your paternity will
recognize the handwriting of one whom you once knew very well.
{204}
The letter is soiled and ill-written; because the writer has only
one finger of his right hand left entire, and cannot prevent the
blood from his wounds, which are still open, from staining the
paper. His ink is gunpowder mixed with water, and his table is
the earth." He survived and was carried to Fort Orange, where the
Dutch ransomed him and sent him back to France. The next spring
he too returned and succeeded in reaching the Hurons. Father de
Nouë, whom we have mentioned as one of the first companions of Le
Jeune, perished in the snow in February, 1646, on the way from
Quebec to a French port at the mouth of the river Richelieu,
where he was to hear confessions. A peace had indeed been
concluded with the Mohawks just before Jogues' return, but a
peace with them could be no better than a precarious truce.
Couture, who had been with Father Jogues in his captivity, and
become a person of consideration with the tribe, had rendered
good service in the negotiation, and would continue to serve his
countrymen to the utmost of his power; yet it was felt that to
keep the Indians to their engagements an agent of still higher
personal character was required, and Father Jogues was assigned
to the duty. "I shall go," he wrote to a friend, "but I shall not
return."
His mission was partly political, but mainly, of course,
religious. By the advice of an Algonquin convert, he exchanged
his cassock for a civilian's doublet, not wishing to irritate the
savages by a premature declaration of his heavenly message. He
held a council with the head men of the Mohawks, presented the
gifts of the Canadian government, and then set about founding a
new mission, to be called the Mission of the Martyrs. There were
three principal clans among the Mohawks--those of the Bear, the
Tortoise, and the Wolf. The first were bitter foes of the French,
and eager for war; the others stood out resolutely for peace.
Many were the fierce debates around their council-fires whether
the missionary should be killed or not. At last, one day, a band
of warriors of the Bear clan met the priest and a young lay
companion of his, named Lalande, in the woods, stripped them, and
led them in triumph to the town. There they were beaten with
sticks, and strips of flesh were cut from Father Jogues' back and
arms. In the evening, the priest was sitting in one of the
lodges, when an Indian entered and invited him to a feast. To
refuse would have been an insult. He arose and followed the
messenger to the cabin of the chief of the Bears. As he bent his
head to enter, a savage, concealed within, clove his skull with a
hatchet, the weapon cutting through the arm of an Indian who
tried to avert the blow. The martyr sank at the feet of his
murderer. His head was instantly cut off, and stuck upon the
palisade which enclosed the town, and his body was thrown into
the river. The next day Lalande was killed, and his remains
received the same treatment.
The murder of Father Jogues was the signal for a reopening of the
war with the colonists and their allies, and among the first
victims were the Algonquin converts. We have no space to relate
the story of the surprise of their villages, the shocking torture
of the captives, or the massacre of the children, the old, and
the infirm. But some of the prisoners escaped, and the adventures
of one of them were so interesting that we cannot resist the
temptation to copy them from the animated narrative of Parkman.
{205}
This was an Algonquin woman named Marie, whose husband had been
burned with other captives. One night, while the savages were
dancing and shrieking round the flames in which one of her
countrymen was being consumed, she stole away into the forest.
The ground was covered with snow, so, lest her footsteps should
betray her, she retraced the beaten path in which the Indians had
already travelled until she came near a village of the Onondagas.
There she hid herself in a thicket, and at night crept forth to
grope in the snow for a few grains of corn left from the last
year's harvest. She saw many Indians from her lurking-place, and
once a tall savage with an axe came directly toward her, but she
murmured a prayer and he turned away. Certain of death if
discovered, and disheartened at the prospect of the long and
terrible journey through the frozen wilderness to Canada, she
tried to commit suicide by hanging herself with her girdle, but
it broke twice, and she plucked up heart. With no clothing but a
thin tunic, she travelled on, directing her course by the sun,
and living upon roots and the inner bark of trees, and now and
then catching tortoises in the brooks. At night she kindled a
fire by the friction of two sticks in some deep nook of the
forest, warmed herself, cooked her food, if she had any, and said
her rosary. Once she discovered a party of Iroquois warriors, but
she lay concealed and they passed without observing her.
Following their trail, she found their bark canoe by the bank of
a river. It was too large for her to manage alone, but with a
hatchet which she had picked up in a deserted camp she reduced it
to a convenient size, and floated down the stream to the St.
Lawrence. Her journey was now much easier. There were eggs of
wild fowl to be found along the shore, and fish in the river,
which she speared with a sharp pole. She even killed deer by
driving them into the water, chasing them in her canoe, and
striking them on the head with her hatchet. At the end of two
months she reached Montreal, after hardships which no woman but
an Indian could have supported.
The central mission of Sainte Marie was meanwhile in the flush of
prosperity. The buildings included a church, a kitchen, a
refectory, large rooms for spiritual instruction and the
exercises of retreat, and lodgings for at least sixty persons.
Around these principal houses ran a fortified line of palisades
and masonry, outside which was a hospital and a large bark hut
for the reception of wandering Indians. Here every alternate week
the converts from all the Huron villages gathered in immense
crowds to attend divine service, celebrated with all the pomp
which the resources of the mission allowed, and to partake for
three days of the bounteous hospitality of the good fathers. In
times of pestilence and famine they flocked hither for relief,
and at one time, in a year of scarcity, as many as three thousand
received food and shelter at Sainte Marie. Hither, also, two or
three times every year, the Jesuits--now twenty-two in number,
including four lay-brothers--came together from their outlying
missions, to refresh their souls by mutual counsel, and gather
strength in prayer and meditation for the work of the next twelve
months. To assist in the manual labor of the establishment there
were seven hired men and four boys, and as a defence against the
dreaded Iroquois the commandant of Quebec had sent them a guard
of eight soldiers.
{206}
They received also much valuable help from the _donnés_, or
"given men"--French laymen, who from pure zeal devoted themselves
to the service of the mission, travelling with the fathers on
their dangerous journeys, and sometimes sharing--like Goupil,
called "the good Réné"--in the glories of their martyrdom. These
pious men--"seculars in garb," Father Gamier called them, "but
religious in heart"--received no pay except a bare maintenance.
There were eleven smaller missions dependent upon Sainte Marie,
eight among the Hurons and three among the Algonquins. At several
of them there was a church where every morning a bell summoned
the dusky converts to Mass, and every evening they met again for
prayer. Despite the enormous difficulties of transportation
through that tangled wilderness, the fathers had found means to
carry with them from place to place large colored pictures, gay
draperies, and many a showy ornament for the altar or the walls,
which they well knew would invest their rude chapels with an
almost irresistible attraction for the savage mind. In many
villages the Christians, by the year 1649, outnumbered the
pagans. Sundays and feast-days were almost wholly devoted to
religious exercises; and if the Indians had not wholly abandoned
their barbarous and cruel practices, it is certain that the
ferocity even of those who refused to become Christians was
sensibly tamed.
But the season of good fortune which followed the martyrdom of
Goupil and Jogues was destined to be but short. The increasing
hostility of the Iroquois was to be the destruction at once of
the Huron nation and of the high hopes which had been built upon
that people. Yet it may be questioned whether the Jesuits would
have long been left at peace even had these terrible foes kept
within the range of their own villages. Even among the Hurons the
murmurs of suspicion and dislike had begun to be heard again. The
French ceremony of "prayer," said the savages, had blighted the
crops, and the mystic rites of the priests had brought famine and
desolation upon the nation. There was even a story, widely
believed in the Huron lodges, that an Indian girl, baptized
before her death, had been to the French heaven, and, after
suffering horrible torments there from the pale faces, had made
her escape back to earth to deter her countrymen from rushing to
the same fate. A young Frenchman in the service of the mission
had been treacherously murdered; and though the missionaries by a
wise show of resolution had compelled the nation to make
satisfaction for the outrage by the ceremonious offering of
numerous strings of wampum, and had thus restored their waning
influence, it was clear that their position at the best was
extremely precarious, and that persecution, if it came not from
abroad, would pretty surely be commenced at home. The
catastrophe, therefore, when it came, found the priests not
unprepared. For years they had carried their lives in their
hands, ready to cast them down at any moment. For years they had
walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and in the
midst of the dark river and in the bitter waters they knew that
the almighty Arm was stretched forth to hold them up.
The final act opened at the village of Teanaustayé, or St.
Joseph, on the south-eastern frontier of the Huron country.
{207}
On the 4th of July, 1648, Father Daniel, fresh from his annual
retreat at Sainte Marie, had just finished Mass, and his
congregation were still kneeling in the church, when the Iroquois
burst upon the town and attacked the palisade which surrounded
it. The priest, after rallying the warriors to defend their
homes, ran from house to house urging unbelievers to repent. A
panic-stricken crowd fell at his knees and declared themselves
Christians, and he baptized them with water sprinkled from a wet
handkerchief, for there was no time to do more. When the palisade
was broken down, he showed his flock how to escape at the other
end of the town. "I will stay here," said he. "We shall meet
again in heaven." He would not fly while there was a soul to be
saved in the village. In his priestly vestments he went out to
the church-door to meet the Iroquois. For a moment they paused in
amazement. Then, pierced with scores of arrows and a musket-ball
through the heart, he fell, gasping the name of Jesus. The
savages hacked his lifeless body, bathed their faces in his blood
to make them brave, and consumed in one great conflagration the
village, the church, and the sacred remains.
The following March the missions of St. Louis and St. Ignace were
burned by the same terrible enemy. At the latter were two of the
Jesuits; Brébeuf, sturdy offspring of a warrior race, with all
the soldierly characteristics of his Norman ancestors; and
Lalemant, delicate in body and in spirit, yet in the glorious
cause no whit less courageous and resolute than his stronger
companion. They were seized by their captors, and Brébeuf was
bound to a stake, and, as he ceased not to exhort and encourage
the convert prisoners, the Iroquois scorched him from head to
foot to silence him. That failing, they cut away his lower lip,
and thrust a red-hot iron down his throat, yet still he held
himself erect without uttering a groan. Lalemant, led out to be
burned, with strips of bark smeared with pitch tied about his
naked body, broke loose from his guards and cast himself at the
hero's feet, crying out in a broken voice: "We are made a
spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men." He was
immediately seized and made fast to a post, and as the flames
enveloped him he threw up his arms to heaven with a shriek of
agony. Brébeuf, with a collar of red-hot hatchets round his neck
and with his hands and nose cut off, had to witness the tortures
of his friend and could not even utter a word of comfort. An
apostate Indian in the crowd cried out, "Baptize them! baptize
them!" Instantly kettles were placed upon the fire, the priests'
scalps were torn away, and scalding water was poured slowly over
their bleeding heads. Brébeuf's feet were next cut off, strips of
flesh were sliced from his limbs and eaten before his eyes, and
at last, when life was nearly extinct, the savages laid open his
breast, tore out his heart and devoured it, and thronged around
the mangled corpse to drink the blood of so magnificent and
indomitable a hero. His torments had lasted four hours. Father
Lalemant, though a man of extreme feebleness of constitution,
survived the torture seventeen hours, writhing through the night
in the most excruciating sufferings, until an Iroquois, surfeited
with the long entertainment, killed him with a hatchet.
This massacre was the death-knell of the Huron mission--of the
mission, that is to say, in the form and extent in which the
society had originally designed it.
{208}
Other villages were burned; two other missionaries, Gamier and
Chabanel, were martyred; the entire establishment was withdrawn
from Sainte Marie; and the miserable remnant of the Hurons was
scattered far and wide. A portion of them, after a winter of
starvation, embarked with the surviving missionaries for Quebec,
and near that city founded a settlement, in which the Christian
faith was preserved and is cherished to this day. Others
voluntarily abandoned their nationality and were adopted into the
Seneca tribe of the Iroquois, where eighteen years afterward many
of them were found to be still good Catholics.
The story which we have briefly traced in its most striking
outlines is but one chapter in the long history of the labors,
the sufferings, and the glorious achievements of the Jesuits in
North America. We would gladly have followed them further in
their journeys through the wilderness, traced them with a Huron
remnant in the far west, and lingered for a while about their
headquarters at Quebec watching the growth of the central
establishment which sent forth its apostles to the great lakes on
the one hand, and through the forests of Maine to the sea-coast
on the other. But we must bring our story to a close. The record
of their work has been well preserved in the three books whose
titles we have placed at the head of this article. The history by
Mr. John G. Shea, to whom Catholics in general and American
Catholics especially are under the deepest obligations for his
careful and successful researches, is the fullest and, we doubt
not, the most correct. The narrative of Mr. Parkman, which we
have followed closely, giving in some parts of our article merely
an abstract of what he has told in picturesque detail, is written
in a charming style, and is valuable as testimony to the exalted
character of the missionaries from one who has no sympathy with
their faith and is unable to appreciate their piety.
The Iroquois, in destroying the Huron nation, and with it the
Algonquins, to whom the Hurons had hitherto served as a bulwark,
had destroyed the Jesuit scheme of a Christian Indian empire; but
the labor of the missionaries had not been in vain. The seed
which they had planted was not allowed to die. The exiles carried
the sacred deposit of faith with them in their wanderings, as the
Israelites in the wilderness bore the ark of the covenant. Years
afterward, when Father Grelon, one of those who escaped from the
Iroquois massacre, was travelling in the heart of Tartary, he met
a Huron woman who had learned the truth from him in the little
chapel at Sainte Marie, and after the final catastrophe had been
sold from tribe to tribe until she reached the interior of Asia.
She knelt at his feet, and in her native tongue, which she had
not spoken nor the priest heard for years, she made her
confession. Nor was it only in the fidelity of individuals that
the missionaries reaped their harvest. When, after the ruin of
their enterprise on the shores of the Georgian Bay, they sent
their undaunted preachers among that terrible people who had
wrought such havoc, how can we doubt that the blood of Brébeuf
and his brethren was permitted to fructify their labors, and that
the saintly men who gave their sufferings for the poor savage
during so many years pleaded and prevailed in the same great
cause after they had entered into their reward?
------
{209}
Translated from Le Correspondant.
Learned Women and Studious Women.
By Monseigneur Dupanloup.
(Concluded.)
VII.
Advantages of Intellectual Labor.
I do not recommend self-culture merely for the personal
satisfaction of women, or in order that they may have mental
gratification. Study is evidently useful and important for the
accomplishment of important duties. Is it not a convenience, in
se a teacher or governess, for one's daughters to understand what
is called _le fond du métier_ better than they do, so that
one may superintend and direct them, and even if necessary,
supply their place? Should a mother give her children life and
then leave the duties of maternity in the hands of mercenaries,
no matter how conscientious and devoted they may be?
But it is in relation to sons that maternal ignorance has the
most fatal results. Not only is a wife not consulted about her
boys, but, if she makes any objection to an irreligious school,
the husband answers: "I wish my son to have a career. I shall
place him where he will be prepared for it. You do not know even
the names of the sciences he must acquire--leave the direction of
his education to me." And when the little individual leaves
school, puffed up with conceit rather than with knowledge, and
the mother's Christian heart shows her the sophistry with which
her son's mind has been filled, she must keep silence for want of
one single fact, one precise _datum_ in her memory to oppose
to perilous errors.
Often a father, engaged in some especial career, loses sight of
the literary or artistic movement which interests his son in
early manhood. Then is the time when an intelligent,
well-informed mother could initiate him in pursuits which she has
loved and cultivated all her life. She could point out to him
good authors and books worth reading, read with him, teach him to
reject dangerous writers and bad books, and stimulate his taste
for study, by directing it to noble objects.
Surely a mother is bound to cherish the body and the soul of her
child. Indeed, her place may be more easily filled with respect
to the details of physical education, than to those of
intellectual and moral training. Many persons can assist her in
the former; with regard to the latter, she often stands alone,
and sometimes surrounded by obstacles.
To follow a young man's mental development and course of study,
to watch over him and guide him with the authority belonging to a
rectitude of judgment which carries conviction along with it, and
to an enlightened understanding which unites with goodness in
inspiring admiration and confidence--all this presupposes a rare
combination of mental qualities.
{210}
How many mothers there are who lose their hold upon a son's soul
because they have not borne, nursed, reared, and nourished his
understanding as well as his physical being. To be a mother, a
mother in all the elevation, extent, and depth of that great
name! This aim alone justifies a woman's noblest efforts to
acquire the highest intellectual culture.
But if you agree to favor the men development of women, for the
sake even of domestic usefulness, accept this development in its
completeness; do not impose upon it arbitrary limits. There are
minds that cannot unfold in mutilation or inaction, which need
expansion, as St. Augustine says, to become strong.
A woman who, from a sentiment for art or literature, has
developed talent, does not lose, by becoming skilful, the
advantages that mediocre faculties would have given her. We may
feel sure that gifts of this nature answer to duties, and find
themselves in harmony with the providential destiny of their
possessors.
I do not believe, with M. de Maistre, that science in petticoats,
as he calls it, or talent of any description whatsoever, makes a
woman less excellent as a wife or mother.
Study renders a wife worthy of her husband if he is intelligent.
Union can hardly be preserved in a household unless community of
intellect completes that of affection. As a woman loses her
youthful charms, the worth of her mind must increase in her
husband's eyes, and esteem perpetuate affection. By that time the
husband, if he has ability, is entering upon the period of his
greatest activity, while too often the wife, brought up in the
severest principles and in habits of empty occupations, bores him
with her mechanical piety, her music, and her worsted work. A
crowd of engrossing duties gain ever stronger possession of the
husband, forming a circle which the unoccupied wife cannot
penetrate, and thus is brought about between them what one may
call a _mental separation_.
On the other hand, a studious woman shares her husband's
preoccupation, and sustains him in his labors and struggles. She
follows her husband and precedes her son, occupying in the home
circle a lofty position that makes her an aid and adviser to its
master. She feels that he is proud of her, and needs her, but
this does not make her presumptuous. She leans securely on her
happiness, feeling confident that nothing can shake a union
formed upon a principle of perfect community of two souls and two
intelligences, feeling sure that her love will last as long as
the souls it unites. To a woman who is superior to her husband,
study gives an intellectual aliment without which she would feel
rebellious, and in such a household there may be great happiness
and tranquillity. Even in the case of a husband who is unworthy
of his wife, he is forced to respect her for the superiority of
her intellect. The standing which she earns for herself in the
world by her talent and virtue, wins his regard, and she at least
holds the honor of her family in her own hands.
Woman, in becoming Christian, has become man's companion,
_socia_, and moreover an aid, assistant, support, and
adviser, _adjutorium_. Religion, while elevating her soul
and heart, has also rendered her mind capable of comprehending,
sometimes of equalling, but most especially of assisting the
intelligence of man. While leaving her physically weak, God has
implanted in her the germs of every greatness and every moral
power.
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There has never been a noble work in which women have not
assisted; as the teachers of men, as their inspirers, and often
as the companions of their labor, the world has seen women devote
intellect and life to those whom they loved, dwelling on a level
with thoughts which, being confided first to them, had drawn a
swift and strong development from the double influence. Woman
owes to education the union of her intellectual life to that of
man. She has worked for him, she has worked like him for God, and
man has drawn a subtile growth from the frail creature entrusted
to his protection.
I know nothing more generous than an intimacy that does not stop
at a conjugal union of interests or even of affections, but
passes on to the domain of thought. I have seen such unions. I
know too more than one father, who, notwithstanding his rare
intelligence, must have left the work of a lifetime unfinished
but for the aid of a mind placed at the service of his age and
infirmity by filial devotion.
I believe that a woman's acquirements help her to fulfil great
duties toward her husband, and I know many men (no offence to M.
de Maistre) who could get along better with a _savante_ than
with a coquette.
So far I have spoken of domestic life. Let us now examine the
question with regard to society, taking the following theses to
argue.
I maintain that, if the world were more indulgent and refrained
from launching stupid anathemas at studious women, those who have
such tastes would indulge them without fancying themselves to be
extraordinary persons; and that they would infuse a certain life
into society, even if their number were limited. Perhaps the
standard of conversation, occupations, and ideas would rise, and
elevated subjects inspire more interest. Who would complain of
such a change?
Instead of ending their education on a certain fixed day, and
throwing themselves heart and soul into society, young women
would preserve the habits of intellectual training; they would
carry on and complete for themselves, their husband and their
children the education already commenced; some cultivating art,
others writing or studying, others reading. Thus they would
become acquainted with the interests of religion and society;
with opinions and books and ideas in general circulation. Would
they not exercise a new and salutary influence at home and in the
world?
But it is especially in the provinces that such aspirations are
severely criticised. Those women have small liberty to learn, and
still less to make use of their acquirements. The most tolerant
say, "Study on condition that you conceal what you learn. Your
whole inner life claims expansion and sympathy? Never mind that!"
But if you forbid women to write or speak of the things that
interest them, how can you suppose they will have the courage to
work for the acquirement of knowledge that is to be buried for
ever in their own minds?
And I repeat, if the standard of conversation could be raised a
little, drawn out of the monotonous circle in which it moves,
where would be the harm? Instead of seeking in society a sterile
distraction, and often finding _ennui_, if some intercourse
of mind at least, if not of heart and soul, could be established,
replacing town-gossip and dissertations on the fashions by
interesting and instructive conversations from which one could
derive the advantage that always results from effort made in
common to arrive at an appreciation of the beautiful, and of
noble ideas and interests, would not the change betoken genuine
progress?
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This is to be found in some _salons_. There are homes where
young girls are not excluded from general conversation. They are
not, as elsewhere, banished to a corner of the drawing-room to
enjoy the privilege and habit of discussing together every sort
of nonsense, but are allowed to listen to anything that interests
them, and even to talk agreeably without being thought
conspicuous. This was the habit at M.----'s, where his two
daughters joined the most serious _réunions_, mingling in
very interesting conversations, or at least listening, and all
quite naturally, without pretension or pedantry. Those two young
girls have become very superior women. How many, on the other
hand, suffer from _ennui_ or become deteriorated, because
their active minds receive no nourishment!
Is it then so difficult to prove that the intellectual
development of women through literature and the fine arts, far
from introducing a foreign element into their lives, or creating
necessities and interfering with duty, is, on the contrary, a
source of daily advantage to domestic life and to society?
In the domestic circle, whose moral atmosphere they create as it
were, elevating or debasing by their influence, sentiments,
occupations, and ideas; and in society, where a well-directed
employment of their talents and cultivation would substitute
solidity for the hollow frivolity of the reunions of the present
day. "For three years I have seen society in the provinces,"
writes to me a young woman. "It differs little from that of other
(provincial) places, I suppose. Ah me! sometimes at the end of
the day I sum up six or seven hours spent, with or against my
will, in gossip about my neighbors that, while compromising
charity, has exhausted the mind and narrowed the already narrow
horizon."
Is there no middle course for women between the folly of
dangerous and frivolous amusements, such as balls and theatres,
and the insupportable bore of parties where long evening hours
are spent in the smallest of small talk? Efforts in a different
direction meet with success. Last winter, an intelligent and
religious woman, who likes society but does not dance, tried the
experiment in a provincial town. She conceived the idea of having
really good music in her drawing-room. Quartettes of Mozart and
Beethoven were played. The admiration aroused by these
_chef-d'oeuvres_ naturally lifted the mind above the level
of those common preoccupations that find their echo in society.
Conversation felt the influence; every one was delighted, and
brought away something from these _soirées_, where the sense
of beauty, while reasserting itself, awoke good thoughts and
strengthened noble sentiments.
I think that, if women took thus the initiative, giving an upward
direction to that craving for recreation which we seek to satisfy
in society; if men found other ways of pleasing women, more
acceptable than insipidity and frivolity; perhaps worthless young
men would feel themselves less masters of the world, and clubs
would be less generally the refuge of gentlemen who find
themselves bored in drawing-rooms.
If we could conquer the terrible prejudice that forbids a woman
to be well educated, to talk of or even appear interested in
serious things, there would be a goodly number who would take a
nobler aim and find pleasure in something better than dress.
Then, an intelligent woman would be no greater exception than one
who plays on the piano, and would not have those temptations to
pride, which are said to assail her in her position of
phenomenon.
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We cannot destroy the world, but we can ameliorate it, by giving
it other attractions than those of idle or intoxicating pleasure.
Would not intellectual progress pave the way for moral progress?
I know _salons_ where, thanks to the dignity and
intelligence of the thoughtful, amiable hostess, great events,
noble ideas, and good works ever find an echo; where solid
conversation stimulates ardor for study, by opening broader
intellectual horizons, and where pure artistic emotions develop a
love of the beautiful. If a little more artistic and intellectual
life were introduced into Christian society, one would not feel
obliged to go to the theatre to catch a few _reflets_, as I
have heard said, even in families where religion was in other
respects quite faithfully practised.
No doubt--and here I sum up the whole matter under discussion--no
doubt, intellectual culture may present three perils, but perils
easily guarded against.
1st. A neglect of practical duties. This danger must be met by
fortifying practical education, by giving young girls habits of
order and of regularity, which double time and assign a place in
life to every duty; and above all, habits of practical and solid
piety, which means nothing else than a courageous fulfilment of
duty.
2d. An exaltation of imagination, leading one to crave
intellectual enjoyments that cannot always be granted.
Here again piety alone can preserve equilibrium. The important
point is, to make education respond to the gifts of God without
overloading or smothering them, for they usually bring with them
counterbalancing perils. Excessive culture is dangerous,
insufficient culture perhaps more so.
3d. Pride. This must be prevented by good sense cultivated in a
Christian manner. It is to be remarked that, if mental culture,
like personal charms, can excite pride, study has at least a
counterpoise. It gives an enlightened seriousness to the mind,
while successes due to beauty and dress cannot but be frivolous
and mischievous.
Pride, I acknowledge, affords a specious plea for the maintenance
of systems restricting feminine education. We would preserve to
them that modesty which is said to be their brightest ornament. I
agree that modesty is not only a virtue, but a great charm; but I
am by no means sure that _ignorance is its best guardian_.
Nay, taken in a certain sense, it is a pagan virtue, that is to
say, a false or very imperfect quality. Give to a woman, as you
would to a man, all the knowledge, capacity, development of which
she is susceptible; give her at the same time Christian humility,
and she will be adorned with a modest simplicity, truer and more
charming than that of the poor Hindoo woman who believes herself
to be an animal, rather superior to the creatures in her
poultry-yard, but very inferior in nature to her husband. This
enlightened humility is a genuine virtue, the mother of many
other virtues, the inspirer of a high degree of perfection. For
humility does not prevent our recognizing the progress we have
made. By opening our eyes to the merits of others, it shows us
our own defects; and if we were to attain the summit of human
ability, it would hold up an ideal superiority that should
stimulate effort without arousing either pride or discouragement.
{214}
We may be sure that a cultivated mind is of all others the best
fitted to a comprehension of duty. It is intelligent humilty,
that is to say, true modesty, which preserves us from pedantry.
Vanity! That is the great danger, it is said. But the reputation
that a woman acquires by literary or artistic talent is not the
rock most to be dreaded. I say again that self-conscious beauty
and worldly triumphs fill the heart with a vanity that has no
corrective in the cause that produced it.
Study and art, by elevating the soul, serve as a counterpoise to
the sentiments of vanity they may excite. I see no such safeguard
in successes won by advantages of another sort.
All is summed up in saying that great gifts bring with them a
danger against which the mind must be fortified in advance by
education. Education must adapt itself to different natures: it
must, while developing the germs planted by God, direct this
development with firmness, averting perils and avoiding mistakes.
It must make the moral development keep pace with the mental;
preserving equilibrium between the ideal and the practical life,
which interfere with each other less than is supposed, and
accordance of which alone constitutes the dignity of existence.
I confess that education is a more difficult and critical affair
when applied to a richly endowed nature; but it is also more
beautiful and consoling.
VIII.
The Third Stage.
I crave pardon of the ladies of the so-called _grand monde_
for a truth, a painful truth intended solely for them.
It is in the fashionable world that studious women are rarely
found, and that they are obliged to hide their worth. Strange
tyranny of fortune! It gives women leisure, and deprives them of
the right to use it for the development of intellect. It is to
you, fashionable women, that industry must be preached. Women
less wealthy do not generally need the exhortation. In modest
careers, where toil is the necessary condition of domestic
well-being, cultivated women are numerous. It is in the homes of
artists, scholars, physicians, lawyers, judges, professors, that
we most frequently find clever and studious women, conversant
with matters of art, possessed of real talent, highly educated,
but nicknamed by no one _femmes savantes_, because they are
the pride and treasure of home, and ensure by their intelligence,
domestic ease and comfort, nay, even a certain delicate luxury
that has nothing to do with riches, and can be purchased only by
feminine taste. The furniture is pretty in form, and gracefully
arranged; engravings recall favorite works of art, and reveal the
tastes and preferences of the household. Flowers, pictures,
books, music, and pretty work, all show the home to be one much
lived in, seldom left, where happiness is to be found. These are
not empty and magnificent establishments whose masters are always
absent, pursuing pleasure with a feverish activity, and flying
from the ennui of their _home_ except when the excitement of
refurnishing it attracts them, only to be driven away again when
the gilded ottomans are all in place. In these _modest_
lodgings on the third story the mother is surrounded by her
children. She brings them up herself. Thank God! she must do so,
and great is her reward. She reigns over her children, and they
understand her merits and sacrifices, and love their mother
tenderly. They soon know the blessing of being born in a rank of
life where mothers cannot afford to pay servants, governesses,
and tutors to usurp their place.
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What a difference there is between the two systems of education!
The sons rank first at college and at school; the daughters
receive superior educations that I would gladly propose as a
model to fashionable young ladies. They wish to equal the mother
who studies with them, directing and following their work with
sympathizing interest. The law of labor weighs more stringently
upon a mother than upon any other creature; the soul of her
children is the field that she must till by the sweat of her
brow; no other persons have received graces to enable them to
take her place, and if the most complete educations are to be
found in modest households such as I have described, it is owing
to maternal industry. How many young people acquire a coarse
taste for horses and dogs from the mercenaries who educate them!
A mother, in teaching her children, inculcates other tastes and
ambitions. Sometimes anxiety takes possession of her soul as she
asks herself whether she can arm their consciences with faith and
honor sufficient to give them courage to bear in their turn a
retired life and never consent to win fortune by a base action.
Then she redoubles her care of their education, knowing it is to
be their only dower, and becomes ever more attentive, virtuous,
courageous, in order to transmit to them her own admirable
dignity of soul, and merit for them this heavenly favor.
And children who see their mother work, are secretly anxious to
comfort and reward her. A desire to do good is more vivid in
these abodes of modest happiness than elsewhere, and the joy of
duty fulfilled makes each one contented with his lot and at peace
with God. The whole day is one of activity; the father is at
work, the mother attends to her household duties or takes the
children to school or to catechism; and when evening comes, every
one is tired with the day's work and glad to stay at home. Then
comes the time for repose, children's games, talking, reading,
music, intimacy, and gayety; and the day closes peaceably without
that worldly bustle and excitement which put to a severe test the
virtue of even the most Christian women.
A mother, thus occupied, never thinks of devoting herself to
matters connected with her personal interests. She has not the
time. Her girlhood, her early womanhood were spent in study. Now
she is given up to the service of others. But this disinterested
devotion, at once toil and sacrifice, is more elevating to both
soul and understanding than any other employment could be. No
danger of vanity or pedantry for her! and yet the instruction of
her children is a great work. One marvels at the physical power
that maternal love can give to a mother bent on carrying out her
duties completely. Never wonder to find her capable, elevated,
active, intelligent, indifferent to idle trifling and worldly
coquetry.
In these modest households again, I find model servants. It is a
saying, nowadays, that there are no good domestics to be had.
People talk of the servants in old times. Read Molière and the
police regulations of the days of Louis XIV., and you will find
that the _grands seigneurs_ had worse attendants than we
have now. Old-fashioned servants have no more disappeared than
old-fashioned virtues. The virtues reign in simple, industrious
homes, and there too we must look for devoted domestics. Do not
expect hard work in the abodes of magnificent idleness. The
servants of the unoccupied soon become unoccupied themselves;
instinctively they imitate from a distance their master's
example, catch the tone of the establishment, and assume
irreproachable manners and lazy habits.
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A servant knows very well when he is assisting in an ostentatious
parade. He is quick to abuse opportunities, and needs often, in
order to avenge himself for the inferiority of his position,
merely imitate his master, even with no intention of ridiculing
him. But a devoted and courageous woman who is the first to take
hold of work, transforms the souls of her domestics and raises
their service to the dignity of devotion. Of course, the
etiquette and perfect discipline that one admires in some
establishments are not to be found here. No! Good servants who
are not held in immeasurable distance from their masters, assume
another sort of livery, the livery of the virtues they see and
study closely. They breathe a healthy, strengthening air, and in
this atmosphere of industry, honesty, and confidence both masters
and servants are happy. Ah! I could mention splendid mansions
that are inhabited by _ennui_, (not to speak of discord,)
and I could tell of the happiness and dignity I have often
witnessed in the third story.
But in justice it must be added that I have not always met these
virtues in the third story, nor _ennui_ and idleness in
grand establishments. There, too, when industry reigns, I have
seen great virtues. It must be said that all depends upon
education and habits.
IX.
Bad Habits and Prejudices.
But does education as it is bestowed to-day often accomplish
great things? I answer regretfully, No; too often the education
of the present day offers no such advantages. It cannot resist
worldly dissipation or the idle mockery lavished by empty
ignorance on studious women. Connected study and attentive
reflection are most of all wanting in the training of girls and
the mode of life adopted by young women.
As Ozanam has said, a treatise upon instruction for girls and
young women is still to be written. The subject is in no respect
rightly understood; no durable fruit has yet appeared.
I know young girls whose education in music and drawing had cost
twenty or thirty francs a lesson, cease cultivating these
expensive talents on the first day of freedom.
I take a single instance. Most young ladies for seven or eight
years of their lives spend two and sometimes three and four hours
a day at the piano. But this study to which so much time is
given, and which opens glorious horizons to mind and soul,
generally ends in one of those _soulless talents_ spoken of
by Topffer, which borrow life from vanity only, talents useless
for any practical purpose, taking no root in the mind, and seldom
destined to survive the wedding-day.
This charming author, rising up in indignation against the use
made in educating young people in the fine arts and of what are
popularly termed _talents d'agrément_, exclaims: "How much I
have seen of these charming talents and how little of their
charm! Young girls are interested in nothing, understand little,
feel not at all. I believe, however, that they might seek in
artistic pursuits, instead of mere amusing recreation, exercise
for the mind, expansion for the heart, development for the
imagination, and find in these faculties which are usually
destroyed or left idle by feminine occupations, a perfection that
would, as it were, clothe and adorn the soul."
{217}
But, as matters stand, music is a study, more or less mechanical,
that never reaches the soul, and seldom arrives at the commonest
comprehension of art. How many girls who pass their days at the
piano have neither sense nor appreciation of what they are doing!
"We had music," says P. Gratry, "a brilliant tinkling that did
not even rest one's nerves." Teachers are eager to impart a
facile execution, but there are few who seek to form a good
style, to make their pupils understand and appreciate composers,
or grasp the chain of musical ideas.
People play on the piano without any comprehension of what they
are expressing; as one might recite poems by heart in a language
that one did not understand. In Germany, where music claims a
large share in the education of girls, it is treated more
seriously. Through the study of harmony they rise from mechanism
to art.
Drawing is often equally misused. I have seen persons who drew
with exactitude and even with facility, and yet could not
distinguish good pictures from bad, or remember whether Raphael
was the master or the pupil of Perugino. Even talent had not
developed in them a sense of beauty.
The world leaves the domain of music free to young girls on
condition that they shall derive no spiritual elevation from it
and merely waste a great deal of time. As to the plastic arts,
even a taste for painting arouses criticism, and M. de Maistre
shudders to see his daughter painting in oil. In one word, the
arts must be restricted to accomplishments, and sumptuary laws
even more severe enforced with regard to literary pursuits.
Excepting in music and drawing a girl's education must be
finished at a certain age. "Ever since my eighteenth year,"
writes a young friend, to whom I had recommended study, "if I
expressed a wish to study, I have been asked if my education was
not finished." Finish one's education! that means throwing aside
books, writing, embroidery, and accomplishments if one has any.
But, we are told, young ladies learn a great variety of things
during the time of education. Quite true, and the very subject of
my complaint. They are not destined to pass examination for a
bachelor's degree, and their whole training tends to give them
general notions as shallow as they are widely diffused. Nothing
serious, nothing grave, nothing profound--a little of every
thing. In the words of an intelligent minister, "Who does not
know that what we gain in surface we lose in depth!"
Beyond dispute the plan is comprehensive. I see many young girls
who, in addition to common studies, geography, history, rhetoric,
begin to learn one or two languages, play on the piano, take
singing lessons, draw and paint, and learn to do all sorts of
fancy work, as they succeed each other in the caprice of fashion
polychromania, leather flowers, etc., etc. Of course, a life of
efforts so scattered and diffused, can lead to no good result;
and I have heard wise instructors sigh over the obligation
imposed upon them of fulfilling such programmes. A little of
everything is studied and nothing properly learned; not one
talent or faculty developed, not one earnest taste acquired for
anything whatsoever. Such half talents and superficial tastes
achieve nothing.
{218}
If there be a danger in the study of art and literature, it is to
be found in stopping precisely at the point indicated by M. de
Maistre; at general notions, not solid acquirements;
accomplishments, not earnest talents; a lack of something to
elevate the soul and nourish the mind. Such smattering helps one
to make a momentary show, but not to accomplish anything or to be
any one. It indicates that nothing more will be acquired from the
moment of leaving the convent.
Precisely the contrary is needed if one would train earnest and
assiduous women who may one day prove useful to their husbands
and children.
It is difficult to explain why indulgence is shown or exception
taken by men of the world. They approve, and very properly, of a
girl's speaking two or three living languages. But if, in
accordance with Fénélon's advice, you learn a little Latin, hide
it as a sin, or be accounted a blue-stocking. You will hardly
obtain pardon for a taste for solid reading or historical
studies. I have heard of a young woman who drew upon herself that
sort of admiration that implies blame, from intelligent people,
because she was said to read _Le Correspondent_. The same
persons, on learning that she reserved the morning hours for
study, testified immense astonishment and treated her as a
_savante_.
What may be called study--making abstracts or taking notes of
what one has read--is not considered proper for women, especially
in country towns. Reading is hardly permissible and only within
restricted limits. A lady of my acquaintance incurred general
censure because, during the first year of her married life, she
did not receive or make visits before four o'clock, that she
might reserve a few hours for study, in accordance, moreover,
with her husband's wishes.
Young girls should regard the close of their first studies as the
commencement of a life-long work. Young women should, in the very
beginning of married life, establish study as one of the duties
of existence. Later, they are engrossed with the education of
their children, and can no longer work to please themselves. But
even then, the precious habit will cling to them as an
inestimable consolation to be enjoyed in every leisure hour.
Above all, it remains to fill the void that becomes so irksome
when children escape from the mother's guidance, and she once
more has freedom and leisure without youth, its joys or its
energy.
Labor is a faithful friend that adapts itself to the age and
disposition of every being who takes it as a companion for life.
That women may learn to value habits of industry, it is incumbent
on us to convince young girls that their education does not end
at eighteen, and that their first ball-dress has not, like a
bachelor's degree, the virtue of giving to learning its perfect
consummation. At that age they have barely information enough to
enable them to study alone. Leading-strings are no longer needed
in their education, and that is all. They are simply capable of
continuing their studies, and of enjoying the pleasure of
individual exertion. If a girl could be made to believe this, a
serious and earnest future would be secured to her. But the
present custom demands that she should study French and history
until she is fifteen, and from fifteen to eighteen, piano-playing
and drawing. Then comes a pink dress, the crowning glory of her
education, the great day so often dreamed of. She goes into
society and marries, determined to leave work behind her in
accordance with universal practice.
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This is one of the joys of marriage--to do nothing--and so she
wastes a period most precious in a woman's life, a period when
she has leisure, and that flame that youth and happiness alone
can kindle; expansion of soul, the illumined eyes of the heart,
_illuminates oculos cordis_, as St. Paul says, giving to
toil facility, impetus, horizon, power. But so it is; all must be
lost, squandered, sunk in those early years, even happiness!
Study would have a secret power to draw this young creature from
the whirl of life, and give her the calmness and recollection she
so much needs, if merely to enjoy her blessings; but no,
everything must be frittered away and destroyed.
Then follow years when the excitement of youth dies out, a void
is left, beauty vanishes, _ennui_ comes to take possession,
and there is nothing to dispute its sway. The children are in the
midst of their education, and need no looking after. A mother who
knows not the value of industry, is ever ready to excuse idleness
in her children, and notwithstanding this indulgence, her sons
think very little of their mother when they grow up, and soon
regard her as beneath them.
X.
Practice.
But to come to practical results, what are the faculties to be
cultivated in women? The same as in men? Must they study the
exact sciences, politics, the secret of government, military art?
Are they to emulate Judith, Joan of Arc, Jeanne Hachette,
Hormengarde, foundress and regent of the second kingdom of
Burgundy, Marguerite d'Albon, Isabella of Castile, Maria Theresa?
Certainly not. Women are to be enumerated who could be and have
been all this. Providence creates these extraordinary beings. But
though we recognize occasional vocations of genius, courage, and
virtue, it would be folly to educate women for careers so
exceptional.
Women are physically weak, but their intelligence must not be
undervalued. They often have a great deal of mind and always a
fund of good sense, demanding nothing but use. Why wonder at all
I have implied? They acquire with remarkable ease. Who can fail
to recognize the keenness and delicacy of sensibility bestowed on
them by heaven, or the natural bent with which their souls turn
to the vivifying rays of beauty?
I do not agree with a lady who wrote to me: "We skim over things
and seem to know them; we open a book, run through a few pages,
and are prepared to discuss it, to give praise or blame,
recommendation or warning." I do not grant this. But beyond
dispute, they have great facility for everything. It costs them
little to assimilate to themselves required information, to make
something out of nothing, and a great deal out of scant material.
God, not destining them to long and abstract studies, has endowed
them with marvellous perspicacity and intuition. They rarely
speak of business because it fatigues and bores them; yet if
circumstances demand their participation, how useful and sensible
they almost invariably prove themselves! Generally, the
restoration of family property is due to them; when left widows,
they rebuild the fortunes of their children.
It is to be understood that in this vindication, as it were, of
woman's right to intellectual culture, I give to study only its
due share in the occupations of life. Clearly, household cares
and home duties have a superior claim; husband, children,
domestics, must be the first interest of a woman who understands
the hierarchy of her duties.
{220}
My advice, if it must be precisely defined, would be, that she
reserve at least two hours--if possible, three hours--of each
day, for life, for intellectual culture.
So long as women content themselves with reading, looking, and
listening, no great opposition is made, and men willingly grant
them a place among their auditors. But if the profound emotions
of the interior life seek a fuller development; if they seek in
the absorption of pursuits answering to their spiritual
aspirations an echo that the soul misses in the external world,
then society rises up in judgment.
Some women are born artists, that is to say, they are possessed
by a craving to give form to thought, to a feeling for beauty
which penetrates them, and that too under conditions suitable for
the development of this side of their nature. But it is precisely
this exercise of the creative faculty which is denied them, and
which I wonder to see withheld, since the gift comes from God
himself.
Vainly does M. de Maistre maintain that "women have never
produced a masterpiece, and that in wishing to emulate men, they
become apes." Vainly does he add with unbecoming impertinence, "I
have always thought them incomparably handsomer, more attractive,
and more useful than apes. I only say and repeat, that women who
would make men of themselves are nothing but apes." Or again, "A
woman's _chef d'oeuvre_ in science is to understand the
works of men."
But soon M. de Maistre contradicts and refutes himself: "We must
exaggerate nothing," he says, "belles lettres, moralists, great
orators, etc., suffice to give women all the culture they need."
A little later, he congratulates himself on having a daughter,
who reads and appreciates St. Augustine, and who "passionately
loves beauty of every kind; recites equally well Racine and
Tasso; draws, plays, sings very prettily; and, as in her voice
there are low chords that pass beyond the feminine range of tone,
so are there in her character certain grave fundamental
qualities, that belong especially to our sex, and which dominate
the rest of her nature."
This is enough; my discussion with M. de Maistre is ended. We
entertain, in fact, the same views, and I now address myself
merely to worldly prejudice.
We have then, even in M. de Maistre's estimation, as studies
possible for women:
1st. Belles lettres, literature both light and serious, a wide
field and one as attractive as it is extensive. The range of
history alone is immense. There is a philosophy, too, which the
feminine mind is fully capable of grasping, and whose essential
ideas are necessary to fix its natural mobility and insure to it
correctness of thought. Teach a woman to reason justly, and
consequently to give precedence to duty in all things, and you
have secured the essential part of education as it is needed in
every class and condition of life.
2d. The arts--so admirably suited to their imagination, to the
delicate grace of their nature. And here I must remark that we
unhesitatingly leave open to female competition the most perilous
of the fine arts, the one least compatible with their duties and
vocation, while shutting them out from the pure and lofty regions
of the intellect. Many detractors of women, who cultivate or
criticise art, would on no account suppress public singers or
actresses.
{221}
But, you will tell me, that it is precisely because female
_artistes_ are more or less degraded that virtuous women
should not become _artistes_. I think as you do, and more
strongly than you, yet I cannot help seeing that you recognize
the fact of women's capacity to rise in art, since a few among
them have received the gift of inspiration. If they have received
this gift, it must be used; honestly and nobly of course, but
used. The fact you advance brings its own application.
3d. If a woman can express the beautiful, she can do so through
all the languages of the beautiful. Art is identical in
principle, whatever be the mode of its expression. Painting,
music, poetry, eloquence, the expression of beauty through an
exquisite style, or through the accent of an inspired voice, is
always beauty bound within the limits of a sensible form to
render it perceptible to the soul through the medium of the
senses. Each one must clothe it in a form not self-chosen. If you
open to woman the most dangerous and frivolous of all the arts,
why close to her the others? Because she sinks with the art that
ministers to your pleasure, is it impossible for her to rise with
noble, true, serious art? If a woman can be a _cantatrice_,
she can be a musician in the elevated sense of the word, a writer
or a painter.
Many men affirm authoritatively that women cannot and should not
write. It is surprising that a question so easily settled for
some persons should be so often discussed. Equal pains have not
been taken to prove that women cannot be generals or ministers,
yet I am not aware that the example of female warriors has been
often claimed by their peers.
The present day is an ill chosen time to contest women's right to
authorship, when the three works most generally read are _Le
Récit d'une Soeur_, the writings of Eugénie de Guérin, and
Madame Swetchine's Letters.
In becoming writers women do not infringe on the rights of men.
"They do not seek to emulate man;" and when all is said, what is
it, that M. de Maistre calls "emulating man"? Is it desiring to
do all that he does? Of course not. Certain pursuits exclusively
belong to him, and are not to be cultivated by women. But if
there are points of separation, there is also a common domain
where all souls may work together. The most natural is that of
art and literature. Even here it may be that woman's field is
more restricted than that of man; but she will find her place,
and perhaps a place that men could not so well fill.
There are differences between the masculine and the feminine
intellect; and it is on this fact that M. de Maistre founds his
assertion that because one sex can write the other cannot. We may
found upon it a different conclusion, that, bringing another kind
of genius into intellectual regions, women will cultivate them
after a fashion of their own, adapting their talents in
preference to more delicate subjects. In a concert all dissimilar
voices must be moulded together: why should not women bear their
part in the great harmony of human thought expressed through art?
There are notes they only can reach. Silvio Pellico says
something similar when, after vainly trying to give women a
pendent to the _Treatise on the Duties of Men_, he exclaims!
"Only a woman could write such a book." In a woman's writing
there is always a certain touch that reveals her sex. A female
author must ever remain a woman. Thus may we reassure the
susceptibilities of M. de Maistre and quiet our own fears as to
the result of wishing to emulate man.
{222}
"Woman is a weak creature, ignorant, timid, and indolent," says
Mme. de ----; "possessed of violent passions and petty ideas, a
being full of inconsistency and caprice. ... Capable of
displaying charming defects every day of her life; a treasure of
cruelty and of hope." Then mourning over the almost complete
disappearance of this type, she seeks an explanation of the fact:
"Women have lost in attractions what they have gained in virtues.
... Woman was not made to share men's toils, but to afford them
recreation." And, finally, summing up in one word the errors that
have ruined her sex, she exclaims indignantly, "Woman has aspired
to be the companion of man."
Thus, to be a companion instead of a plaything, a Christian
rather than a pagan, a being to be respected, trusted, relied
upon, rather than one who holds you by a passing attraction,
amusing you by her frivolity, and distracting you from graver
thoughts--this is a culpable mistake of judgment, and moreover,
it is a woman who dares to bring forward such a doctrine.
4th. In my first letters I gave it as my opinion that, in a
measure, a woman could occupy herself with sciences, and even
with agriculture. The latter assertion provoked some surprise.
Let me answer them by a few fragments of a letter written to me
upon the subject, by a very sensible and distinguished woman:
"How wisely, monseigneur, you have advised women to interest
themselves in business matters and other serious subjects, even
studying agriculture. My own observation confirms your opinion.
At present, while my son is in the service, and I am separated
from all my family, living in the country, and almost always in
_tête-à-tête_, what would become of me if my mother had
not given me the habit, from childhood, of interesting myself
in every thing about me? Agriculture, with its obstacles and
its progress, affords an inexhaustible source of conversation
with one's husband, with cures, village notaries, farmers,
country neighbors, and _petits bourgeois_. It is a less
inflammatory subject than politics, and one that adapts itself
to every understanding. My husband does not disdain to discuss
crops and manuring with me--I have my own theories upon
drainage, beets, [Footnote 32] and cabbages, [Footnote 33] and
he finds me very progressive in my ideas, perhaps too much so;
he, however, never builds a stable without consulting me, and
before a lease is signed, I must hear it read several times. I
believe it to be very important to themselves and to their
children that women should understand business, the investment
of funds, the management of property. They should not
_decide_, but listen and advise. Husbands, generally, ask
nothing better than to talk openly of these things, because
such subjects interest them more than any others; but usually
no one listens. When a man meets with yawning inattention, all
is over; he has recourse to silence, adopts the habit of
managing everything for himself, of following his own bent. In
the beginning, a young husband is full of confiding openness;
later, he becomes more suspicious of control which wounds him
in proportion as it is needed. Capacity and earnestness are
indispensable to a woman."
[Footnote 32: La bette rave, the kind of beet from which
sugar is made, and therefore an important subject to theorize
upon. Berthollet is said to have lost his place by failing to
answer satisfactorily a question suddenly put to him by
Napoleon, concerning la bette rave.]
[Footnote 33: Colza, a cabbage used for making oil, and a
topic almost as engrossing as beets.]
{223}
I ask that women should be allowed to cultivate any art or
science they may choose, and even aim at some eminence in its
acquirement, without being annoyed in their honorable pursuit by
the terrible anathema which the world launches against (for once
we will use the coarse expression) _blue-stockings_.
[Footnote 34] If there are women who, while attending thoroughly
and seriously to their household affairs, rise above material
life by a love and appreciation of the beautiful, seeking therein
a delicate pleasure and pure emotions, enjoying the cultivation
of the soul, and listening attentively to the claims of truth and
goodness, it is a shame to cast reproach upon them.
[Footnote 34: In the language of unreflecting persons who
instinctively love to attack every thing elevated, perhaps in
order to drag others down to their own level, the word
"blue-stocking" signifies a woman who reads, and greatest of
all offences converses.]
5th. Above all things should rank the earnest study of religion.
I dwelt long upon this subject in my "Letters to Men and Women of
the World;" I will therefore simply say that it is above all in
the higher classes, where fortune authorizes a free use of the
luxury of education, that religious instruction should be pushed
as far as the individual capacity of man and women allows;
doctrine, proofs of religion, explanation of ceremonies, church
history, selected works of the fathers, great pulpit orators,
lives of the saints, etc., etc. all this I have explained and
taught in detail. In a course of education there should be an
appropriate progressive study of all that concerns religion.
Religious facts are so intimately connected with those of modern
history, that one can sometimes have a true idea of the latter
only by becoming acquainted with the former.
The objection of want of time, the grand objection so often
brought forward, remains to be examined. Have women the time to
devote to intellectual pursuits? Let us be honest and confess
that there are two obstacles to the leisure required: talking and
dress.
Yes, the great misfortune of women is, that they indulge in long
hours of conversation among themselves, and about what, if not
dress, gossip, and housekeeping?
Now, nothing lowers the mind and soul like talking about trifles
for hours, and there is but one method of remedying the evil;
increase the time devoted to study, thus shortening in an equal
degree the hours frittered away in conversation, and supplying
mental food far superior to the vulgar subjects that now exhaust
so many minds and souls.
As for dress, too much cannot be said against it, not only as a
cause of ruin to women of the world, but as a dissolvent of all
earnestness even among virtuous Christian women.
Dress! That is what wastes the time and exhausts the spirit of
women; that is what takes them from their domestic duties, and
not these poor calumniated books. Every attentive observer will
recognize, as I do, that it is a taste for the world and for
dress that detaches them from home interests far more than a
taste for study.
For my own part, I can assert that the truly superior women I
have known, those whose superiority was genuine and not a
pretence or an affectation, were models of practical wisdom.
There are, on the other hand, certain households admirable in
every respect but one--that on an average they discuss dress four
or five hours a day. The mother of the family is a woman of great
merit and virtue; she dresses with great simplicity; and yet
there are no preoccupations so serious, no anxieties or
sufferings so pressing, that they cannot be dissipated at least
for the moment by the interest of ordering a new gown or bonnet.
{224}
These affairs are of vast importance; life slips away while the
mind is wasting itself in their service.
Mothers of great merit teach their daughters to consider dress as
one of their interests and principal duties, discussing and
letting them discuss _toilette_ for hours every day, and
judging every earthly thing from the standpoint of
_toilette_. The business of dressing, shopping, choosing
materials, talking with shopkeepers and dressmakers, and the time
passed by young girls, and even young women, with lady's maids in
more confidential intercourse than is becoming; these are in
truth the great obstacles to habits of industry.
But leaving the subject of frivolous persons and unoccupied
lives, how, you will ask, can a mother who owes all her time to
her family find leisure to study?
It is hardly necessary to remark that I am speaking of women in
easy circumstances, for the reason that they especially have the
means of putting in practice these suggestions. Poor women who
earn their bread by the sweat of their brow, are not less
precious in the eyes of God or in our own than the favorites of
fortune; but daily toil can hardly leave them opportunity to
cultivate their minds. And yet even among them there are many not
called upon to support their families who, without being rich,
keep one domestic, or do the housework themselves with ease and
quickness, and thus have nearly as much leisure as women of
wealth. How many women there are in business, shop-girls, for
instance, or bookkeepers, who surely have time for reading, since
they do read--and read--what?
It is well known that a taste for reading is now penetrating even
into country villages, affording a means of spending pleasantly
the long winter evenings. There are useful directions, an
elevated impulse to be given to the class of women of whom we
have just spoken; but however worthy of interest such a subject
may be, it is not our present theme. Perhaps we may enter on it
at some future day.
We address ourselves then to women in easy circumstances. Can the
head of a grand establishment, a wife, a mother, find time to
study.
Beyond a doubt, yes! To begin with, she can devote to study the
time that other women give to worldly entertainments that consume
their nights, and to personal adornments that devour their
fortunes. They can lay aside all the pursuits that, while
absorbing them without offering any advantage, prepare them ill
for the duties toward their children that belong to them as
mothers of immortal souls.
Does not the secret of living lie in the reconciliation of
apparent difficulties? Do not duties, tastes, affections often
appear to contradict each other? I have often seen that habits of
orderly activity combined with a simplicity that suppresses
useless exactions multiply an industrious woman's hours and make
it possible to meet every demand. It is a woman's science to
understand how to give herself and yet reserve herself: a science
composed of gentleness and activity, of devotion and firmness,
whose first result is the retrenching of idle indulgences, and
the keeping within due bounds the tribute to be paid to the
claims of society.
{225}
In preceding writings I have shown in detail that there are more
empty hours, even in a busy woman's life, than is supposed. When
once her children are grown up, she has often too much liberty on
her hands. I once knew a lady who had six children. Her two elder
sons were at a boarding-school; her three daughters passed the
whole day with their governess; even the youngest had his lesson
hours. This lonely mother said to me mournfully on one occasion,
"I pass the whole day alone with my sewing, and poor company it
is;" and she was reduced, poor lady, to seeking outside
distractions, innocent but futile. If she had had a taste for
study and habits of industry, she would not have been driven from
home. Study makes women love their homes, the attraction of work
commenced always drawing them thither. How little need of visits
and society such persons feel! It is a joy to steal off to one's
room and continue one's reading or drawing. It is with a light
step that one turns toward home when heart and life are filled
with a love of study instead of with an immoderate, ruinous taste
for dress and luxury.
Much firmness, sweetness, and perseverance are necessary to
secure one's liberty in a household, to make one's working hours
respected, without failing in any other duty; in one word, to
give and reserve one's self discreetly. It is a question of
degree, like most other questions of conduct. But, in order to
acquire courage for the struggle, women must be very sure that
the right is on their side. They are too apt to mistake for a
mere personal taste the duty of cultivating their mental
faculties.
I have given strong and unanswerable arguments for the necessity
of a rule of life. But in this, as in every human affair,
temperament must be consulted. Though it may easily be made an
illusion and a convenient pretext to cover self-indulgence, yet
one can easily believe that some women, with the best will in the
world, must plead the impossibility of having a rule of life, or
must submit to see it violated so often as to become a dead
letter.
The mistress of a household rises in the morning, she feels
unwell, or her husband comes in to discuss plans, business, no
matter what; work-people, children little and big, invade her
room: the mother of a family has not an hour when she can shut
herself up and forbid intrusion. There are women and even girls
whose lives slip away under the oppression of these absolutely
tyrannical customs, from which it is the more difficult to escape
because they assert themselves in the name of devotion and
domestic virtue.
If we tell these young people, "crushed and flattened out," as M.
de Maistre expresses it, "under the enormous weight of nothing,"
to create an individual life for themselves, and seek occasional
retirement, they answer: "But I cannot; I have not one moment
absolutely my own. If I leave the parlor, my room is invaded;
somebody wants to speak to me, and so somebody stands about for a
quarter of an hour and then sits down. Then some one else comes,
and so the time is devoured. With all the efforts in the world to
keep my patience, I cannot conceal the annoyance this is to me
skilfully enough to avoid being voted a strong-minded woman,"
[Footnote 35] the correlative term of blue-stocking.
[Footnote 35: Caractère roide, femmes affairée.]
Very well, I say, for want of regular hours let a woman devote
odd minutes to study. There are always some in the busiest lives;
moments that occur between the various occupations of the day;
and she must learn to work by fits and starts, in a desultory
fashion. There is a wide difference between the woman who reads
sometimes and the woman who never reads.
{226}
If the desire to reserve a short time for study led to nothing
more than the acquisition of the _science of odd minutes_,
the result would be very important. _The science of odd
minutes!_ It multiplies and fertilizes time, but books cannot
impart it. It gives habits of order, attention, and precision
that react from the external upon the moral life. The most
cheerful women, the most equable, serviceable, and, I may add,
the healthiest women, are those who are intelligent and
industrious, and who, through the medium of a well-ordered
activity, have discovered the secret of reconciling the duties
they owe to God, to their families, and to themselves.
Between the spiritual and the material life, which answer to two
orders of duty, the intellectual life must have its place; a
place at present usurped by frivolity.
The intellectual life should be the porch of the spiritual life,
material existence the support and instrument of the other two.
But alas! it is far otherwise. Material existence usurps,
suffocates, extinguishes the light of mind and soul. Art and
literature elevate the heart, excite a distaste for gross
enjoyments, and spiritualize life. They afford nourishment to
mental activity, which is now the prey of levity, especially
among women, seducing them to vain and dangerous pleasures. All
grand and beautiful things, so worthy of the human intellect,
betray the emptiness of material enjoyments, ennoble the soul and
lead it to heights that approach heaven.
The culture of art and letters would occupy the feminine
imagination profitably. It would create, or rather reveal to
women admirable resources conducive to happiness, virtue, in
short to a complete existence; whether in society, where woman's
influence can elevate or debase ideas, occupations, interests,
and sentiments; or at home, where talents and information, while
conferring a great charm, would render her more skilful in the
direction of children and in the exercise of salutary influence
as a wife.
Thus the intellectual and the spiritual life would be united
under the blessing of God; thus we should find in the various
classes of society, intelligent Christian women, elevated above
frivolity, capable of sustaining and inspiring every noble idea,
every useful effort, every productive life; women who at home and
in the world would be more enlightened, energetic, influential,
estimable, forceful than the women of the present day.
--------
{227}
Baby.
I've got a baby, you know. There! if you laugh, I'll not tell you
a single word about it. _You won't laugh any more?_ Very
well; then don't. My dear old toad--husband, I mean--Dan, who is
the born image of baby--oh! yes, a very pretty _ruse_,
indeed, pretending to blow your nose. Can't I see you laughing
behind your handkerchief? _I've got sharp eyes!_ Of course I
have. All mothers have. Now, be good, and sit up like a man,
and--there--don't be putting your hand up that way over your
face, because I can see clean through it. What do you say?
_Good gracious!_ That remark is not appropriate. However, I
forgive you, for it might be if you knew what I'm going to tell
you. My dear old toa--husband--is so fond of baby that I don't
think I am fonder of him myself; and that is saying all I can
say, and all I could wish to say, because baby's me, and I'm
baby, as I love to imagine sometimes when I ask myself how much I
want Dan to love his foolish little wife and Our Baby. Really,
please don't hold your breath in that style; I'm always
dreadfully frightened when baby does it.
Now, husband loving baby and me as he does, there's not the least
doubt in the world that I am the happiest little woman, and the
most contented little wife, that the world ever saw. Perhaps I
may exaggerate, but ask dear Dan. If his opinion differs from
mine, I'll modify it; for _I_ think he has the best judgment
of any man I ever saw. "Tot," he often says, (the dear old toad
always calls me Tot, because I'm small,) "my opinion coincides
precisely with yours, and, if I have any amendment to make, I
feel sure that you yourself would have made it under the
circumstances." Of course, I ask if any amendment occurs to
_his_ mind. Then he tells me, and, in fact, I see that it is
just such an amendment as I _would_ make under the
circumstances. Oh! he has the most perfect judgment, has my
husband. He not only knows what is best, but he knows just what I
would think best. For instance, about what name baby should be
christened. If it was to be a boy, I settled at once in my mind
that he should be called Daniel, after his papa, to be sure. To
think of any other name would be sheer nonsense. But now see the
judgment of my old toad. "I was thinking just the same as you,
Tot," said he, "and your choice of my own name for the little
stranger is the very one I had hoped you would choose; but,
knowing how much you and I loved poor brother Alf--who was
drowned at sea--I determined to renounce my name in his favor,
and so dear brother Alf with his sunny face would live again in
our child. If little Tot thinks of that, she will be sure to
agree with me." _Did I agree with him?_ Of course I did.
What foolish questions you men will ask. I'd no more think of
calling him Daniel after that, than of calling him,
well--Nebuchodonosor--or some other such heathen name. So the
priest christened him Alfred.
Oh! we had such fun at the party. Old Mr. Pillikins--the old
gentleman, you recollect, you met here last winter, with the gold
spectacles and shiny bald head--was so droll.
{228}
He wanted to drink baby's health, but somehow he had not heard
his name, so looking over to me he says:
"And his name is--"
"Begins with an A," said I.
"Begins with an A," he says after me. "Good, very good. First
letter of the alphabet, where all good children ought to begin,
'A was an apple that hung on a tree:'
and the second letter is--"
"Is L, to be sure," said I.
"L! what else could it be?" Mr. Pillikins accented the word
_else_, and then, after he had explained it to us, we had
such a good laugh. Wasn't it an excellent pun? Then he thought he
had it. So, taking up his glass in his right hand and putting the
thumb of his left hand in the armhole of his waistcoat, he says;
"Alexander!"
"No, no," says I, "_not_ Alexander."
"_Not_ Alexander! True," says he, putting his glass down
again. "I was about to add that Alexander had an A and an L, but
did not have an--"
"F after it," cried Mrs. Gowsky, from the bottom of the table.
"Madam, you are quite right," replied Mr. Pillikins, bowing. "It
has not an F after it, as the baby's name undoubtedly has, and
the _ef_fect is certainly, more in_ef_able on account
of it. Ha, ha! you understand?" Never was there such a punster as
the old gentleman. "And then follows a--"
"All the rest," said I, "is just what you did with your
_Herald_ this morning, Mr. Pillikins. What was that?"
"Madam, I tore it up."
"No, no. What was the first thing you did with it?"
"Madam, I dried it before the grate. The newspapers nowadays come
so damp to one that it is enough to give one the gout in the
fingers to hold them."
"Think again," I continued. "What did you do with it after having
dried it?"
"Madam, I glanced over its contents, and--"
"O you tease!" said I, "you didn't do anything of the kind. You
read it. There!"
"Yes, madam. I read it."
"Well, there's the baby's name, then," I exclaimed, almost losing
my patience. "Don't you see?"
"Positively, madam, I did not. It is not the fashion to record
births nowadays. Only the marriages and deaths."
"Well," said I, after the laugh this raised had somewhat
subsided, "It might have been recorded there, for all I care. It
would have been a happy piece of information, and giving a good
example--" Now what are you laughing at?--"A happy piece of
information," says I, "and that's more than can be said of many
other items to be found in its columns."
Having got at the name, at last, Mr. Pillikins made a very pretty
speech, at which everybody clapped their hands and smiled, and
everything went off pleasantly, except Mr. Gowsky's son, Peter,
who broke his wine-glass by hammering it on the table, and then
fell backward, sprawling on the floor, from a bad habit he has of
tilting his chair up. He scared baby so, that, to tell the truth,
I had no pity for him in his confusion, and rather enjoyed his
blushes, which never left him all the rest of the evening.
_I am malicious?_ Not I; but a poor, dear baby that cannot
protect itself must not be abused with impunity. I was near
fainting with fright, too, when I heard the sound; for I thought
it must be the baby that had fallen out of its nurse's arms.
{229}
_First thought always about baby?_ To be sure, bless his
little heart, and the last too! You can sit there twiddling your
thumbs as if you did not agree with me; but I don't mind you; for
what do you know about babies? Dan says, and very truly, that a
mother whose first and last thought is not about her baby is not
likely to give much thought at all, either first or last, to her
husband. I can't understand it; but Dan tells me that nowadays
Protestant wives have a horror of babies. I never thought of it
before; but there is Mrs. Johnson, she has only one child; and
there is Mrs. Thompson, who has but two; and Mrs. Simpson, who is
married now six years, and has no children at all. It is so all
through the Protestant community, Dan says; and that there are
actually more Protestants die than are born. It must be their
religion, I suppose, but I cannot imagine how a woman, if she had
no religion at all--and the Protestants have got some kind of one
or other--could hate babies.
As for me, I can hardly tell you how much I love baby, and how
proud I am of him; and well I may be. Dinah Jenkins, his nurse,
says that she has nursed a good many babies, but such a baby as
Our Baby she never yet saw.
"Hi, missus," said she one day, "dis colored woman t'ought she
knowed all kinds o' babies as ever war or ever could _be_.
G'way, Dinah, says I, soon as I luff my eyes on to _dis_
child," (that's Our Baby,) "dis baby ain't no mo' like de babies
you's nussed, an' I'se nussed a heap on 'em in my time,
dan--dan--stick yer head in de fire!" And as I often say to dear
Dan, she is the most truthful woman I ever met.
_Have I a black woman for a wet-nurse?_ No, I have'nt a
black woman for a wet-nurse, nor a white woman either. Oh! you
are _such_ a stupid!
I am the child's mother, am I not? That's enough. I hope I shall
never be reduced to such an extremity as that. I pity poor
mothers who are. If you were a mother, you would say the same.
_People have wet-nurses?_ Yes, just as they have the cholera
or the typhoid fever, I suppose, because they cannot help it. As
to any woman, any mother, choosing to have one, I should say that
is the sheerest nonsense ever dreamed of. _Great people have
them, queens and empresses, and I needn't be above them?_
Thank Heaven, I am neither a queen nor an empress, but the
devoted wife of my dear old toad of a husband, Dan Gaylark, and
the mother of Our Baby!
What is that you are saying to relieve your mind? _Good
gracious!_ You have made that remark once before, and equally
to the point, as it seems to me. I was going to tell you all
about the baby, but you are such a tease, Ned, and interrupt one
so often with your exceedingly strange remarks, that I feel very
much as one might suppose the "skirmishun" train feels in being
"generally switched off into a sidin'." But, when I'm not
switched off, I am good as the "skirmishun" at any rate. I "doos
all as lays in my power" to get on. I suppose you call yourself
the express train that is too proud even to whistle a salute in
passing a poor, heavy-laden freight train, and utterly despises a
modest country station as it goes thundering by, as if that was
no place fit for its majesty to "stop at and blow at," as
Professor Haman says in his _Cavalry Tactics. I study military
tactics?_ Yes, infantry tactics, you rogue, under Mrs.
Professor Dinah Jenkins; but I read that in a book of Dan's one
day. Dan has a great fancy for horses and dogs. _Which of
course, I'm jealous of?_ Not the least. It only makes me love
horses and dogs more than I otherwise would.
{230}
_Simply because Dan loves them?_ Simply because Dan loves
them; and if that is not good enough reason, I don't know what
is. Ah! smile away as you please. What do _you_ know about
it, you wretched old bachelor!
Here! Dixie! Dixie! Dixie! Come here, you good-for-nothing old
black ---- There, then, that's enough now. Say "How d'ye" to Mr.
Ned. Oh! you needn't be afraid of him. He barks loud, I know, but
he won't bite. And he is _so_ knowing. I sometimes wish he
did not know quite so much. And so affectionate. He takes a great
fancy for everything he sees that Dan and I are fond of. I do
think he would die for baby any day. Yes, you would, wouldn't
you, you dear old fellow? There, you see, he says yes; he always
grins and wags his tail that way when he wants to say yes.
It was about Dixie and baby I was going to tell you. He was so
fond of baby that he wanted to take him out to walk and play with
him on the Palisades. Ah! I shudder when I think of it.
You recollect that hot Thursday in July? The very air seemed to
be holding its own breath. I felt so oppressed with the heat and
the closeness of the atmosphere that I could bear the inside of
the house no longer, and after taking a look--_and a
kiss?_--yes, and a kiss of baby, who was sleeping soundly in
his cradle, I went out to saunter down the shady lane that leads
to the Palisades. I noticed that Dinah was asleep in a chair,
too, beside the window, and thought that, if she could sleep in
such weather, it was a mercy, and so I left her undisturbed. As I
went out of the room, I left the door open, so that, if any
little breeze might spring up, it would refresh baby in his
sleep. I'm sorry enough now that I did.
You know what curious notions presentiments, or whatever you
choose to call them, will come into people's heads without their
being able to give any reason for them? So it was with me then. I
had no sooner got out of the house than I thought about my
leaving the door open, and half-determined to go back and close
it. The same thought came to me again as I was turning the lane;
and when I was once upon the green sward under the pine-trees,
looking down the dizzy height from the top of the Palisades upon
the river, I would most assuredly have returned and closed the
door, had it not been for the intense heat, and I may say the
cool and refreshing appearance the water had at that time. _You
don't believe in presentiments?_ Well, I acknowledge that it
savors a little of the fanciful and the romantic--reason enough,
I suppose, for you to reject any such notion, you matter-of-fact
old stick. But we women cannot take life as you men do, or, at
least, as some men do. What! _you are very glad we cannot?_
Pray, what do you mean by that? Oh! I see, you incorrigible old
bachelor, our different habits, idiosyncrasies, and tastes lead
us to avoid (not your company, you know better) but your own pet
schemes and fancies. _I_, for one, don't ask either to
meddle with them or to share them. But you are very fond of
getting our approbation of them, nevertheless. Dan says that
there is not an orator in the country who would not prefer the
waving of a lady's handkerchief to all that abominable
rat-a-tat-tat you men make with your heels and canes. The more
silent the sign of one's appreciation is, the better. Sincerity,
Ned, is seldom noisy. True love is dumb as well as blind. But
this is hardly _à propos_ of Dixie and the baby. Where was
I? Oh! the Palisades, yes.
{231}
If you were anything of a listener, I might take the trouble to
give you a nice little bit of description of the sunny afternoon
and the beautiful scene which the river presented to my gaze; but
I won't, because I see you are gaping.
I had been seated on the grass about half an hour, watching the
boats lolling about in the water as if they were too lazy to move
in such hot weather, when not a breath of air was stirring, and I
had been thinking how happy my life had been, and what a still
happier future might yet be in store for me; and, as I looked up
at the bright, cloudless sky, I said to myself, "Thus has God
blessed my life, for not a cloud can I see in the firmament of my
soul," when my reverie was interrupted by the noise of footsteps
behind me. Thinking it was some children, I turned my head,
smiling at the same time, that they might see they were welcome.
Imagine my surprise. It was Dixie and baby. He had caught baby up
in his mouth by the waist, and was bringing him along just as he
is accustomed to carry cook's basket to market, wagging his tail
and curveting about in the highest state of delight. My first
thought was that, the baby was dead--an awful thought that went
through my mind, and felt like an electric shock--either that
Dixie had bitten him to death, or had struck his poor, dear
little head against the trees, or the fences, or the stones, or
something else; but a second glance assured me that he was yet
unhurt, for he was doubling up his fat little fists, and--will
you believe it?--actually pummelling Dixie on his black nose.
Instead of coming up to me as I hoped he would, Dixie no sooner
caught sight of me than he dashed off, running round and round on
the green grassy bank, stopping suddenly, and looking at me as if
he would entice me to chase him.
You know that pretty spot at the end of the lane, how smooth the
sward is, and how gently the ground slopes down to the sudden
brink of the Palisades? The circles Dixie described in his
gambols began to grow larger and larger, and to my horror I saw
him run nearer and nearer to the edge of the dreadful precipice
each time he came around. You know the edge there is just as
sharp as if it had been cut away with a knife, and that, with the
exception of a narrow line of jagged rocky ledges, the whole
front of the Palisades is a smooth, perpendicular height of a
hundred and fifty feet at least. What if the dog should lose his
footing and slip off in one of those rapid courses he made! Now,
I'm sure you cannot tell me what I did. _I sprang up and ran
after him? _I knew you would think so. You are mistaken. I
never moved a muscle. I sat as still as a statue, and as silent
too. Dan said that was mother's wisdom, and wished that he had
never missed baby out of his cradle when he came home; for, when
Dixie had had his play out, I would have obtained quiet
possession of baby, and all the fearful consequences of his
appearance on the bank would have been spared. As it was, he no
sooner saw the empty cradle and the little white coverlet lying
on the floor all marked with Dixie's dirty paws, than he
suspected the truth instantly. Cook told him, besides, that she
had seen me going off to walk down the lane, and that she was
sure I had not carried baby with me. Dinah had fallen so fast
asleep that she had heard nothing.
I heard his footsteps as he came running down the lane, and knew
it was he, but did not turn my head to look. By this time Dixie
seemed to take delight in running straight down the bank, as if
he were about to jump over the Palisades with baby in his mouth,
but would wheel about sharply as he came to the edge.
{232}
It was horrible. My eyes followed his every movement, and they
ached with pain. I did not dare to close them long enough even to
wink. You think my heart was beating fast? No. It beat slowly,
very slowly. I could feel its dull, heavy strokes like a sexton
slapping the earth as he heaps it over a newly filled grave. Dan
said I was not only as still and as silent as a statue, but as
white too. I do not think I shall suffer more when I come to die.
No sooner had Dixie espied my husband running toward him than he
bounded off to the extremity of the sward, just where that narrow
line of ragged rocks runs down the front of the Palisades. He saw
that his master had anger in his face, and began to slink off to
escape punishment. It is a wonder he did not drop the baby on the
ground; but, do you know, I fancy that he thought the baby was
going to get whipped too, and wanted to get him to a place of
safety. Nothing else will explain why, finding himself nearly
overtaken, he looked first on one side and then on another for a
way to escape, and not seeing any, he went straight to the dizzy
edge, and, gathering up his feet, sprang over the precipice. I
saw them both disappear, and heard that most heart-rending of
sounds, a man's cry of anguish; the very ground seemed whirling
around me and the sky coming down upon me, and crushing me; but I
did not faint. "You are a brave little woman, Tot," Dan has said
to me many a time since, "and worth a whole regiment of
soldiers." I rose from the ground, and staggered toward Dan, who
ran to me and threw his arms about me and pressed my head to his
breast. O moment of agony untold, and of the supremest comfort!
He uttered only one word, speaking the two syllables separately,
as though he loved to dwell upon every letter, and in a tone of
mingled horror, grief, tenderest love, and sublime resignation--
"Ba--by!"
I thought I had loved dear Dan before that with all the love my
poor little woman's heart could hold. No. The deepest love is
only born of the deepest suffering. There are chords of love
whose music joy can never waken. Since then Dan is to me more
than he ever was, more than he ever could have been, had not our
souls passed together that moment of agony.
I do not know how long we stood thus, neither daring to go to the
brink of the precipice and look over. Baby and Dixie must be both
lying dead on the rocks below. At last Dan mustered up courage
enough to say to me,
"It is all over, darling. God is good."
"God is good," I repeated; "but, O Dan, dear! it is a cruel
blow."
"For us to bear, Tot, for us to bear; but not for him to
give--no, not for him to give."
He seemed to wring the words from his noble Christian heart, as
if he tore away his very life and offered it to God.
"Stay here, Tot," said he, "I am strong enough now." But his
whole body trembled from head to foot, and his voice was hoarse
and broken. "I will go and look."
I feared to let him go. Yet why should I detain him? But I could
not watch him. Throwing myself upon the ground, I buried my face
in my hands, and gave way to floods of bitter, bitter tears.
I had not lain thus a moment, when I heard a sharp, piercing cry.
Raising my head in alarm, to my unutterable surprise and horror,
I saw Dan spring over the edge of the Palisades and disappear.
Again I heard him cry as before, "Ba--by!" but there was now a
tone of joy mingled with that of fear, which told me that the
child was not dead.
{233}
It was a brief instant that I was on my knees, it is true, it was
nothing more than a look of gratitude I gave to God; but he knows
that not all the language ever expressed by man could fully tell
all that thought of thanksgiving which my soul sent up to him, as
I raised my clasped hands to the cloudless sky.
In a moment I was at the edge of the Palisades, just where that
ragged, rocky line runs down its front, jutting out here and
there in rough ledges. There was a story of a man who, being
pursued by the officers of justice, had clambered down there and
escaped. Few people who saw the place believed it. The very first
rock that jutted out was ten feet from the top, and that did not
present more than two or three feet of surface. A little to the
right of this, and about three feet lower, was another, on which
a man might easily stand, but not for any length of time, as its
surface shelved outward, and the rock overhanging it above would
not allow him to stand perfectly upright. Any one who had gotten
thus far must perforce take his chances of clambering down the
rest or be precipitated head foremost below, to certain death.
On this second ledge, I saw Dan holding the baby by his mouth,
just as Dixie had held him before. Dixie himself was crouched up
beside him. Poor Dan could not hold his place long there. As it
was, he was forced to grasp little, sharp edges of rock with both
hands to prevent himself falling off. He saw at once that there
was no time to send for help from above, and that he must try the
perilous descent. As he told me afterward, he had not calculated
upon this when he leapt from above. The first glance he caught of
the dog told him that, if he released his hold upon the child's
dress and opened his mouth, were it but for an instant, baby
would roll over the edge and be dashed to pieces. Dan says now
that he shall never regret taking one hasty step in his life. He
makes that an exception, you see, for he is always saying to me,
"Now, darling Tot, let us see the pros and the cons; for it is my
principle never to leap before I think, but to let my mind jump
before my feet."
Holding on, as I told you, to baby by his teeth, Dan went
clambering down the line of rocks. He had managed to wave his
hand backward to me as he left the ledge where Dixie was. I knew
what that meant--"Don't look." There was little or no hope of
his ever reaching the bottom safely, and he wished to spare me
the awful sight of his headlong fall, which might take place at
any step of the way. But I could not stir; my feet were riveted
to the ground. Besides, could I not help him? It seemed to me
that, as he went down, almost falling from one sharp rock to
another, I held him up with my eyes. When I told Dan my fancy
afterward, he laughed and said:
"Not the least doubt of it, Tot. I have felt the power of those
eyes before."
It did not last long, but it appeared to my mind, wrought up to
such a state of excitement, as if it had been going on and was
going on forever. It is stamped on my mind to-day as a memory of
years. As for dear Dan, it cost him, he said, the strength of
many days. He was no sooner at the bottom than he turned and
lifted up the baby in one hand, and, looking up to me, waved the
other as a sign of safety. Ah! his hands, his poor hands, you
should have seen them, all cut and gashed by the rocks. Those
hands seem to have something sacred about them ever since that
day.
{234}
I saw him on his knees, and then off I scampered to the house to
get the carriage. It is two miles around by the road to the
bottom of the Palisades, and it took us a long while to get to
him. When we did, he was still so weak that Mike, the coachman,
and I had to lift him up into the carriage. Dinah went down to
the place I had left, to make signs to him that he should remain.
Poor dear, there was no need of it. So we came home in more joy
than I can tell you--Dan, baby, and I. Mike rescued Dixie
afterward, by getting himself let down from above with a rope, to
where the patient old dog still was, wondering, who knows? how he
ever came to be there.
What is that you say? _Good gracious?_ Well, I don't mind
your saying it now, after what I have told you. But don't you
think, now, Mr. Ned, that I ought to be very proud of Our Baby
after that? What? _Ought to be very careful of him?_ The
idea! An old bachelor telling a mother to be careful of her baby!
--------
The Cartesian Doubt. [Footnote 36]
[Footnote 36: _The Churchman,_
Hartford, Ct., August 31, 1867.]
_The Churchman_, an Episcopalian weekly periodical, contains
an article of no little philosophic pretension, entitled
_Science and God_, which we propose to make the occasion of
a brief discussion of what is known in the philosophic world as
the Cartesian Doubt, or Method of Philosophizing. _The
Churchman_ begins by saying:
"A distinction is frequently and very justly taken between
philosophic and religious scepticism. When Descartes, in order
to find firm ground for his philosophical system, declared that
he doubted the truth of every thing, even of the existence of
the sensible world and the being of God, he did it in the
interest of science. He wished to stand upon a principle which
could not be denied, to find a first truth which no one could
question. And this philosophic scepticism is an essential
element in all investigations of truth. It says to every
accredited opinion, Have you any right to exist? are you a
reality or a sham? By thus exploring the foundation of current
beliefs, we come to distinguish those which have real vitality
in them, and stand on the rock and not on the sand; and by
gathering up the living (true) and casting away the dead,
(false,) science goes step by step toward its goal."
Whether Descartes recommended a real or only a feigned doubt, as
the first step in the scientific process he defended, has been
and still is a disputed point. If it is only a feigned or
pretended doubt, it is no real doubt at all, and he who affects
it is a real believer all the time. It is a sham doubt, and we
have never seen any good in science or in anything else come from
shams or shamming. If the doubt is real, and is extended to all
things, even to the being of God and our own existence, as
Descartes recommends, we are at a loss to understand any process
by which it can be scientifically removed. To him who really
doubts of everything, even for a moment, nothing can be proved,
for he doubts the proofs as well as the propositions to be
proved. All proofs must be drawn either from facts or from
principles, and none can avail anything with one who holds all
facts and principles doubtful. The man who really doubts
everything is out of the condition of ever knowing or believing
anything. There is no way of refuting a sceptic but by directing
his attention to something which he does not and cannot doubt;
and if there is nothing of the sort, his refutation is
impossible.
{235}
Descartes, according to _The Churchman,_ when he declared he
doubted the truth of everything, even of the existence of the
sensible world and the being of God, did it in the interest of
science, in order to find firm ground for his philosophical
system. Doubt is ignorance, for no man doubts where he knows. So
Descartes sought a firm ground for his philosophical system in
universal ignorance! "He wished to stand upon (on) a principle
which could not be denied, a first truth which no one could
question." If he held there is such a principle, such a first
truth, or anything which cannot be denied, he certainly did not
and could not doubt of everything. If he doubted the being of
God, how could he expect to find such a principle or such a first
truth? _The Churchman_ seems to approve of the Cartesian
doubt, and says, "This philosophical scepticism is an essential
element in all investigations of truth." If this real or feigned
scepticism were possible, no investigations could end in anything
but doubt, for it would always be possible, whatever the
conclusions arrived at, to doubt them. But why can I not
investigate the truth I do not doubt or deny?
Moreover, is it lawful, even provisionally, in the interest of
science, to doubt, that is, to deny, the being of God? No man has
the right to make himself an atheist even for a moment. The
obligation to believe in God, to love, serve, and obey him, is a
universal moral obligation, and binds every one from the first
dawn of reason. To doubt the being of God is to doubt the whole
moral order, all the mysteries of faith, the entire Christian
religion. And does _The Churchman_ pretend that any man in
the interest of science or any other interest has the right
voluntarily to do that?
Undoubtedly, every man has the right to interrogate "every
accredited _opinion_" and to demand of it, "Have you any
right to exist? are you a reality or a sham?" But the right to
question "accredited opinions" is one thing, and the right to
question the first principles either of science or of faith is
another. A man has no more right voluntarily to deny the truth
than he has to lie or steal. _The Churchman_ will not deny
this. Then either it holds that all science as all faith is
simply opinion, or it deceives itself in supposing that it
accepts the Cartesian doubt or adopts his philosophical
scepticism. Doubt in the region of simple opinion is very proper.
It would be perfectly right for _The Churchman_ to doubt the
opinion accredited among Protestants that Rome is a despotism,
the papacy a usurpation, the Catholic religion a superstition, or
that the church has lost, falsified, corrupted, or overlaid the
pure Christian faith, and demand of that opinion, "Have you any
right to exist? are you a reality or a sham?" And we have little
doubt, if it would do so, that it would find itself exchanging
its present opinion for the faith "once delivered to the saints."
It is clear enough from the extract we have made that _The
Churchman_ means to justify scepticism only in matters of
opinion, and that it is far enough from doubting of everything,
or supposing that there is nothing real which no man can doubt.
But, if we examine a little more closely this Cartesian method
which bids us doubt of everything till we have proved it, we
shall find more than one reason for rejecting it. The doubt must
be either real or feigned. If the doubt is only feigned for the
purpose of investigation, it amounts to nothing, serves no
purpose whatever; for every man carries himself with him wherever
he goes, and enters into his thought as he is, with all the faith
or science he really has.
{236}
No man ever does or can divest himself of himself. Hence the
difficulty we find even in imagining ourselves dead, for even in
imagination we think, and in all thinking we think ourselves
living, are conscious that we are not dead. In every thought,
whatever else we affirm, we affirm our own existence, and this
affirmation of our own existence is an essential and inseparable
element of every thought. When I attempt to think myself dead, I
necessarily think myself as surviving my own death, and as
hovering over my own grave. No one ever thinks his own death as
the total extinction of his existence, and hence we always think
of the grave as dark, lonely, cold, as if something of life or
feeling remained in the body buried in it. Men ask for proofs
that the soul survives the dissolution of the body, but what they
really need is proof that the soul dies. Life we know; but death,
in the sense of total extinction of life, we know not; it is no
fact of our experience. Life we can conceive, death we cannot. I
am always living in my conceptions, and that I die with my body I
am utterly unable to think, because I can think myself only as
living.
The thinker, then, enters as an indestructible element into every
one of his thoughts. Then he must enter as he is and for what he
is. His real faith or science enters with him, and no doubt can
enter that is not a real doubt. A feigned or factitious doubt,
being unreal, does not and cannot enter with him. He is always
conscious that he does not entertain it, and therefore can never
think as he would if he did. The Christian, firm in his Christian
faith, whose soul is clothed with Christian habits, cannot think
as an infidel, or even in thought put himself in the infidel's
position. Hence one reason why so many defences of Christianity,
perfectly conclusive to the believer, fail of their purpose with
the unbeliever. Even the unbeliever trained in a Christian
community or bred and born under Christian civilization cannot
think as one bred and born under paganism. What we assert is,
that every man thinks as he is, and cannot think otherwise;
simply what all the world means when it says of a writer,
"Whatever else he writes, he always writes himself." Men may
mimic one another, but always each in his own way. The same words
from different writers produce not the same impression upon the
reader. Something of himself enters into whatever a man thinks or
does, and no translator has ever yet been able to translate an
author from one language to another without giving something of
himself in his translation. The Cartesian doubt, then, if
feigned, factitious, or merely methodical, is impracticable, is
unreal, and counts for nothing; for all along the investigator
thinks with whatever faith and knowledge he really has; or
simply, we cannot feign a doubt we do not feel.
It will be no better if we assume that the doubt recommended is
real. No man really doubts what he does not doubt, and no man
does or can doubt of everything; for even in doubt the existence
of the doubter is affirmed. But suppose a man really does doubt
of everything, the Cartesian method will never help him to
resolve his doubts. From doubt you can get only doubt. To propose
doubt as a method of philosophizing is simply absurd, as absurd
as it would be to call scepticism philosophy, faith, or science.
The mind that doubts of everything, if such a mind can be
supposed, is a perfect blank, and, when the mind is a perfect
blank, is totally ignorant of everything, how is it to
understand, discover, or know that anything is or exists?
{237}
There have indeed been men, sometimes men called philosophers,
who tell us that the mind is at first a _tabula rasa_, or
blank sheet, and exists without a single character written on it.
If so, if it can exist in a state of blank ignorance, how can it,
we should like to know, ever become an intelligent mind, or ever
know anything more than the sheet of paper on which we are now
writing? Intelligence can speak only to intelligence, and no mind
absolutely unintelligent can ever be taught or ever come to know
anything? But if we assume that the mind is in any degree
intelligent, we deny that it can doubt of everything; for there
is no intelligence where nothing is known, and what the mind
knows it does not and cannot doubt. Either, then, this blank
ignorance is impossible, or no intelligence is possible.
But, as we have already said, no man does or can doubt of
everything, and hence the Cartesian method is an impossible
method. Descartes most likely meant that we should doubt of
everything, the external world, and even the being of God, and
accept nothing till we have found a principle that cannot be
denied, or a first truth that cannot be doubted, from which all
that is true or real may be deduced after the manner of the
geometricians. He did not mean to deny that there is such first
truth or principle, but to maintain that the philosopher should
doubt till he has found or obtained it. His error is in taking up
the question of method before that of principles or first
truths--an error common to nearly all philosophers who have
succeeded him, but which we never encounter in the great Gentile
philosophers, far less in the great fathers and mediaeval doctors
of the church. These always begin with principles, and their
principles determine their method. Descartes begins with method,
and, as Cousin has justly said, all his philosophy is in his
method. But, unhappily, his method, based on doubt, recognizes
and conducts to no principles, therefore to no philosophy, to no
science, and necessarily leaves the mind in the doubt in which it
is held to begin. The discussion of method before discussing
principles assumes that the mind is at the outset without
principles, or, at least, totally ignorant of principles; and
that, being without principles or totally ignorant of them, it is
obliged to go forth and seek them, and, if possible, find or
obtain them by its own active efforts. But here comes the
difficulty, too often overlooked by our modern philosophers. The
mind can neither exist nor operate without principles, or what
some philosophers call first truths. The mind is constituted mind
by the principles, and without them it is nothing and can do
nothing. The supposed _tabula rasa_ is simply no mind at
all. Principles must be given, not found or obtained. We cannot
even doubt without them, for doubt itself is a mental act, and
therefore the principles themselves, without which no doubt or
denial is possible, are not and cannot be denied or doubted; for
even in denying or doubting the mind affirms them. Principles,
again, cannot be given the mind without its possessing them, and
for the mind to possess a thing is to know it. As the principles
create or constitute the mind, the mind always knows them, and
what it knows it does not and cannot doubt. The philosopher, as
distinguished from the sophist, does not start from doubt, and
doubt of everything till he has found something which he cannot
doubt; but he starts from the principles themselves, which, being
given, are _nota per se_, or self-evident, and therefore
need no proof--in fact, are provable only from the absurd
consequences which would follow their denial.
{238}
Having begun with a false method, Descartes fails in regard to
principles, and takes as the first truth which cannot be doubted
what, either in the order of being or knowing, is no first truth
or ultimate principle at all. He takes as a principle what is
simply a fact--the fact of his own personal existence, or of an
internal personal sentiment: _Cogito, ergo sum_, I think,
therefore I exist. Regarded as an argument to prove his
existence, as Descartes evidently at first regarded it, this
enthymem is a sheer paralogism, and proves nothing; for the
consequence only repeats the antecedent; _sum_ is already in
_cogito_. I affirm that I exist in affirming that I think.
But pass over this, and give Descartes the benefit of an
explanation, which he gives in one of his letters when hard
pressed by his acute Jesuit opponent, that he does not pretend to
offer it as an argument to prove that he exists, but presents it
simply as the fact in which he finds or becomes conscious of his
existence. There is no doubt that in the act of thinking I become
conscious that I exist; for, as we have already shown, the
subject enters into every thought as one of its integral and
indestructible elements; but this does not relieve him. He
"wished," as says _The Churchman_, "to stand upon (on) a
principle which could not be denied, to find a first truth which
no one could question." This principle or first truth he pretends
is his own personal existence, expressed in the sophism, I think,
therefore I exist, _Cogito, ergo sum_. We agree, indeed have
already proved, that no one can deny or doubt his own personal
existence, although it is possible for a man to set forth
propositions which, in their logical development, would deny it.
But the method Descartes defends permits him to assert nothing
which cannot be deduced, after the manner of the geometricians,
from the principle or first truth on which he takes his stand;
and unless he can so deduce God and the universe, he must deny
them.
But from the fact that I exist, that is, from my own personal
existence, nothing but myself and what is in me and dependent on
me can be deduced. Geometrical or mathematical deduction is
nothing but analysis, and analysis can give nothing but the
subject analyzed. Now, it so happens that I do not contain God
and the external universe in myself. Following the Cartesian
method, I can attain, then, to no existence but myself, my own
personal phenomena. I can deduce no existence but my own, and am
forced, if logical, to doubt or deny all other existence, that
is, all existence but my personal existence, and my own interior
sentiments and affections. I am the only existence; I am all that
is or exists, and hence either I am God or God is not. What is
this but the absolute egoism of Fichte?
Descartes himself seems to have felt the difficulty, and to have
seen that God cannot, after all, be deduced from the fact of
personal existence; he therefore asserts God as an innate idea,
and concludes his real and independent being from the idea innate
in his own mind. Analysis of his own mind discloses the idea, and
from the idea he concludes, after the manner of St. Anselm, that
God is. But when I am given as the principle or first truth, how
conclude from my idea, which is simply a fact of my interior
life, that there is anything independent of me to correspond to it?
{239}
Here Descartes was forced to depart from his own method, and make
what on his system is a most unwarrantable assumption, namely,
that the idea, being innate, is deposited by God in the mind,
and, as God cannot lie, the idea must be true, and therefore God
is. That is, he takes the idea to prove the being of God, and the
veracity of God to prove the trustworthiness of the idea! But he
was to doubt the being of God till he had geometrically
demonstrated it; he therefore must prove that God is before he
can appeal to his veracity. His method involved him in a maze of
sophistries from which he was never able to escape. God concluded
from my idea, innate or otherwise, is only my idea, without any
reality independent of me. The argument of St. Anselm is valid
only when _idea_ is taken objectively, not subjectively, as
Descartes takes it.
What Descartes really meant by innate ideas we do not know, and
we are not certain that he knew himself; but he says, somewhere
in his correspondence, that, when he calls the idea of God
innate, he only means that we have the innate faculty of thinking
God. His argument is, "I think God, and therefore God is." Still
the difficulty according to his own method remains unsolved.
Given my own personal existence alone as the principle or first
truth, it follows that, at least in science, I am sufficient for
myself. Then nothing distinguishable from myself is necessary to
my thought, and there is no need of my going out of myself to
think. How, then, conclude that what in thought seems to be
object is really anything distinguishable from myself? I think
God, but how conclude from this that God is distinct from and
independent of me, or that he is anything but a mode or affection
of my own personal existence? The fact is, when we take our own
personal existence alone as the principle from which all objects
of faith or science are to be deduced, we can never attain to any
reality not contained in our existence as the part in the whole,
the effect in the cause, or the property in the essence.
Exclusive psychology, as has been shown over and over again, can
give us only the subjectivism of Kant, or the egoism of Fichte,
resulting necessarily in the nihilism, or identity of being and
not-being, of Hegel.
The psychologists generally do not, we are aware, concede this;
but they are not in fact, whatever they are in theory, exclusive
psychologists, and their inductions of God and an external
universe are made from ontological as well as from psychological
_data_. They begin their process, indeed, by analyzing the
mind, what they call the facts of consciousness, but they always
include in their premises non-psychological elements. Their
inductions all suppose man and the universe are contingent
existences, and as the contingent is inconceivable as contingent
without the necessary, they conclude, since the contingent
exists, very logically, that there really is also the necessary,
or necessary being, which is God. But the necessary, without
which their conclusion would and could have no validity, is not a
psychological fact or element; otherwise the soul itself would be
necessary being, would be itself God. The mistake arises from
regarding what philosophers call necessary ideas, such as the
idea of the necessary, the universal, the immutable, the eternal,
etc., because held by the mind, as psychological, instead of
being, as they really are, ontological. Being ontological, real
being, the inductions of the psychologists, as they call
themselves, do really carry us out of the psychological order,
out of the subjective into the objective.
{240}
But, if their inductions were, as they pretend, from exclusively
psychological data, they would have no value beyond the soul
itself, and the God concluded would be only a psychological
abstraction. Indeed, most psychologists assert more truth than
their method allows, are better than their systems. Especially is
this the case with Descartes. On his own system, logically
developed, he could assert no reality but his own individual soul
or personal existence; yet, in point of fact, he asserts nearly
all that the Catholic theologian asserts, but he does it
inconsistently, illogically, unscientifically, and thus leads his
followers to deny everything not assertable by his method.
But, as we have said, Descartes does not attain by his method to
a first principle. Not only cannot the being of God and the
existence of the external universe be deduced from our own
personal existence, but, by his method, our personal existence
itself cannot be logically asserted. It is not ultimate, a first
principle, or a first truth. Our personal existence cannot stand
by itself alone. It is true Descartes says, _Cogito, ergo_
SUM; but I cannot even think by myself alone, and even he does
not venture to take _sum_ in the absolute sense of
_am_, as in the incommunicable name by which God reveals
himself to Moses, I AM WHO AM, or I AM THAT AM. Even he takes it
in the sense of _exist, Cogito, ergo sum_, I think,
therefore I exist. He never dared assert his own personal
existence as absolute, underived, eternal, and necessary being;
it remained for a Fichte, adopting the Cartesian method, to do
that. Between being and existence, _essentia_ and
_existentia_, there is a difference which our philosophers
are not always careful to note. Existence is from _exstare_,
and strictly taken, means standing from another, or a derivative
and dependent, therefore a contingent existence, or creature,
whose being is in another, not in itself. We speak, indeed, of
human beings, but men are beings only in a derivative sense, not
in the primary or absolute sense. Hence the apostle to the
Gentiles says, "In him (God) we live, and move, and are," or have
our being. In ourselves we have no being, and are something only
as created and upheld by Him who is being itself, or, to speak
_à la_ Plato, being in himself. Evidently, then, our
personal existence is not ultimate, therefore not the first
principle, nor the first truth. The ultimate, at least in the
order of being, is not the soul, a contingent existence, but,
real being, that is, God himself.
But as we have and can have no personal existence except from
God, it is evident that we cannot assert our personal existence
by itself alone; and to be able to assert it at all, we must be
able to assert the being of God. Now, Descartes tells us that we
must doubt the being of God till we can prove it after the manner
of the geometricians. But how are we to do this? We cannot, as we
have seen, deduce his being from our own personal existence; and
what is still more to the purpose, while we deny or doubt his
being, we cannot assert or even conceive of our own, because our
existence, being derivative, dependent, having not its being in
itself, is not intelligible or conceivable in or by itself alone.
The contingent is not conceivable without the necessary. They are
correlatives, and correlatives connote each other. Now, if we
deny or doubt the being of God, we necessarily deny or doubt our
own personal existence, impossible and inconceivable without God.
{241}
With God disappears the existence of the external universe and
our own. If, then, it were possible to doubt of the being of God,
we should doubt of all things, and should have nothing left with
which to prove that God is. God is the first principle in being
and in knowing, and if he is denied, all is denied. Atheism is
nihilism.
Descartes evidently assumes that it is both possible and lawful
to doubt the being of God, nay, that we ought to do so, till we
have geometrically demonstrated that he is, and _The
Churchman_ tells us that this "scepticism is an essential
element in the investigation of truth." We cannot bring ourselves
to believe it. God, the theologians tell us, is real and
necessary being, the contrary of which cannot be thought, and it
is the fool, the Scriptures tell us, that says "in his heart, God
is not." The evidence of this is in the fact that we do in every
thought think our own existence, and cannot deny it if we would;
and in the farther fact that we always do think our own existence
as contingent, not as necessary being; and that we cannot think
the contingent without at the same time thinking the necessary,
as was sufficiently shown in the papers on _The Problems of the
Age_, published sometime since in this Magazine. As there can
without God be nothing to be known, we must dissent from _The
Churchman_, as from Descartes himself, that a philosophical
scepticism which extends even to the being of God "is an
essential element in the investigation of truth." It seems to us
the worst way possible to truth, that of beginning by denying all
truth, and even the possibility of truth. The man who does so,
humanly speaking, puts himself out of the condition of
discovering or receiving truth of any sort. He who seeks for the
truth should do so with an open mind and heart, and with the
conviction that it is. We must open our eyes to the light, if we
would behold it, and our hearts to the entrance of truth, if we
would have it warm and vivify us. Those men who shut their eyes,
compress their lips, and close the aperture of their minds are
the last men in the world to discover or to receive the truth,
and they must expect to walk in darkness and doubt all their
lives. Scepticism is a worse preparation for investigating truth
than even credulity, though scepticism and credulity are blood
relations, and usually walk hand in hand.
If it were possible to doubt the being of God, or to think a
single thought without thinking him, we should prove ourselves
independent of him, and therefore deprive ourselves of all
possible means of proving that he is. If, for instance, we could
think our own existence, as is assumed in the Cartesian enthymem,
_Cogito, ergo sum_, without in the same indissoluble thought
thinking God, there would be no necessity of asserting God, and
no possible argument by which we could prove his being, or data
from which he could be concluded. Man can no more exist and act
in the intellectual order, without God, than in the physical
order. If you suppose men capable of thinking and reasoning
without the intellectual apprehension of the Divine Being, as
must be the man who really doubts the being of God, there is no
possible reason for asserting God, and it is a matter of no
practical moment in the conduct of life whether we believe in God
or not. The fact is, no man can doubt the being of God any more
than he can his own personal existence. The Cartesian method, if
followed strictly, would lead logically to universal nihilism;
for he who doubts the being of God must, if logical, doubt of
everything, and he who doubts of everything can be convinced of
nothing.
{242}
We say not only that atheism is absurd, but that it is
impossible; and they who with the fool say there is no God, if
sincere, deceive themselves, or are deceived by the false methods
and theories of philosophers, or sophists rather. No man can
think a single thought without thinking both God and himself. The
man may not advert, as St. Augustine says, to the fact that he
thinks God, but he certainly thinks, as we showed in our article
last May, on _An Old Quarrel_, that which is God. No man
ever thinks the imperfect without thinking the perfect, the
particular without the universal, the mutable without the
immutable, the temporal without the eternal, the contingent
without the necessary. The perfect, the universal, the immutable,
the eternal, the necessary are not abstract ideas, for there are
no abstractions in nature. Abstractions are nullities, and cannot
be thought. The ideas must be real, and therefore being; and what
is perfect, universal, immutable, eternal, real and necessary
being but God? That which is God enters into every one of our
thoughts, and can no more be denied or doubted than our own
existence. Those poor people who regard themselves as atheists so
regard themselves because they do not understand that the
so-called abstract or necessary ideas are not simply ideas in the
mind or psychological phenomena, but are objective, real being,
the eternal, immutable, self-existent God, in whom we live, and
move, and have our being. No doubt we need instruction and
reflection to understand this, but this instruction is within the
reach of all men, and every mind of ordinary capacity is adequate
to the necessary reflection. In point of fact, it is the
philosophers that make atheists, and the atheism is always
theoretical, never real.
There is no doubt that a little ingenuity may deduce something
like this doctrine from Descartes's assertion of innate ideas,
but not in the sense Descartes himself understood the word
_idea_. With Descartes the word _idea_ never means the
objective reality, but its image in the mind; never being itself,
but its mental representation, leaving it necessary, after having
ascertained that we have the idea, to prove that it represents an
objective reality--a thing which no man has ever done or ever can
do. His subsequent explanation that he meant, by asserting that
the idea of God is innate, simply the innate faculty of thinking
God, was a nearer approach to the truth perhaps, but did not
reach it, because it assumed that the intuition of that which
really is God follows the exercise of the faculty of thinking,
instead of preceding and constituting it, and is not an _à
priori_ but an empirical intuition. If we could suppose the
faculty constituted, existing, and operative, without the
intuition of real and necessary being, and that the idea is
obtained by our thinking, there would still remain the question
as to the objective validity of the thought. If Descartes had
identified the idea with being regarded as intelligible to us,
and represented it as creating or constituting the faculty of
thinking, he would have reached the truth; but this he could not
do by his method, which required him to recognize as his
principle only his own personal existence, and to deduce from it,
after the manner of the geometricians, whatever he recognized as
true. God, or what is God, could be obtained or presented only by
the exercise of our faculty of thinking, and not by the creative
act of God affirming himself as the first principle alike of
thought and the faculty of thinking.
{243}
If Descartes had properly analyzed thought and ascertained its
essential and indestructible elements, he would have avoided the
error of resolving the thinker into thought, _la pensée_,
which denied the substantive character of the soul and made it
purely phenomenal, and have ascertained that, beside the subject
or our personal existence, but simultaneously with it, there is
affirmed what in the order of reality precedes it,--God himself,
under the form, if I may so speak, of real, necessary, universal,
eternal, and independent idea or being. There is given in every
thought, as its primary and essential element, a real ontological
element, without which no thought is possible. This, not our
personal existence, is the first truth or principle which every
philosopher must recognize, if he would build on a solid
foundation and not in the air, and this principle can no more be
denied or doubted than our personal existence itself, for without
it we could not think our personal existence, nay, could not
exist at all, as capable of thought.
But even if, by a just analysis, Descartes had found that this
ontological element is a necessary and indestructible element of
thought, he would have still greatly, fatally erred if he had
taken it as his first principle and refused to admit any
existence not logically deducible from it, that is, deducible
from it "after the manner of the geometricians," as required by
his method. Father Rothenflue, Father Fournier, and the Louvain
professors reject the Cartesian psychology, and assume Ens, or
being, which they very properly identify with God, as the first
principle in science. This is proper. But how do they pass from
being to existences, from the necessary to the contingent, from
God to creation? We cannot deduce logically existences from
being, because logic can deduce from being only what is
necessarily contained in being, that is, only being. If we say,
given being existences logically follow, we assume with Cousin
that God cannot but create, that creation is a necessity of his
own nature, and therefore necessary, as necessary as God himself,
which denies the contingency of creatures, and identifies them
with necessary being. This is precisely what Descartes himself
does after he has once got possession, as he supposes, of the
idea of God, or proved that God is. Creation on his system is the
necessary, not the free act of the Creator.
There are, as has often been remarked, two systems in Descartes,
the one psychological and the other ontological; as there are in
his great admirer and follower, Victor Cousin. The two systems
are found in juxtaposition indeed, but without any logical or
genetic relation. Descartes proceeds from his personal existence
as his principle, which gives him nothing but his personal
existence; then finding that he has the idea of God, for we
presume he had been taught his catechism, he takes the idea as
his principle, and erects on it a system of ontology. In this
last he was followed by Malebranche, a far greater man than
himself. Malebranche perceived, what we have shown, that we have
direct and immediate intelligence of God, that he, as idea, is
the immediate object of the understanding, and that we see all
things in him. Hence his well-known _Visio in Deo_, or
Vision in God, which would be true enough if we had the vision of
the blest, and could see God as he is in himself; for God sees or
knows all things in himself, and has no need to go out of himself
to know anything he has made.
{244}
But this is not the case with us. We do not see things themselves
in God, but only their idea or possibility. From the idea of God
we may deduce his ability to create, and that the type of all
creatable things must be in him; but as creation is on his part a
free, not a necessary act, we can, as Malebranche was told at the
time, see a possible, but not an actual universe in God; hence,
by his vision in God, he attained only to a pure idealism, in
which nothing actually distinguishable from God was apprehended
or asserted.
Spinoza, greater still than Malebranche, followed also Descartes
in his ontological system, and took being, which he calls
substance, as his principle. Substance, he said, is one and
ultimate, and nothing is to be admitted not obtainable from it by
way of logical deduction. Spinoza was too good a logician to
suppose that the idea of creation is deducible from the idea of
God, for a necessary creation is no creation at all, but the
simple evolution of necessary being or substance. Hence nothing
is or exists except the one only substance and its modes and
attributes. His attributes are infinite, since he is infinite
substance; but we know only two, thought and extension. The
so-called German ontologists in the main follow Spinoza, and like
him admit only being or substance, or its attributes or modes.
This system makes what are called creatures, men and things,
modes of the Divine Being, in which he manifests his attributes,
thought and extension; hence it is justly called pantheism,
which, under some of its forms, no one can escape who admits
nothing not logically deducible from the idea of substance,
being, or God; for deduction, we have said, is simply analysis,
and analysis can give only the subject analyzed. As the analysis
of my personal existence or the soul can give only me and my
attributes, modes, and affections, and therefore the egoism of
Fichte, which underlies every purely psychological system, so the
analysis of the idea of being can give only being and its modes
or attributes, or the pantheism of Spinoza, which underlies the
ontology of Descartes, and every system of exclusive ontology.
No philosopher is ever able to develop his whole system, and
present it in all its parts, or foresee all its logical
consequences. It is only time that can do this, and the vices of
a method or a system can be collected fully only from its
historical developments. The disciples of Descartes, who in
France started with his psychological principle, ended in the
pure sensism, or sensation transformed, of Condillac, and those
who in Germany started with the same principle, ended in the
absolute egoism of Fichte, who completed the subjectivism of
Kant, and reached the point where egoism and pantheism become
identical. Those, again, who in any country have started with the
ontological principle of Descartes and followed his method, have,
however they may have attempted to disguise their conclusions,
ended in denying creation and asserting some form of pantheism.
The materialism which prevailed in the last century, and obtains
to a great extent even in the present, is not a historical
development of Cartesianism, so much as of the English school
founded by Bacon, and developed by Hobbes and Locke, and
completed by the French idealogists of Autueil, who were noted
for their Anglomania.
{245}
Cartesianism led rather to what is improperly termed idealism, to
the denial of the material universe, or its resolution into pure
sensation.
Yet it is instructive to observe that the historical development
of the psychological principle represented by Fichte and that of
the ontological principle represented by Spinoza terminate in
identity. Fichte saw he could not make the soul the first
principle without taking it as ultimate and denying its
contingency, or that he could not make the soul that from which
all that exists proceeds without assuming that the soul, the ego,
is God. Hence his twofold ego, the one absolute and the other
phenomenal or modal. He thus identifies the soul with God, and
concludes that nothing except me and my phenomen, or attributes
and modes, is or exists: I am all. Spinoza, starting from the
opposite pole, the ontological, finds that he can logically
deduce from being only being; and calling being substance, and
substance God, he concludes with an invincible logic nothing is
or exists, except God and his modes or attributes. The form may
differ, but the conclusion is identical with the last conclusion
of egoism, and it is noteworthy that even Fichte, in the last
transformation of his doctrine, substituted God for the soul, and
made God the absolute, and the soul relative and phenomenal, or a
mode of the Divine Being.
Whether, then, we start with the soul as first principle or with
God, we can never by logical deduction arrive at creation, or be
able to assert any existence as distinguishable from the Divine
Being. Neither can be taken exclusively as the _primum
philosophicum_, and exclusive ontology is as faulty and as
fatal in its consequences as exclusive psychology. The fact is,
we can neither doubt the being of God nor our own personal
existence; for both are equally essential and indestructible
elements of thought, given in the primitive intuition, though
being is logically prior to existence, and our _primum
philosophicum_ must include both.
But the soul is given in the intuition as contingent, and being
is given as necessary. The contingent cannot exist any more than
it can be thought without the necessary. It then depends on the
necessary, and can exist only as created and upheld by it. The
real principle, or _primum philosophicum,_ is then, as has
been amply shown in the essays on _The Problems of the Age_,
the ideal formula, _Ens creat existentias_, or Being creates
existences. This presents the ontological principle and the
psychological not in juxtaposition merely, but in their real and
true relation. This formula enables us to avoid alike pantheism,
atheism, idealism, and materialism, and to conform in principle
our philosophy to the real order of things and the Catholic
faith. But it is only in principle, for Gioberti himself calls
the formula _ideal_. It does not, after all, give us any
science of actual existences, or itself furnish its own
scientific explication and application. Apply to it the method of
Descartes, and lay it down that everything is to be doubted till
proved, and we are not much in advance of Cartesianism. We know
God is, we know things exist, and God has created or creates
them; but we do not know by knowing the formula what God is, what
things do or do not exist. It gives us the principles of science,
but not the sciences; the law which governs the explication of
facts, not the facts themselves. We cannot deduce, after the
manner of the geometricians, any actual existence or fact from
the formula, nor any of the sciences.
{246}
There is an empirical element in all the sciences, and none of
them can be constructed by logical deduction even from a true
ideal formula, and to deny everything not logically deducible
from it would leave us in the purely ideal, and practically very
little better off than Descartes himself left us. The Cartesian
method based on doubt, then, whether we start with an incomplete
or a complete ideal formula, can never answer the purpose of the
philosopher, or enable us to construct a concrete philosophy that
includes the whole body of truth and all the scientific facts of
the universe.
We do not pretend that philosophy must embrace all the knowable,
_omne scibile_, in detail; it suffices that it does so in
principle. No doubt the ideal formula does this, as in fact
always has done the philosophy that has obtained in the Catholic
schools. But though the ideas expressed in the ideal formula are
intuitive, the constitution of the mind, and basis of all
intelligence, and are really asserted in every thought, we very
much doubt if they could ever have been reduced to the formula
given by Gioberti if men had never received a divine revelation
from God, or if they had been left without any positive
instruction from their Creator. We are as far as any one can be
from building science on faith; but we so far agree with the
traditionalists as to hold that revelation is necessary to the
full development of reason and its perfect mastery of itself. One
great objection to the Cartesian doubt or method is, that it
detaches philosophy from theology, and assumes that it can be
erected into an independent science sufficient for itself without
any aid from supernatural revelation, and free from all
allegiance to it. This had never been done nor attempted by any
Christian school or even non-Christian school prior to Descartes,
unless the pretension of Pomponatius and some others, that things
may be theologically true yet philosophically false, and who were
promptly condemned by Leo X., be understood as an attempt in that
direction. The great fathers of the church and the mediaeval
doctors always recognized the synthesis of reason and revelation;
and, while they gave to each its part, they seem never to have
dreamed of separating them, and of cultivating either as
independent of the other; yet they have given us a philosophy
which, if not free from all defects, is superior, under the point
of view of reason alone, to anything that has elsewhere ever been
given under that name. He who would construct a philosophy that
can stand the test even of reason must borrow largely from St.
Athanasius, St. Augustine, St. Gregory the Great, St. Thomas, St.
Buonaventura, and the later scholastics.
It is also an objection to the Cartesian doubt that it is not
only a complete rupture with revealed theology, but also with
tradition, and is an attempt to break the continuity of the life
of the race, and to sever the future of humanity from its past.
We are among those who regard the catholic beliefs and traditions
of mankind as integral elements in the life of the race itself,
and indispensable to its continuous progress. The future always
has its germ in the past, and a beginning _de novo_ for the
individual as for society is alike impossible and undesirable.
The Cartesian doubt overlooks this, and requires the individual
to disgarnish his mind of every relic and memorial of the past,
of everything furnished by his parents and teachers, or the
wisdom of ages, and after having become absolutely naked and
empty, and made himself as ignorant and impotent as the new-born
babe, to receive nothing till he, without experience, without
instruction, has by his own unaided powers tested its truth.
{247}
As reasonable would it be for the new-born infant to refuse the
milk from its mother's breast, till it had by the exercise of its
faculties settled the question of its wholesomeness.
We object, finally, that it tends to destroy all respect for
authority, all reverence for tradition, all regard for the
learning and science of other ages and other men, and to puff up
the individual with an overweening self-conceit, and sense of his
own sufficiency for himself. It renders all education and
instruction useless and an impertinence. It tends to crush the
social element of our nature, and to create a pure individualism,
no less repugnant to government and society than to religion and
the divine order, according to which all men are made mutually
dependent, one on another. Doubtless, Descartes only developed
and gave expression to tendencies which were in his time
beginning to be active and strong; but the experience of the
civilized world only historically verifies their destructive,
anti-philosophical, anti-religious, and anti-social character.
Yet his method is still, in substance if not in form, very
extensively accepted and followed, as the example of _The
Churchman_ itself proves.
We do not by any means believe that Descartes had any suspicion
of the real character of his philosophic enterprise. We are far
from agreeing with Gioberti that he was a disguised Protestant
designedly laboring to complete the work undertaken by Luther. We
doubt not that he really accepted the church, as he always
professed to do, though most likely he was far enough from being
a fervent Catholic; but he was bred a soldier, not a philosopher
or a theologian; and though he may have been, and we believe he
was for his time, a great mathematician and a respectable
physicist, he was always a poor theologian, and a still poorer
metaphysician. His natural ability was no doubt worthy of
admiration, but he had no genius for metaphysics, and his
ignorance of the profounder philosophy of antiquity and of the
mediaeval doctors was almost marvellous. He owed in his own day
his popularity to the fact that he discoursed on philosophy in
the language of the world, free from the stiff formulas, the
barbarous locutions, and the dry technicalities of the schools.
He owed much to the merits of his style, but still more to the
fact that he wrote in the vernacular instead of the Latin tongue,
then unusual with writers of philosophical treatises, and
non-professional men and court-bred ladies could read him and
fancy they understood philosophy. His works were
"philosophy-made-easy," and he soon became the vogue in France,
and France gives the fashion to the world. But it would be
difficult to name a writer who has exerted in almost every
direction an equally disastrous influence on modern thought and
civilization; not that his intentions were bad, but that his
ignorance and presumption were great.
The Cartesian method has no doubt favored that lawless and
independent spirit which we see throughout modern society, and
which is manifested in those Jacobin revolutions which have
struck alike at ecclesiastical and political authority, and at
times threatened the civilized world with a new barbarian
invasion; but the evil resulting from that method which is now
the most to be deplored is the arrogant and independent tone
assumed by modern science, and its insolence toward the sacred
dogmas of faith. Descartes detached philosophy, and with it all
the sciences, from faith, and declared them independent of
revelation.
{248}
It is especially for this that Cousin praises him. But modern
so-called science is not contented even with independence; it
aspires to dominate and subject faith to itself, or to set up its
own conclusions as the infallible test of truth. It makes certain
inductions from a very partial survey of facts, concocts certain
geological, physiological, ethnological, and philological
theories at war with the dogmas of faith, and says with sublime
insolence that therefore faith must give way, for science has
demonstrated its falsity! If the church condemns its unsupported
conclusions, there is forthwith a deafening clamor raised that
the church is hostile to science, and denies the freedom of
thought and the inalienable rights of the mind! _The
Churchman_ sees this, and has written the very article from
which we have made our extract to show its injustice; but with
what success can it hope to do it, after beginning by approving
the Cartesian method and conceding modern science, in principle,
all it asks?
We have said and shown over and over again that the church does
not condemn science. Facts, no matter of what order, if facts,
never do and never can come in collision with her teaching, nor
can their real scientific explanations ever conflict with
revelation or her dogmas. The church interferes not with the
speculations or the theories of the so-called _savans_,
however crude, extravagant, or absurd they may be, unless they
put forth conclusions under the name of science which militate
against the Christian faith. If they do that, she condemns their
conclusions so far as repugnant to that faith. This supervision
of the labors of _savans_ she claims and exercises for the
protection of her children, and it is as much in the interest of
science as of faith that she should do so. If we were to believe
what men counted eminent in science tell us, there is not a
single Christian dogma which science has not exploded; yet,
though modern investigations and discoveries may have exploded
several scientific theories once taught in the schools and
accepted by Catholics, we speak advisedly when we say science has
not exploded a single dogma of the church, or a single
proposition of faith she has ever taught. No doubt, many
pretendedly scientific conclusions have been drawn and are drawn
daily that impugn the faith; but science has not yet confirmed
one of them, and we want no better proof that it never will
confirm them than the bare fact that they contradict the faith
the church believes and teaches. They can all be scientifically
refuted, and probably one day will be, but not by the people at
large, the simple and unlettered; and therefore it is necessary
that the church from time to time should exert her authority to
condemn them, and put the faithful on their guard against them.
This is no assumption to the injury of science, for in condemning
them she seeks only to save the revealed truth which they impugn.
It is necessary, also, that men should understand that in science
as well as in faith they are not independent of God, and are
bound by his word wherever or whatever it speaks. Descartes
taught the world to deny this and even God himself till
scientifically proved, and hence the pains we have taken to
refute his method, to show its unscientific character, and to
indicate some of the fatal consequences of adopting it.
We know very well that Bossuet and Fdénélon are frequently
classed with the disciples of Descartes, but these men were
learned men and great theologians, and they followed Descartes
only where he coincided with the general current of Catholic
philosophy.
{249}
Either was a far profounder philosopher than Descartes ever could
have been, and neither adopted his method. The same may be said
of other eminent men, sometimes called Cartesians. The French
place a certain national pride in upholding Descartes, and pardon
much to the sophist in consideration of the Frenchman; but this
consideration cannot weigh with us any more than it did with the
Italian Jesuit, the eminent Father Tapparelli, we believe, who a
few years since, in some remarkable papers in _La Civiltá
Cattolica_, gave a most masterly refutation of Descartes's
psychological method. Truth is of no nation, and a national
philosophy is no more commendable than a national theology, or a
national church. It is no doubt to the credit of a nation to have
produced a really great philosopher, but it adds nothing to its
glory to attempt to make pass for a great philosopher a man who
was in reality only a shallow sophist. It was one of the
objectionable features in the late M. Cousin that he sought to
avail himself of the national prejudices of his countrymen, and
to make his system pass for French or the product of French
genius. The English are in this respect not less national than
the French, and Bacon owes his principal credit with them to the
fact that he was a true Englishman. All real philosophy, like all
truth, is catholic, not national.
In regard to the scepticism _The Churchman_ deems so
essential in the investigation of truth, we have already remarked
that a sceptical disposition is the worst possible preparation
for that investigation. He who would find truth must open his
heart to it, as the sunflower opens her bosom to the sun, and
turns her face toward it in whatever quarter of the heavens it
may be. Those who, like _The Churchman_, know not the truth
in its unity and catholicity, and substitute opinion for faith,
will do well so far to doubt their opinions as to be able
thoroughly to investigate them, and ascertain if they have any
solid foundation. There are reasons enough why they should
distrust their own opinions, and see if the truth is not really
where the great majority of the civilized world for ages has told
them it is to be found. They ought to doubt, for they have reason
to doubt, not of every thing, not of God, not of truth, but of
their own opinions, which they know are not science nor faith,
and therefore may be false. Scientific men should doubt not
science, nor the possibility of science, but their theories,
hypotheses, and conjectures till they have proved them; and this
all the same whether their theories, hypotheses, and conjectures
are taken from the schools or are of their own concoction. But
this is something very different from presenting to the world or
to one's self the being of God, the creation, the immortality of
the soul, and the mysteries of faith as opinions or as theories
to be doubted till proven after the manner of geometricians.
These are great truths which cannot be reasonably doubted; and,
if we find people doubting them, we must, in the best way we can,
convince them that their doubts are unreasonable. The believer
need not doubt or deny them in order to investigate the grounds
of his faith, and to be able to give a reason for the hope that
is in him. We advance in the knowledge of truth by means of the
truth we have; and the believer is much better fitted for the
investigation of truth than the unbeliever, for he knows much
better the points that need to be proved, and has his mind and
heart in a more normal condition, more in harmony with the real
order of things, and is more able to see and recognize truth.
{250}
But this investigation is not necessary to justify faith in the
believer. It is necessary only that the believer may the better
comprehend faith in its relations with the general system of
things, of which he forms a part, and the more readily meet the
objections, doubts, and difficulties of unbelievers. But all
cannot enter into this investigation, and master the whole field
of theology, philosophy, and the sciences, and those who have not
the leisure, the opportunity, and ability to do it, ought not to
attempt it. The worst possible service we can render mankind is
to teach them that their faith is unreasonable, or that they
should hold themselves in suspense till they have done it, each
for himself. They who can make the investigation for themselves
are comparatively few; and shall no man venture to believe in God
and immortality till he has made it? What, then, would become of
the great body of the people, the poorer and more numerous
classes, who must be almost wholly occupied with procuring the
means of subsistence? If the tender mercies of God were no
greater than those of the Cartesian philosophers and our
Episcopalian _Churchman_, the poor, the unlettered, the
simple, the feeble of intellect would be obliged to live without
any rule of duty, without God in the world, or hope in the world
to come. For them the guidance and consolations of religion would
alike be wanting.
We may see here why the church visits with her censures whatever
tends to unsettle or disturb the faith of the people, for which
an unbelieving and unreasoning world charges her with denying
reason, and being hostile to freedom of thought and scientific
investigation. We do not hope to convince the world that it is
unjust. The church is willing that every man who can and will
think for himself should do so; but the difficulty is, that only
here and there one, even at best, does or can so think. It is not
that she is unwilling that men should reason, if they will really
reason, on the grounds of faith, but that most persons who
attempt to do so only reason a little way, just far enough to
raise doubts in their minds, doubts which a little more knowledge
would solve, and then stop, and refuse or are unable to reason
any farther. It is the half-reason, the half-learning, the
half-science that does the mischief; as Pope sings:
"A little learning is a dangerous thing:
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
But drinking largely sobers us again."
Many may take "shallow draughts," but very few can "drink deep,"
and those shallow draughts, which are all that except the very
few can take, are more hurtful to both intellectual and moral
health than none at all. The church certainly does not encourage
those to reason on sacred subjects who can or will reason only
far enough to doubt, and to puff themselves up with pride and
conceit She, however, teaches all the faith, and gives to every
one who will listen to her voice as solid reasons for it as the
wisest and most learned and scientific have or can have. In this,
however the world may blame or vituperate her, she only pursues
the course which experience and common sense approve and
pronounce wise and just.
The attempt to educate the mass of the people up to the point of
making each individual able to understand and solve all the
difficulties in the way of faith has never succeeded, and can
never succeed.
{251}
The mass of the people need and always will have teachers of some
sort whom they do and must trust. We see it in politics. In the
most democratic state the mass of the people follow like sheep a
few leaders, wise and prudent men sometimes, perhaps oftener
ignorant but cunning and unscrupulous demagogues. All may be made
to understand that in matters of faith the teachers are
commissioned by the church, and that the church is commissioned
by God himself, who teaches in and through her, and no one has or
can have any better reason for believing anything, for none
better is conceivable. It is the assumption that the people are
to judge for themselves without instructors or instruction that
causes so much unbelief in the modern world; but as they have
been very extensively told that it is their right to do so, and
made to believe it, the church, of course, must meet their
factitious wants the best way she can, and educate them up to the
highest point possible, and give them all the instruction, not
only in the faith, but on its grounds and reasons, they are or
can be made capable of receiving. She must do this, not because
the people believe or are already enlightened, but because they
have learned only just enough to doubt and rebel.
--------
Abridged from the German.
The Composer's Difficulty.
The good old custom in London, in 1741, was for the members of
the ---- Club to assemble in the parlor of a noted tavern in
Fleet street, kept by Master Farren, who had a sharp-tongued wife
and a young and lovely daughter. This young girl had been setting
the large room in order, and putting fresh flowers in the vase,
in preparation for the expected guests, when the door opened
softly, and a young man came in. Ellen did not look up till he
was close to her, then she started and blushed crimson, while he
took her hand and kissed it with the air of a cavalier.
"I did not know it was you, Joseph," faltered the maiden.
"I can stay but a moment," said the young student of music, "for
they will all be here presently. I came to tell you to come to
the garden without fail this evening; I want to give you a first
lesson, in a new part."
Ellen's face brightened. Just then a shrill voice called her
name, and she knew her mother would be angry if she saw her with
the German, Joseph Wach.
"I will come!" she answered quickly. "Now I must leave you." And
she ran out at a repetition of the shrewish call. Joseph did not
attempt to detain her; though the two loved each other well he
knew that Dame Farren regarded him with good will no longer, now
that Master Handel, his teacher and patron, no longer stood high
in the king's favor, and went no more to Carlton House. The
father, old John Farren, was still the friend of the young man.
{252}
An hour later, and the round table, on which stood mugs of porter
and glasses, was surrounded by men, members of the musical club,
conversing on a subject deeply interesting to them all. One of
them--a very tall man, with large, flashing eyes and a noble and
expressive countenance--was addressed as "Master Handel;"
another, simple in his dress and plain in his exterior, with a
world of shrewdness and waggery in his laughing eyes, was William
Hogarth, the painter.
They were talking about the composer's great work, _The
Messiah_, which Handel had not as yet been able to get
properly represented. Hogarth was urging an application to the
Duke of Bedford. Handel, disgusted at his want of success
hitherto, was reluctant to sue for the favor of any patron to
have his best work brought before the public.
"If his grace only comprehended a note of it!" he exclaimed
petulantly; "but he knows no more of music than that lout of a
linen-weaver in Yorkshire."
"Whom you corrected with your fist, when he blundered with your
_Saul_!" cried the painter. "You should have learned better
policy, my good master, from your eight-and-twenty years in
England! A stupid, great nobleman can do no harm to a work of
art! If I dealt only with those who understood my work, my wife
and children might starve."
Handel was leaning on the table, his face buried in his hands.
His thoughts were wandering toward Germany. When he spoke, it was
to express his bitter regret that he had left his fatherland just
as new life in art began to be stirring. While the Germans
achieved greatness in music, he had been tormenting himself in
vain with dolts of singers and musicians in England, whose hard
heads could not take in a notion of music! "I will return to
Germany!" he concluded. "Better a cowherd there than here
director of the Haymarket Theatre, or chapelmaster to his
majesty, who, with his court rabble, takes such delight in the
warblings of that foppish Italian--Farinelli."
Some other members came in to join them, among them the young
German, Joseph Wach. Handel nodded kindly to him, and asked how
he was getting on with his part.
"I am very industrious, Master Handel, and will do my best,"
replied Joseph. "You shall hear me soon."
The conversation about the new work was resumed. The Abbé Dubos
described how the chorus, "The glory of the Lord shall be
revealed," had sounded all night in his ears. "Your glory, Master
Handel, will be revealed through your _Messiah_ when once
you can get it brought out. I understand the lord archbishop is
against it!"
The flush of anger rushed to Handel's brow. "The lord
archbishop!" he repeated scornfully. "He offered to compose me a
text for the _Messiah_, and when I asked if he thought I
knew nothing of the Bible, or if he expected to improve the Holy
Scriptures, he turned his back on me, and represented me to the
court as a rude, thankless boor."
Master Tyers, the lessee of Vauxhall, remarked that it was not
politic to speak one's mind too openly, especially with the
great. Dr. Hualdy tried to soothe the irritated composer by
speaking of the admiration he had already won, after a long
struggle with ignorance and intrigue.
{253}
"What care I," interrupted Handel, "for the admiration of fools
and knaves!"
There were many to give the "soft answer" which "turneth away
wrath," and to deprecate too severe a judgment of the English
people because they had accomplished little in the glorious art
and failed at once to recognize the best. "Admitting," added the
abbé, "that the court and nobles have done you injustice; that we
have no such musicians and singers as in Germany; that we cannot
grasp all the grand spirit of your works, are you not,
nevertheless, idolized by the people of Britain? Lives not the
name of Handel in the mouth of honest John Bull, cherished as the
names of his proudest statesmen! Give him, then, a little
indulgence! Let us have a chance to hear your _Messiah_;
condescend to ask the aid you need in bringing it out; your honor
will not suffer, and the good you will do will be your reward!"
"That is just what I have told him!" exclaimed Hogarth. And the
others chimed in their eager assent. Even the burly host coaxed
him, and, by way of argument, said: "You know, Master Handel, how
often I have to bend to my good woman; yet it is no detriment to
my authority as master of the house."
Handel sat silent for a time, looking gloomily around the circle.
Then suddenly he burst into a laugh. "By my halidome, old
fellow," he cried, "you are right! To-morrow I _will_ go to
the Duke of Bedford. You _shall_ hear the _Messiah_,
were all the rascals in the three kingdoms against it!"
There was a burst of delighted applause from all the company. The
fat landlord gave a leap of joy, and Joseph clasped his hands;
for he knew Handel's success would be the making of his own and
Ellen's fortune.
Handel waited on the Duke of Bedford, who happened to be giving a
grand breakfast. The duke prized the reputation of a patron of
the arts, and knew well that Handel's absence from court and the
circles of the nobility was owing more to his disregard of the
forms and ceremonies held indispensable than to any want of
esteem for the composer. His oratorio of _Saul_ had won him
proud distinction. When informed that Handel had called on him,
the duke himself came out to welcome him and lead him into the
drawing-rooms. But the composer drew back, saying he had come to
solicit a favor. The duke then took him into his cabinet, and
listened graciously to his petition that he "would be pleased to
set right the heads of the Lord Mayor and the Archbishop of
London, so that they should cease laying hindrances in the way of
the representation of the _Messiah_."
The duke not only listened, but promised to use all his means and
influence to remove the obstacles. Handel knew he could depend on
the promise. He accepted the invitation to join the company with
joy, when he heard that his celebrated countryman, Kellermann,
was there and engaged in the duke's service.
His grace led in and introduced his distinguished guest. The
sight of the great composer produced a sensation. Handel cared
nothing for the noble company, but greeted his old friend
Kellermann with all the warmth of his nature. They had a cordial
talk together, while the idol of the London fashionables, Signor
Farinelli, hemmed and cleared his throat over the piano, in token
that he was about to sing, and wanted Kellermann to accompany
him.
{254}
The musician at length noticed his uneasiness, pressed his
friend's hand, returned to his place, and took up his flute,
while Farinelli began a melting air in his sweet, clear voice.
Handel, a powerful man, austere and vigorous in nature, abhorred
the singing of such effeminate creatures, and despised the
luxurious ornamentation of the Italian's style. Farinelli's soft
trilling was accompanied by Kellermann on the flute with
dexterous imitation. Handel laughed inwardly to see the effect on
the company. The ladies were in raptures; and, when Farinelli
ceased, the most eager applause rewarded him.
The duke introduced the Italian to Handel. Farinelli complimented
him in broken English, said he had heard that "Signor AEndel had
composed una opera--il _Messia_," and begged to know, with a
complacent smile, if there would be a part in the opera for "il
famous musico Farinelli?"
Handel surveyed the ornamented little figure from head to foot,
and answered in his deepest bass tone, "No, signora."
There was suppressed laughter, and the ladies covered their
faces. Not long afterward Handel took his leave, with his friend
Hogarth, who was a guest.
----
The _Messiah_ was announced for representation. But an
unexpected difficulty presented itself. The lady who had been
engaged to sing the first soprano part sent word that she was ill
and could not sing; and the oratorio had to be postponed.
Handel knew it was mere caprice on the part of the spoiled
prima-donna, and was excessively indignant. When he heard from
the leader of the orchestra that a second postponement might be
necessary, he roundly declared it should not be. "It _shall_
take place!" he exclaimed, and set off to call upon the signora
himself.
Signora Lucia, the Italian vocalist, that morning held a
_levée_ of her admirers. Their conversation, as she reclined
on a couch in a graceful _déshabillé_, was of "il barbaro
Tedesco," his unreasonable expectations, and the pleasure the
beautiful singer took in disappointing him. "He dared to order me
about at rehearsal!" she cried. "For that, he shall not have his
troublesome oratorio performed at all!" The gentlemen applauded
her spirit. Then it was related how the fair singer Cuzzoni had
refused to sing some music in Handel's opera, and he had gone to
her room, seized her, and, rushing to the open window, had held
her out at arms' length, threatening to drop her unless she
promised to sustain her part.
"He shall find me harder to deal with," said the beauty
languidly. Just then the name of the great composer was
announced, and Handel's heavy step was heard in the hall. The
gentlemen visitors huddled themselves off in such confusion, they
could only retreat behind the couch, drawing the damask curtain
over the recess so as to conceal them.
Lucia was uneasy, but maintained her composure. Handel, however,
had not come, as she expected, to entreat her to sing. He stood
near the door, and, vouchsafing no salutation, haughtily demanded
her _part_.
The singer made no answer, and Handel strode forward. Lucia
sprang up, seized the bell, and rang it violently, but not one of
her admirers answered the call. Handel advanced, and coolly
lifted the curtain behind the sofa, revealing the group of
terrified Italians. He laughed scornfully, and again demanded her
part of the signora.
{255}
In unutterable passion, she snatched up a roll of music from the
table and flung it at the composer. He picked it up, bowed
ironically, and walked out of the room. The anger of Lucia with
her cowardly friends who had not interfered to avenge this
insult, and their confusion, may be imagined.
Handel had punished the capricious singer, but he could find no
one to take her place. His friends sympathized in his distress,
but could offer no aid nor consolation. Hogarth thought he
underrated the Italians, and was too conceited. "You remember,"
he said, "when Correggio's Leda was sold in London at auction for
ten thousand guineas, I said, 'I will paint something as good for
such a sum.' Lord Grosvenor took me at my word, I painted my
picture, and he called his friends together to look at it. They
all laughed at me, and I had to take back my picture."
Handel replied that the old Italian painters were worthy of all
respect, and so were the old Italian church composers. The modern
ones he thought, in their way, more or less like Signor
Farinelli.
The day before the oratorio was to be produced Handel sat in his
study reviewing the work. Now he would smile over a passage, now
pause over something that did not satisfy him, pondering,
striking out, and altering to suit his judgment. At length his
eyes rested on the last "Amen," long, long, till a tear fell on
the leaf.
"This work," he said solemnly, and looking upwards, "is my best!
Receive my best thanks, O benevolent Father! Thou, Lord! hast
given it me; and what comes forth from thee, that endureth,
though all things earthly perish. Amen."
He laid aside the notes, and walked a few times up and down the
room, then seated himself in his easy-chair. His pupil, Joseph,
opened the door softly and came in. Handel started from his
reverie, and asked what he wanted. The young man, with an air of
mystery, begged the master to come with him.
In a few moments they were in a room in the upper story of Master
Farren's tavern, a room where Joseph practised his music. There,
to Handel's no small astonishment, he saw the host's pretty
daughter, Ellen.
"What may all this mean?" he asked, while his brow darkened.
"What do you here, Miss Ellen, in this young man's study?"
"He may tell you that himself, Master Handel," answered the
damsel, turning away her blushing face.
Joseph hastened to say, "I am ready to answer, dear master, for
what we do."
"Open your mouth, and speak, then," said Handel sternly.
"You have done much for me, dear master," said Joseph with
emotion. "When I came a stranger and penniless, you put me in the
way of earning a support. You gave me instruction in music and
singing, spending hours you might have given to doing something
great."
"And does the fool think making a good singer was not doing
something great--eh?"
"And I have tried to make a singer for you!" said the young man.
"Will you hear her?" And he pointed to Ellen.
Handel, in his surprise, opened his eyes wide as he looked at the
damsel.
"Yes--Ellen!" she repeated, coming close to him, and lifting her
clear, hazel eyes to his face. "Now you know, Master Handel, what
Joseph and I have been about, and for what I am here in his
study."
{256}
"We wanted to be of service in your dilemma," said Joseph. "Shall
Ellen sing before you, Master Handel?"
Handel seated himself: "I am curious to see how your teaching has
succeeded," he said. "Come, let her begin."
Joseph went to the piano, and Ellen stood beside him.
The part she took was that of the first soprano, the one taken
from Signora Lucia. Handel started as the young girl's voice
rose, clear, silvery, floating--a voice of the purest quality!
How he listened when he heard the most splendid portion of his
forthcoming work--the glorious air, "I know that my Redeemer
liveth"--and how Ellen sang it may be conjectured when, after she
had ceased, the composer sat motionless, a happy smile on his
lips, his eyes full of tears. At length he drew a deep breath,
arose, kissed the maiden's forehead, kissed her eyes, in which
also bright drops were glancing, and said with profound feeling:
"Ellen, my good--good child--you will sing this part to-morrow at
the representation?"
"Master Handel! _Father_ Handel cried the maiden, and threw
herself, sobbing, on his neck. Joseph rattled off a jovial air to
cover his emotion.
------
"Amen!" resounded through the arches of the church, and died away
in whispered melody in its remotest aisles. "Amen!" responded
Handel, while he slowly let fall the staff with which he had kept
time. His immortal masterpiece had produced an immense
impression: his fame was established for all time.
When the great composer descended the church steps, he was
informed that his majesty had sent for him, and that a carriage
was waiting, by the royal command, to convey him to Carlton
House.
George the Second received the artist with a gracious welcome,
and he read his triumph in the faces of the court nobles.
"You have made us a noble present in your _Messiah_, Master
Handel," said the monarch. "It is a brave piece of work!"
"_Is it?_" asked the composer, looking in the king's face,
and well pleased.
"It is, indeed," replied George. "And now, tell me what I can do
for you."
"If your majesty," answered Handel, "will give a place to the
young man who sang the tenor solo part, I shall be grateful.
Joseph Wach is my pupil, and _he_ has a pupil too, Master
Farren's daughter; but they cannot marry till Joseph finds a
place. The old dame will not consent, and your majesty knows the
women bear rule."
The king's smile was a forced one, for a sore point in his
experience was touched. "I know nothing of the sort," he said.
"But your pupil shall have a place as first tenor in our chapel."
Handel thanked his majesty with sincere pleasure. The king seemed
to expect him to ask more.
"Have you nothing," at length he said, "to ask for yourself? We
would thank you, in your own person, for the fair entertainment
provided in your _Messiah_."
Handel crimsoned as he heard this, and he answered in a tone of
disappointment: "Sire, I have endeavored not to _entertain_
you, but to make you better."
All the courtly company looked their astonishment. Even King
George was surprised. Then, bursting into a hearty fit of
laughter, he walked up to the composer and slapped him
good-naturedly on the shoulder. "You are, and ever will be, a
rough old fellow, Handel," said he; "but a good fellow withal! Do
as you will, we shall always be the best friends in the world!"
{257}
Handel retired from the audience, and was glad to escape to his
favorite haunt, Master Farren's tavern. Joseph and Ellen were
there, awaiting his return. His news brought them great joy.
In the last years of Handel's life, when his sight failed him, it
was Ellen who nursed him faithfully as if she had been his own
child, while her husband wrote down his last compositions.
------
Translated from Les Études Religieuses, etc.
The Title Of The Kings Of England
Defensor Fidei:
Its Signification And Its Origin.
If an Englishman will take a pound sterling of the present year,
he will find around the effigy of Queen Victoria the words,
_Defensor Fidei_, a title which the sovereigns of Great
Britain have been proud to bear for more than three centuries.
From whom did they receive it? Why was it given to them? What did
it originally mean, and what does it mean now?
Henry VIII. received this title from the pope as a personal
privilege, and one that he had ardently desired and solicited for
a long time. It was conferred by a bull of Leo X., confirmed by
Clement VII. No one is ignorant on what occasion. Luther had left
the church. He was sowing his heresy in Germany, declaring that
the pope was Antichrist, and declaiming with furious rage against
Rome in his impious work, _The Captivity of Babylon_. Henry
VIII., indignant at the effort to mislead the people, replied in
a book called _Assertio septem sacramentorum adversus Martinum
Lutherum_. We regret that the space to which we are limited
prevents us making copious citations from it; for our readers
would then see that it would be impossible for any one to
proclaim a more devoted attachment to the holy see than did Henry
VIII. at that time. These pages are more than three centuries
old; but to-day, when war against the papacy is more bitter than
ever, we know of none among the contemporary works which defend
the church more filially and more warmly.
{258}
If at the time when Henry VIII., full of joy, received the bull
of Leo X., amid the hearty congratulations of his people, a man
had stood before him and said: Sire, in less than fourteen years
you will belie all your protestations of filial devotedness and
submission to the Vicar of Jesus Christ; you will rebel against
the Roman Church in just as striking a way as Martin Luther has
done; you will proclaim yourself the head of the Church of
England; you will be the author of a schism which will make blood
flow in torrents and will desolate England, Scotland, and Ireland
for more than three centuries; you, the victorious Henry VIII.,
who would be the delight of your people if you were the master of
your passions instead of being their slave; you will become the
Nero of England: had such words been spoken, their author would
have been looked upon as insane. The proud and passionate Tudor
would have exhausted his ingenuity in inventing means to torture
a traitor like this. But, at the end of 1534, he who would
venture to print this book, which had purchased for Henry VIII.
the title which the sovereigns of England are so proud to use
even to-day, would have been declared guilty of high treason.
Thus, God has wished that the very coins of his country shall
become for the Englishman who reflects and studies a precious and
lasting historical monument of the ancient faith of the country,
the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman faith, the faith of France, of
Spain, of Italy, of Austria, and of all Christianity. The title
_Defensor Fidei_ signified at that time defender of the
Roman Faith. What does it mean now? After 1534, Henry VIII.
pretended to defend the Catholic faith, by refusing obedience to
the pope and submitting to his own spiritual supremacy, a new
star in the firmament of the church.
Under the reign of Edward VI., or rather under that of the two
successive protectors, the Dukes of Somerset and Northumberland,
the faith was defended in the shape of the Forty-two Articles. It
was no longer the Catholic faith in its purity.
Under the reign of Elizabeth, the governess of the Church of
England, the creed of Edward VI. was modified, and the faith was
now declared to consist in the Thirty-nine Articles.
Since Elizabeth these Thirty-Nine Articles have continued to be
the official creed of the established church. In a country where
custom holds such sway, all the members of the Anglican clergy
are obliged to profess their faith in these articles under oath;
but do we see that the queen and her privy council exact the
performance of this oath? It would be answered that such a thing
has become impracticable, and that no one is held to the
performance of the impossible. We cheerfully agree to this, for
we are not in the habit of contesting what is plainly evident.
The striking and multiplied facts of contemporaneous history will
at last compel every serious-minded man to ask himself this
question: Is not the title _Defensor Fidei_ very much like
that of _King of France_ which the sovereign of England
renounced in the beginning of this century, without really losing
anything? To tell the truth, they are "defenders of the faith" in
much the same manner as Victor Emmanuel is King of Cyprus and
Jerusalem.
If we were English, we would delight in publishing a truly
apostolic book, which would contain little of our own
intellectual labor, except, perhaps, the choice of materials and
the manner of arranging them; nor would it be a controversial
work, for controversy only embitters an opponent; and, if our
readers will permit a playful but striking comparison, we would
make our adversaries appear like two inimical squirrels, who will
continually run about in a circle, with fiery looks and lively
motions, yet never getting one step nearer to each other.
{259}
We should make the calm and impartial voice of history speak, and
our publication would be called _Historical Documents on the
Title of the Kings of England, Defensor Fidei._
Large books find few readers nowadays, and so we would make ours
very brief; its contents these: The affirmation of the seven
sacraments against Martin Luther by Henry VIII., with the defence
of his book by John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; the bull of Leo
X., which gave Henry VIII. the title of _Defensor Fidei_;
the act of parliament which declared Henry VIII. supreme head of
the Church of England; the Forty-two Articles of Anglican faith
under the reign of Elizabeth and her successors; the profession
of faith in the Thirty-nine Articles exacted officially of the
Anglican clergy; and, finally, the profession of faith of Pius
IV., which contains the whole doctrine of the Holy Council of
Trent. We would give the Latin text of all those documents and a
good English translation, so that the exactness of the
translation could be verified. We would crown our work with a
little complementary appendix, which would give our readers an
insight of the privy council of the queen in ecclesiastical
matters--_Optima legum interpres consuetudo_. Showing on one
side an abstract of the condemnations inflicted upon the
Puseyites for having professed Catholic doctrines denied by the
Anglican Church; and, on the other, the recapitulation of the
principal acts, which have favored so-called evangelical and even
rationalistic tendencies in the very heart of the establishment,
and which are recalled by the names, now become so famous, of
Gorham, Hampden, and Colenso. Nor should we omit the nomination
of a bishop of Jerusalem, made with such touching concord by
England and her Protestant sister, Prussia. This characteristic
fact impresses the seal of worldly policy on the forehead of the
Anglican Church.
What can make a book more attractive than fine engravings? And so
our manual would contain the portraits of all the kings and
queens of England who have born the title of _Defensor
Fidei_; and, in this gallery of sovereigns, would figure in
his place the sombre protector Cromwell, who was a defender of
the faith in a manner peculiarly his own. Facing the rulers of
England, we would place the popes of Rome. We should strictly
deny ourselves the pleasure of making any commentaries. We should
content ourselves with a single exposition of authentic facts,
and look for the fruit of our book from the grace of God, who
enlightens the mind and touches the heart in his own good time,
and from the good sense, the integrity, and well-known
straightforward spirit of the English nation.
Our reader has no need for us to tell him what the subject of
this work would be. He sees clearly that this book of Henry VIII.
against Luther, and its defence by John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester--a book now extremely rare, buried, as it were, in the
dust of a few libraries as an archaeological curiosity, or at
most only quoted to show the monstrous self-contradictions that
Henry VIII. exhibited--that this book, we say, is the most
authentic and precious monument of the ancient and Catholic faith
in England, and, at the same time, a refutation in advance of the
Anglican schism, of all the Anglican heresies, and of the
Lutheran diatribes of Anglicanism against the pope as Antichrist,
and Rome as a new Babylon.
{260}
Is there not a sign in this very work of wondrous divine
predilection for England, and a distant preparation for a future,
such as we see with so much joy, springing from the seed sown
then, centuries ago?
In religious and wise England many souls are eagerly seeking the
unity and antiquity of the Christian faith; like others, who have
preceded them in finding the fold of Christ, they are ready to
make the most heroic sacrifices as soon as they have discovered
the pearl without price. These brothers are already Catholic by
the aspirations of their hearts. Perhaps many belong already,
without their own knowledge and without ours, to the soul of the
only true church, because they have validly received holy
baptism, which has made them members of Jesus Christ and children
of the church; because they are only material heretics; and
because they walk in humility in the way that he who is the only
Mediator attracts them by his grace. They always take a step in
the true faith at each new light that they receive from heaven.
These Christians whom we respect and love, and who love us, honor
their country more than we can readily express. We cannot think
of them without the deepest interest and sympathetic veneration.
With the exception of the trials of Pius IX., the father of the
Christian universe, the most venerable and the most magnanimous
of all the oppressed, except this holy, old man, this pontiff
king, surrounded by his legion of Machabees, crowned with his
gray locks, his virtues, and his misfortunes, we know of nothing
so beautiful as the devotion of our Catholic brothers of England,
Scotland, and Ireland to God and his church, and the divine
assistance which continually rallies new neophytes about them
when God calls them. It is a flood destined to overspread the
land. "Wonderful are the surges of the sea." [Footnote 37]
[Footnote 37: Psalm xc. 4.]
A religious of one of the missionary orders recently wrote from
India concerning a Protestant lady whom he had met, and said,
"Her conversation made me think that she was only a Protestant by
mistake." How many Englishmen to-day are only Anglicans by
mistake!
While the Episcopal Church is falling to pieces under the
disintegrating influence of Protestantism, which is its essence,
and of rationalism, which has invaded it, as the lamented Robert
Wilberforce has clearly shown, [Footnote 38] many Christians born
within its communion, but animated by a different spirit which
urges them to the divine centre of Catholicity, are no longer
willing to build their faith on the shifting sand of human
opinions, and cement a religious society by the dissolving
principle of private judgment. For them the authority and the
common faith of the universal church are necessary: they demand
the integrity of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the sacred
guardian of apostolic traditions. For such as these, the book of
Henry VIII. and John Fisher is a most striking monument of the
unity and antiquity of the faith, a sort of beacon to show all in
the great impending shipwreck of religion in England what
direction they must take in order to find safety.
[Footnote 38: The principle of authority in the church.]
You who seek the unity of the faith, then, "one heart and one
soul," [Footnote 39] see in what splendor she shines here.
[Footnote 39: Acts iv. 32.]
{261}
It is the King of England, and with him the most pious and
learned English bishop of the sixteenth century, who makes his
profession of faith, who glories in his submission to the
authority of the pope, who defends the seven sacraments. Does a
single bishop protest? Are Oxford and Cambridge silent? Do the
secular and regular clergy, the parliament, the laymen of every
condition of life, all acquiesce? Does not a single Englishman
present this respectful remonstrance: "Sire, you are sacrificing
the rights and prerogatives of your crown! A King of England
submit to the pope! Is not one king the supreme head of the
church? You defend seven sacraments: how so when there are only
two?"
It was, then, evidently the faith of England that Henry VIII. and
John Fisher defended; and this monument, reared before the schism
and different creeds that it has created, shows us that those who
would dare to deny the doctrines there put forth would be
considered innovators, which, in the church of Jesus Christ, has
always been considered synonymous with heretics.
But if this book is the monument of the faith of England in the
sixteenth century, before 1534, it is at the same time a monument
of the Roman faith, that is to say, of the faith of the Catholic
Church. At that time, when the pontiffs were more than usually
vigilant on account of the heresies which were springing up in
the various countries of Europe, two popes, Leo X. and Clement
VII., were not content with sanctioning the work of Henry VIII.,
but gave and confirmed to him the title of the "Defender of the
Faith." England declared her belief; Rome, and through her the
Catholic Church, answered: "Your faith is ours; we congratulate
you on your able defence of it." Here was indeed unity and
unanimity.
Is this all the light that we can gather from this source? This
monument was erected in the midst of the religious life of
England, between its Roman Catholic past, of more than a thousand
years from the birth of the Anglo-Saxon Church, and its
schismatic future, which would count more than three hundred
years. Nowhere can one better stand to see the different policies
and course travelled by England than here: once as the cherished
daughter of the Roman Church, the sister of Catholic nations; and
then how she has changed since she rebelled against Rome, and has
gone on in her isolation, sufficient for herself, Christian in
her own way, even while an oecumenical council was assembled.
The Roman Catholic past of England is known by the certain
evidence of history; and from the monument of Henry VIII., which
can well be considered its terminus, we propose to cast a hasty
glance at its most distant events; and of these by far the most
interesting are the glorious acts of the pontificate of Pope St.
Gregory the Great, who sent missionaries to convert his dear
English, although yet idolaters, and who chose their first bishop
from the Benedictine monks of his convent at Rome. What unity,
what unanimity between Rome and England in the time of the monk
St. Augustine! It was the union of a daughter and mother: it was
precisely the same union, the same faith, in the sixth as in the
sixteenth century, until 1534.
The sixth century makes us go far back in the history of the
church; but, in admiring the apostolic works of St. Augustine and
his companion, we find about them precious and striking witnesses
of a past yet more distant.
{262}
St. Augustine convokes the bishops of the Britons to beg them to
aid him in converting the Saxons to Christianity. He
acknowledged, then, that the Britons were in the same communion,
and professed the same Roman Catholic faith. Indeed, if the
Britons were wrong in refusing their help, it was only because of
their hatred against their oppressors, for the ancient British
Church was never separated from the communion of the Roman
Church, never lost the purity of the Catholic faith. [Footnote
40]
[Footnote 40: See _The Monks of the West_,
by M. le Comte de Montalembert.]
Pelagius, it is true, was a Briton, and his heresy, which he
first sowed at Rome, was not long in reaching Great Britain, yet
it never took deep root there. The British Catholics sent a
deputation to the bishops of Gaul, urging them to send a number
of missionaries to them. Pope Celestine, warned of the danger to
the faith, sent St. Germain of Auxerre; the bishops of Gaul,
assembled for this purpose, added St. Loup of Troyes. These two
great bishops left their peaceful flocks in all haste to come to
the rescue of the invaded folds; and while they were working so
faithfully for the glory of God and of his holy church, all
Catholic Gaul was praying most fervently for its sister, Great
Britain. Pelagianism was vanquished and found no home in the land
of Pelagius; it was in another land that it made its most
deplorable ravages.
Thus it was in Great Britain that the bishops, who are
established by the Holy Spirit to govern the church, [Footnote
41] triumphed over this sad and insidious heresy, when they were
free to exercise their divine mission in that country, and when
they were closely united to the centre of unity.
[Footnote 41: Acts xx. 28.]
There was something like it in the fourteenth century, when the
heresy of Wickliff arose. He was condemned by the council of
London, (1382,) although an Englishman, and one who had studied
at Oxford, and who had been the principal of the College of
Canterbury, at once the flatterer and the favorite of his
sovereigns. His doctrine, which contained the germ of all the
Anglicanism of the time of Elizabeth, caused considerable trouble
in England; but, thanks to the firmness of the episcopate, these
troubles are not to be compared with those from which Bohemia
suffered, where John Huss taught the same heresy.
Before the Anglican "reform," which has created a system before
unheard of, and which unites calumny with historical delusions,
every Englishman was proud to claim for his country the honor of
having preserved the faith always in its purity from the time
that the gospel had first been preached there. [Footnote 42]
[Footnote 42: According to the Venerable Bede, Catholic
missionaries were sent there in the second century of our
era, by Pope Eleutherius.]
Was England, then, in error? If so, she has deceived herself and
all Christendom; and this universal error has lasted from the
pontificate of Pope St. Eleutherius, to that of Pope Clement
VII., a period of more than thirteen hundred and fifty years! We
must say that anyone who looks upon this fact as of slight
importance would greatly astonish us. Where do they think that
the true church of Jesus Christ was during these long centuries,
that church against which the gates of hell shall not prevail?
[Footnote 43] Did it disappear, this city of God, which was to be
placed on the mountain and seen by all people? [Footnote 44]
Surely the spirit of delusion and darkness must be very potent
when it can make a pious Englishman declare that the glory of the
English Church was reduced to nothing before the sixteenth
century, and that then Henry VIII. and Cranmer, an infamous
libertine and his servile courtier, were raised up to open a new
career to her.
[Footnote 43: St. Mark xvi. 18.]
[Footnote 44: St. Matthew v. 14.]
{263}
Yet England, notwithstanding its modern religious state, is not
revolutionary. She loves order as warmly as she does liberty.
Even in religion, she desires by subordination the only means of
preserving it.
How much light for Anglicans of good faith (and they are
numerous) shines in the violent and even indecent attacks made by
their preachers and historians upon the greatest names of
Catholic England--names that England revered in former times with
the whole Christian world--names still dear to the Catholic
Church, albeit they are now almost unknown in England. To efface
so much glory, it was needful that a new kind of glory should
appear and dazzle by its very contrast.
At the end of 1534, and still more definitively in 1559, at the
commencement of the reign of Elizabeth, the Roman Catholic Church
and the Anglican Church were violently separated; they no more
profess the same creed, they have no longer the same worship,
their hierarchies are strangers, they mutually reproach each with
not being the true church of Jesus Christ. It is from the
monument of Henry VIII. and John Fisher that we can see the
different paths they followed and the daily increasing difference
which has separated them.
For the Roman Church this epoch was one of those glorious
epiphanies which our Lord Jesus Christ prepares for it in
different times, and of which the joys are sown in tears. After a
sterile and desolate winter a spring appeared for the divine
tree, full of sap, and perfumed with celestial blossoms, followed
by a summer and autumn, rich in precious fruits of sanctity, of
knowledge, and charity. The Council of Trent was convoked in 1542
by Paul III. for the spread and exaltation of the Christian
faith, for the extirpation of heresies, the peace and union of
the church, _for the reformation of the clergy and the
Christian people_, for the repression and extinction of the
enemies of the Christian name. The evils that existed were
fearful. The holy council, with the divine assistance, acquitted
itself of its task in a manner which would bring a speedy and
certain remedy to all the prevalent abuses. God, the supreme King
of kings, recompensed so many generous efforts on the part of his
faithful people by according to them, before the end of the
sixteenth century, under the glorious pontificate of St. Pius V.,
that memorable victory of Lepanto, which crowned the work of the
crusades and shattered for ever the power of the Mussulman.
But what avail the laws the most salutary in the bosom of nations
profoundly ignorant and deeply corrupt, if there do not rise in
their midst men powerful in word and work to instruct them, and,
above all, to regenerate them by the irresistible attraction of
the most heroic virtue? It was then God raised up in Italy, in
France, in Spain, in Germany, _true reformers_, who, after
the example of their divine Master, began to act before they
began to teach. Their names are too well known to need mention
here. They compelled men to acknowledge the divine tree by its
fruits. They professed the faith proclaimed by the Council of
Trent, which was nothing else than the faith of Nice in its
legitimate development. The faith of Nice was the faith of the
apostles. This faith of the apostles, of Nice, of all the
oecumenical councils, is the faith to-day of the Roman Church in
the solemn profession of faith of Pius. IV., which is a
_résumé_ of all the doctrine of the holy Council of Trent.
{264}
As for England, in separating from the Roman Church she commenced
the history of her variations: she entered upon that downward
path of religious decline which naturally ends in a sudden
descent into the gulf of scepticism. With a creed subject to the
changing will of man, she was Anglican after one fashion under
Henry VIII., after another fashion under Edward VI., after a
third under Elizabeth, and now, to the inexpressible confusion
and grief of those pious Christians born and nurtured in the
bosom of the established church, she has arrived, step by step,
at a point where she offers the spectacle of a chaos of
incoherent doctrines, some true, some false, some orthodox,
others heretical, some pious, others monstrously wicked, but all
tolerated out of respect for the genius of the individuals who
took the pains to invent them; all publicly and peaceably taught
beneath the standard of the Thirty-nine Articles. _Le pavilion
couvre la marchandise_.
While so many great servants of God and his poor, venerated and
blessed throughout the rest of Christendom, adorned the Roman
Church, unfortunate England, shut up in its island and still
closer imprisoned by an atrocious religious persecution, saw
generations of her children grow up in hate, contempt, and horror
of popery and papists. Every source of education, all the pulpits
of the Anglican Church, all books allowed to be published, helped
to keep up this spirit of ignorant and bigoted hate against the
church of God.
While St. Vincent de Paul, that great reformer of the clergy and
saintly founder of world-wide works of charity, prepared,
together with so many other apostolic men, the glory and
prosperity of our present great age; in sanctifying the family,
divinely instituted as the practical school of social virtues; in
arousing a spirit of generous devotion and sacrifice which led
men to comfort all forms of misery and reconcile rich and
poor--those brethren so easily made enemies--England was
deprived of all her religious orders, consecrated in former times
to the service of the poor and the sick, to the education of
youth, to the stubborn labors of science, to the contemplation of
divine things, to the crucified life, the life of prayer, the
life of the soul, against which the world blasphemes because it
cannot comprehend it. She lost the blessings of a celibate
clergy: she was despoiled of the sacred patrimony of the poor by
her king and lords, who distributed it among themselves, together
with the greater part of the wealth of the church, as the enemy's
spoils are divided and shared after a victory. (We intend to be
polite.) England beheld the wound of pauperism open wider each
day, and found herself forced to have recourse to the poor-tax,
unheard of in old Catholic times. Within her boundaries will be
found to-day an excessive wealth in face of poverty unknown
elsewhere. By the constant progress of science and industry,
machine labor tends to replace the labor of the individual, and
self-aggrandizement diminishes wages in proportion as it augments
the daily task of the workman. What a harvest would be offered to
the works of Catholic charity if her divine activity were only
there to replace the horrible workhouses where souls are
withering and dying! We yet have in France and elsewhere the
money of St. Vincent de Paul in an innumerable number of works of
charity truly Christian, and that enables us to live without
taxing the poor.
{265}
Such are the different paths which the Roman and Anglican Church
have followed since the deplorable schism of Henry VIII., renewed
and aggravated under Elizabeth. If before his death Henry VIII.
had repented of his wicked attack upon the church, what would he
have been obliged to do to reconcile himself with Rome? He would
have needed only to return to that profession of faith which he
made in his book against Luther. Since the beginning of the
Anglican schism, and at any point of its successive variations,
any Englishman, to return to the bosom of the Catholic Church,
would have nothing to do but to return to that same profession,
conformable in every point to the profession of faith of Pius IV.
This is what has been done in our own day by Father Spencer,
Archbishop Manning, Fathers Newman and Faber, Palmer and
Wilberforce, and a host of others, eminent for their virtues,
their knowledge, their public and private character, whom no
Englishman capable of appreciating the merit of sacrifices made
for God and in fidelity to conscience can name without respect
and pride.
But possibly some of our readers may be astonished that we insist
so strongly upon the book written by Henry VIII., for it might
seem that the shameful life of the author reflects discredit upon
the work. Let us not be mistaken. In the first place, when Henry
VIII. wrote against Luther, he was very far from being the
monster of iniquity which he became afterward, and whose history
I leave to the severe judgment of a Christian Tacitus. Again, it
is important to understand that Henry VIII. was not the sole
author of this monument of his former faith reared by his hand
fourteen years before his apostasy. The universal judgment of
critics has always attributed the more solid part of the work, at
least, to John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who assumed
ostensibly all the responsibility of it in the public defence he
made of it.
Thus we see, on the one hand, Henry VIII., who, after putting
forth his work with so much ostentation, belied it without shame
and strove to mutilate it; and, on the other, John Fisher, who
plants it upon the immovable rock where he had taken his place,
and with glorious magnanimity sacrifices his life to defend it
This is the choice offered. He who returns to the ancient faith
of Henry VIII. separates himself from the tyrant and the
murderer, and joins himself to the company of his victim. He
ranks himself beside the glorious martyr who, during the second
half of King Henry's reign, was, of all the episcopate of
England, the only guardian left of English honor, and the last
champion of the liberty of conscience.
An unwelcome truth, but a hard fact. In 1521, at the time of the
publication of the king's book against Luther, the whole English
episcopate most undoubtedly believed in the primacy of the pope
with Fisher, with Henry VIII., with all the Catholic Church, and
in no sense believed in the spiritual supremacy of the king. Then
there was unity and unanimity, and the present and past of
England were in harmony. But in 1534 the king changes his
doctrine, and with him the whole episcopate and parliament. One
English bishop only was found to display the firmness of a Basil,
a Hilary, an Athanasius, an Ambrose, a Chrysostom, a Lanfranc, an
Anselm, an Edward, a Thomas of Canterbury. The number of the
cowards does but make the immortal beauty of the contrast shine
out with the greater splendor. How many rough stones are not
thrown together pell-mell in their shapelessness and obscurity,
to form the foundation of the pedestal of one chosen stone,
carved with the sublime inspiration of genius by the chisel of a
Michael Angelo, to become the statue of a great man!
{266}
If John Fisher, like the heroic Thomas More, had not the support
of his own nation, he had that of all Christendom. Yes, the
monument of John Fisher is worthy to become the rallying point of
every generous-hearted Christian Englishman, who ardently looks
for the realization of the promise and dearest wish of our common
Redeemer and Saviour, Jesus Christ--There shall be one flock and
one Shepherd.
With what indescribable emotion the heart of an Englishman must
beat when, after a long interior combat with so many prejudices
in which he has been nurtured, he at last breaks the chains of
his slavery, and when, feeling himself free with that liberty
which only a Catholic can feel, he cries out: "I'll do it: I
abjure the schism of Henry VIII., the creed of Cranmer and
Parker; I will go back to the faith of John Fisher!"
Such, doubtless, were the sentiments of the pious and learned
Robert Wilberforce when he returned to the bosom of the holy
Catholic Church. His words, so serious, so marked by the ardent
love of truth, so touching in their tone of respect and fraternal
charity for his adversaries, fall upon our ears in accents of
majestic solemnity as they echo back to us from the depths of the
tomb. This is what his hand has written whose memory is enshrined
in the noblest hearts:
"When national distinctions cease to exist, and mankind, small
and great, are assembled before God, it will be seen whether it
was wiser, like Henry VIII. and his minion Cromwell, to break
up the Church Catholic for the sake of ruling it, or, like More
and Fisher, to die for its unity."
--------
Seventy-three.
Be merry as May,
If you want to be
As merry and gay,
At seventy-three.
To be merry and gay
Though, at seventy-three,
Argues Life's primal May
Spent virtuously.
T. K.
--------
{267}
A Winged Word.
"O power of life and death
In the tongue! as the preacher saith."
Mr. Basil Andrew paused in writing and held his pen suspended,
his breath also slightly in suspense, as he contemplated his
subject anew. He had been reviewing a theological work just
published; but his thoughts had developed as he dwelt on them,
and were no longer a plan, but the torso of a plan.
He sat like one in a trance while the new idea grew; grew slowly,
almost painfully, seeming to find scant room in his brain, albeit
his brows were wide. Touches from the utmost limits of his nature
and his experience shaped and modified it: the swell of feeling
with the ray of intellect that ruled its tide; vague emotions and
vaguer speculations, in whose mists sparks of truth were
dissipated, from whose sudden meeting had sometimes sprung the
electric flash of intelligence; aspirations that had climbed
their Jacob's ladder, reason fixing the rounds till the climbers
took wings, and dazzled her with their transfigured faces;
fragments of knowledge hard and sharp-edged; stray conclusions
finding their premises, and stray premises their
conclusions--mallet and handle for blows--all working the shape
till there it stood in his brain, the perfect form of a truth.
One instant he contemplated it with rapture, while it glowed
alive under his gaze; the next, he looked outward and perceived
its relations with the world. As he did so, a wave of color swept
over his face; and, heart failing, that form was no longer to him
a living truth, but the statue of a truth.
"I might have known," he muttered, flinging his pen aside, "for
me, at least, 'all roads lead to Rome.' I believe I am
bewitched."
With that flush still upon his face, he rolled up the unfinished
manuscript, and deliberately laid it on the coals that burned
redly in the grate, where it quivered like a sentient thing. One
might fancy that the thoughts just warm from his brain still
retained some clinging sensation, telling where their rest had
been, as, stepping ashore, for a while we continue to feel the
motion of the sea on which we have been tossing. Then the edges
of the leaves blackened, slender fingers of flame stole over
them, opened them out, drew rustling leaf from leaf, scorching
them, till one sentence started out vivid as lightning on a
cloud, that sentence on which he had paused, finding it not a
conclusion, but an indication. Then a strong draught caught the
yet quivering cinders and carried them up the chimney.
"There they go in a swirl, like Dante's ghosts," he thought; and
turned away to look out into the north-eastern storm that, having
brushed the bloom from a crimson sunrising, was now, at
afternoon, rushing in power over the city. The air was thick with
snow, through which, far aloft, dark objects occasionally sailed
with the wind-witches, probably. Passers struggled in wind and
drift, and the houses seemed not sure of their footing, and had a
forlorn and smothered aspect. But Mr. Andrew perceived with
satisfaction that the mansion in which he dwelt maintained its
dignified dowager port, and that, if ever a feathery drift
presumed to alight on the doorsteps, an obsequious little flirt
of wind darted round a corner of the house and whisked it off.
{268}
While the gentleman stood there, the door of the room opened for
the first time in three hours, and Miss Madeleine, Mrs. Hayward's
niece, came in with a book in her hand. He watched her as she
crossed the room without noticing him, and, when she had seated
herself at another window, he breathed out, "How sweet is
solitude!" speaking in one of those cloudy, golden voices, such a
voice as might have swept over the chords of David's harp when
David sang.
The lady looked up, brightening for an instant as though shone
upon. Then she opened her book, and Mr. Andrew returned to his
table and read also. And there was silence for another hour.
Mr. Basil Andrew was in person rather superb, tall till he bent
slightly with a languid grace, which also hung about his motions
and his speech. But when he was excited, these mists were
scorched up. Then he grew erect as a palm-tree, the not large but
beautifully shaped eyes flashed out their crystalline blue, and
delicate lines trembled or hardened in mouth and nostril. Then,
too, it appeared that those tones of his could ring as well as
melt. If it be true that "soul is the form, and doth the body
make," the philosophical reader may be able to guess the shape of
his nose and chin. Lavater would have pronounced favorably
concerning his intellect from seeing only that significant inch
across the brows. In color he was white and flaxen-haired, but
had some indefinable glow about him, like a pale object seen in a
warm light.
Mr. Andrew at thirty-five years of age found himself in that
pause of life which, in natures too well poised for violent
reaction, comes between the disgust of unsatisfying pursuit and
the adoption of higher aims, or the disdainful and
half-despairing resumption of the former life. He awaited the
inspiring circumstance which should waft him hither or thither,
or perhaps for his soul to gather itself and make its own will
the wind's will, whichever might be more potential. Pending this
afflatus, interior or exterior, he rested upon life
"As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."
Miss Madeleine was a well enough young woman, baptized into the
church, but from an early age subjected to Protestant influences;
oscillating between the two, never very conspicuously Catholic
except when the faith was assailed, then _plus Arabe que
l'Arabie;_ at other times following out Protestantism to its
ultimate pantheism. She had a dimly remembered father and mother
somewhere in church suffering or triumphant, and occasionally,
when life seemed to her unstable, she sent out a little prayer
for or to them, a prayer too weak to find olive-leaves. This
young woman was not without power, but it escaped in reverie and
dreaming; what she meant to do so vividly imagined that she
rested there as on accomplished work. Too impetuous and flimsily
ambitious to think with profit, her mind was encumbered with
fragments of thought, often with a sparkle in them, like the
broken snow-crystals she now dropped her book to watch. In fine,
her outer life was a purposeless stupor, her inner life one of
Carlyle's "enchanted nightmares" in miniature.
{269}
As the clock struck four, Mr. Andrew closed his book and
approached his companion.
"I have been reading Thoreau's description of autumn woods," she
said, "and I feel all colored. I am steeped in crimson, and
purple, and amber, and rich tawny browns. My eyes are violet, and
my hair is golden."
"Your hair is brown, and your eyes are gray," was the
matter-of-fact reply, it being Mr. Andrew's opinion that the
girl's mind needed ballast.
"What book have you there?" she asked, settling into place.
"Oh!" just aware he still held it, "it is Father de Ravignan's
_Society and Institute of the Jesuits_--very good if one
desires information on the subject. Moreover, one is charmed to
learn that Père de Ravignan, though himself a Jesuit, has been a
magistrate and a man of his time; also that he is still a man,
and, _par excellence_, a Frenchman. The good father becomes
a little Hugoish and staccato when he refers to himself."
Since she still waited, watching him with eager, imperative eyes,
he went on. "You know the story of the Florentine and Genoese who
wished to compliment each other: 'If I were not a Genoese, I
should wish to be a Florentine,' said one. 'And I,' said the
other, 'if I were not a Florentine, should wish to be--' 'A
Genoese!' suggested the other. 'No, a Florentine!' So I, if I
were not a free-thinker, would wish to be--"
"A Catholic!" the girl broke in. "Don't deny. You already tire of
your Theodore Parker, whose intellect was to him what astronomers
call a crown of aberration. You have but to look at the church,
and faith is easy! How beautiful are thy steps, O prince's
daughter!"
"Very pretty, but not very conclusive," was the cool comment.
"You once said to me, 'Epithets are not arguments.' Allow me to
retort that apostrophes are not arguments. By the way, how
impossible it is to calculate on where you may be found, except
that it is sure to be 'in _issimo_.' The arc of your motion
takes in both poles."
Miss Madeleine relapsed again immediately, and with a somewhat
weary expression.
At the same moment the door opened wide, and Mrs. Hayward
entered, producing the effect of being preceded by a band of
music. This lady of fifty was ample, rustling, and complacent,
and, being lymphatic, was called dignified. If, on being left a
widow in straitened circumstances, and finding herself obliged to
take a few boarders, Mrs. Hayward had felt any sense of
diminished social lustre, no one had perceived it. "They pay my
housekeeping expenses," she said serenely; and immediately that
seemed the end of their being.
There is something imposing in the suave conceit of such persons.
Possessing themselves so completely, they also possess those who
approach them, abashing larger and more slowly ripening natures.
Names respectfully pronounced by them become at once names of
consequence, and trivial incidents by them related swell into
significant events. If they are something, then I am nothing, is
the thought with which we approach them; and the fact that they
are something seems so clear that the mortifying conclusion is
inevitable.
After this lady followed Mrs. Blake, obviously the wife of Mr.
Blake, also the mother of an uproarious boy of six years who
accompanied her, and who was at this moment quieted by the
possession of an enormous cake which he was devouring.
{270}
"O the cherub!" cried Miss Madeleine wickedly. "That child has
genius. See, he eats his cake in the epical manner, beginning in
the middle. Little pocket edition of his papa! Only," in an aside
to her aunt, "I hope they haven't stereotyped him. And here comes
his papa now."
A bang of the street-door, and enter Mr. Blake, rubbing his
hands, and quoting,
'It is not that my lot is low,
That bids the silent tear to flow;'
it is the cold. No, my son; no kiss now. Sydney Smith says that
there is no affection beyond seventy or below twenty degrees
Fahrenheit. Wait till I rise to the paternal temperature."
Mr. Blake was assistant editor of a second-class magazine,
considered himself literary, and had a way of saying "we
scribblers" to Mr. Andrew, which made that gentleman stiffen
slightly. While the one entertained the ladies with an account of
the immense amount of literary labor performed by him since
breakfast, the other looked from the window and absently watched
the wild wind curl itself to edge off the crest of a drift,
curling it over like the petal of a tuberose, but more thinly,
hanging, wavering, flake to flake, daintily and airily touching
the frail crystals.
"Oh! there's to be a great Christmas at your cathedral
to-morrow," Mr. Blake said to Madeleine, as they went out to
dinner. "Bassoon's going to sing, and Kohn's orchestra to play.
It will be worth seeing and hearing, especially at five o'clock.
I mean to go if I can wake. And you?"
"Yes," Madeleine said, glancing at Mr. Andrews, who flushed a
little as he nodded acquiescence.
"'Similia similibus curantur,'" he thought. "I'll go and get
cured."
"They really do things of that sort well at the cathedral," said
Mrs. Hayward patronizingly, seeming to pat a personified
cathedral on the head as she softly touched the table with her
plump white hand.
Madeleine groaned inwardly.
"Mr. Andrew," she said, "what should put me in mind of the frog
that tried to swell to the size of an ox?"
Mr. Andrew found himself unable to guess.
"But wouldn't it have been odd," she pursued, with the air of a
philosophical child, "if the frog had succeeded, and had swelled
to the size of an ox?"
Mr. Andrew admitted that it would have been a phenomenon.
"But," she concluded, with an air of infantile _naiveté_,
"it wouldn't have been anything but a great frog, would it?"
"My dear, what are you talking about?" said her aunt. "Pray eat
your dinner."
"Christmas-eve is a fast-day of obligation," says Madeleine.
A little raising of three pairs of eyebrows fanned the flame.
This young woman had a tongue of her own, and while the others
dined she entertained them with a theological discourse, which,
if not always logical, had some telling points, and which
certainly did not assist the digestion of her hearers. They sat
with very red faces, choking a little, but trying to appear
indifferent.
"Do people take bitters with their dinner?" asked Mr. Andrew, at
length. "I should think it would spoil the taste."
"I must say, Madeleine," Mrs. Hayward interposed, "that,
considering you address Protestants, and that we are all friends
of yours, you show very little regard for our feelings."
{271}
The best thing that could have been said. Madeleine melted at
once.
"O auntie!" she cried penitently, "'it is not that I love Caesar
less, but Rome more.' I own that it is you who have shown the
Christian spirit, and reminded me that centuries ago to-night the
angels sang 'Peace on earth.' I'm going to banish myself in
disgrace to the parlor. Rest you merry."
Going, into the parlor, she saw all out-doors suffused with a
soft rose-color, a blush so tender and evanescent that it seemed
everywhere but where the eye rested. "The sky side of this storm
is all a sea of fire," she thought, throwing up the window, and
drawing in a delicious breath of mingled sunshine, west wind, and
frost. "How the clouds melt! And the winds and sunbeams, with
their convex gleams, build up the blue dome of the air."
Coming in later, the others found her sitting at the piano in the
amethystine twilight, and singing a faint and far-away sounding
Gloria.
"Hush!" said Mr. Blake, pausing on the threshold, "the evening
stars have begun, that the morning stars may know. See them all
of a tremor on that sky!"
Listening to those strains of threaded silver, Mr. Andrew sat
looking into the twilight through which the grander
constellations burned with outlines unblurred by the lesser
stars. There was Orion, erect, with his girdle of worlds; Taurus,
with starred horns lowered; the Dogs, witnessed to by the liquid
brilliance of Sirius, matchless in shifting hues; the Lion, just
coming out of the East, his great paw resting on the ecliptic;
all those hieroglyphs of fire in which God has written his
autograph upon the heavens.
"What a pretty myth it was," he thought, "that of the
morning-stars singing together. And that other of the star of
Bethlehem!" He half-wished he could believe those things, they
saved so much weary thought, so much maddening speculation.
Sometimes, while straining to grasp at extraordinary knowledge,
he had felt as though falling from a giddy height into an outer
darkness, and had drawn back shuddering, eager to catch at some
homely fact for support. He smiled now mockingly to himself.
"Perhaps the stars did sing. Like a child, I'm going to make
believe they did, and that one 'handmaid lamp' did attend the
birth of Jesus." It was easier to believe anything while he
listened to that Gloria. For, disregarded as Miss Madeleine might
be at other times, when she sang she was regnant. Her voice was
magnetic enough to draw the links from any man's logic.
Ceasing, she called Mr. and Mrs. Blake to the piano, and the
three voices sang Milton's Hymn on the Nativity.
It is astonishing how magnificently some small-souled persons do
contrive to sing, expressing sentiments which they must be
totally incapable of experiencing. Mrs. Blake sang a superb
contralto, and the three perfect voices struck fire from one
listener's heart as they beat the emphatic rhythm of that
majestical measure.
All but Miss Madeleine went to bed early. She kept vigil, and was
to call them. They seemed scarcely to have slept when they heard
her voice ring up the stairs in the muezzin which she
christianized for the occasion, being in no mood to call Mohammed
a prophet:
"Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!
I bear witness that there is no God but the Lord!
I bear witness that Jesus is the Son of God!
Come unto prayer--come unto happiness--
Great is the Lord! Great is the Lord!
There is no God but the Lord!
Prayer is better than sleep--prayer is better than sleep!"
{272}
As the last word died upon the air, every foot touched the floor,
and in half an hour the party had gathered as wild as witches.
Mr. Andrew came down late and grumbling. "Cannot we hear music
and see candles without getting out of bed for the purpose at
such unearthly hours? I had just gone to sleep, and was in
Elysium. Miss Madeleine, why should you say that prayer is better
than sleep? We are not going to pray; we are going to hear
demi-semi-quavers, and Mr. Bassoon's C in the deeps. I'll go to
bed again."
"Possibly we may pray, Mr. Andrew," she said in a low tone. "I
have been thinking to-night, and it seems to me that God had a
Son, and that he will come down this morning and stand in the
midst of the candles."
A Catholic, unless a convert, can scarcely understand the
emotions of a stranger who enters a church for the first time on
one of our great festivals. That "cool, silver shock" must be
taken from another element. Our party stepped from the dim and
frosty starlight into an illumination more dazzling than
daylight, into a warmth that was fragrant with flowers, into a
crowd where every face had a smile dissolved in it. And over all
waved a sparkling tissue of violin music from the orchestra.
"By George!" was Mr. Blake's only audible comment.
"It is like the Arabian Nights!" exclaimed his wife.
"Turns up the mastodon strata in them," whispered Mr. Andrew to
the lady on his arm.
They were shown to seats, and sat watching the steadily
increasing crowd, and the altar that was a pyramid of fire. The
worshippers were, of course, various: ragged Irish women, whose
faith invested them with better than cloth of gold; rich ladies,
sweeping in velvets and sables, but with thoughts of better
things in their faces; ambitious working-girls, finer than their
mistresses. A pretty young woman came into the slip in front of
our party, her face beautifully arranged to represent modesty and
sweetness. She cast a glance behind at her audience, then sank
upon her knees and beat her breast with one hand, while she
arranged her bonnet-strings with the other. This performance at
an end, she faced about and closely scanned the gallery, turning
again and again till those behind her began to feel annoyed.
"I do wish he'd come!" said Madeleine impatiently.
"He has come," whispered Mr. Andrew, as the young woman suddenly
returned toward the altar, and began a series of languishing
attitudes and prostrations, all her _repertoire_ of
theatrical devotion.
A grand-looking man next attracted their attention, walking past
with the unmistakable sailor roll. His head was erect, and his
massive shoulders looked fit for Atlas burdens; but the clear,
blue eyes were gentle, and his face was full of a beautiful
solemnity and reverence. As he walked, the long, tawny beard
flowing down his breast waved slightly.
Madeleine gave Mr. Andrew's arm a delighted squeeze, and
whispered,
'With many a tempest had his beard been shaken.'
Fancy him on the ship's deck, in mid-ocean, in darkness and
storm, beaten by the wind, drenched with spray, the lightnings
blazing and the thunders crashing about him, shouting to the men
to cut the mast away!"
{273}
Here the organ and choir broke forth in glad acclaim, and the
procession came winding in from the sacristy. Cloth of gold and
cloth of silver, lace and fine linen, and crimson and purple, all
combined, gave the effect of a many-jewelled band coiled about
the sanctuary.
Attending alternately to the altar and the choir, Mr. Andrew
tried to believe it all a vain pageant; but thoughts will enter,
though the doors be shut. What a stupendous thing, he thought, if
the Real Presence were true; if, as this girl said, God had a
Son, and he should come down this morning and stand in the midst
of the candles!
For one instant he was dazzled and confounded by the possibility;
the next, he recoiled from it.
"Gloria in excelsis" sang the choir with organ and orchestra in
many an involved and thrilling strain, a pure melody springing up
here and there from the midst, voice and instrument meeting and
parting, catching the tone from each other, swelling till the
vaulted roof of the cathedral rang, fading again, dropping away
one after another, till there was left but a many-toned sigh of
instruments, and one voice hanging far aloft, with a silvery
flutter, upon a trill, like a humming-bird sucking the sweetness
from that flower of sound. A pause of palpitating silence, then
an amen that set swinging the myrtle vines hanging over the St.
Cecilia in front of the organ, and made the pennons of blue and
scarlet that hung about the altar wave on their standards.
Contrary to custom, there was to be a sermon at that Mass, and,
as the preacher ascended the pulpit, Mr. Andrew said to himself:
"If Christ was the Son of God, he is on that altar; and if there,
I wish he would speak to me by this man."
He hoped to hear an argument to prove the divinity of Christ, not
aware that his reason had already been pampered with such until
it had grown insolent. The speaker, however, handled his subject
quite otherwise. Assuming that divinity, he took for his theme,
"what thoughts should fill the mind, what sentiments dilate the
heart," on the feast of the Nativity. Calling up before them
then, in a few words, a picture of that scene at once so humble
and so marvellous, and pointing to the mysterious babe, he boldly
announced on the threshold of his discourse the difficulties
connected with the dogma for which he demanded their homage:
"This babe is a creature as you and I: this babe is the Creator
of all contingent being. This babe is just born; this babe is
from all eternity. This babe is contained in the manger; this
babe pervades all space. It suffers: hear its cries! It enjoys
bliss beyond power of augmentation. It is poor: see the
swaddling-clothes! To it belong the treasures of the universe.
Here present are husband and wife; yet I am required to believe
that her the Holy Spirit overshadowed, a virgin conceived, a
virgin bore a Son."
Not Ulysses' arrow flew through the rings with surer, swifter aim
than these words through the winding doubts that had bound that
listener's heart. It was too sublime not to be true! Almost the
triumphant paradox--I believe, because it is impossible--broke
from his lips. The human mind was incapable of inventing a
falsity so glorious.
In that tumult of feeling he lost what came next; but, listening
again, heard: "If I must bow down and worship, I elect him as the
object of my adoration whose dwelling is in light inaccessible,
who is inscrutable in his nature, and incomprehensible in his
works."
"Amen!" said Basil Andrew.
{274}
"A virgin conceived, a virgin bore a Son," repeated itself again
and again in his thought. All the singing of voices and the
playing of instruments were because of that; all the splendor of
the festival, the gathering of the crowd in the midst of the
winter night, were for that. "O sweetest and most glorious mother
in all the universe!" he thought, bowing where it is, perhaps,
most difficult for a convert to render homage.
Clouds are unsubstantial things for anything but rainbows to
stand on, and even they find but vanishing foothold. Had that
delight in Basil Andrews's heart warmed only his imagination, it
would have faded with the moment; but thought and study had done
their part, and that uprising of the heart was Pygmalion's kiss
to his statue. The feeling with which he turned to leave the
cathedral was one of thankful content with perfected work.
Pausing in the vestibule for the crowd to pass, he looked back
with a tender fear toward the altar.
Poor Madeleine's religion was iris and the cloud. She had known
well what was going on in her companion's mind, and, as she stood
waiting with him, a text went sighing through her memory like a
sighing wind. "_I say unto you that the kingdom of God shall be
taken from you, and shall be given to a nation yielding the
fruits thereof._" While she, a child of the church, had given
it a fitful obedience more insulting than a consistent disregard,
this man had toiled every step of the way from a far-off heresy,
and, passing by her as she loitered outside, had walked into the
very penetralia.
She stood looking gloomily out into the morning that was one
cloudless glow of pale gold.
"The air has crystallized since we came in," she said, "and we
are shut inside a great gem, like flies in amber. We will have to
stay here for ever."
He bent a smiling face toward her as they went out into the
morning, and said softly: "How beautiful are thy steps, O
Prince's daughter! You were right, Madeleine!"
A fortnight from that day Madeleine Hayward stood on the steps of
her aunt's house, saying good-by to its inmates. A Southern girl,
the cold skies of the North froze her. She wanted to get into a
warmer sunshine, and, being prompt and determined, obstacles
vanished before her.
"Mr. Andrew," she said, as he gave her his arm to the carriage,
"I am sorry I can't stay to be your god-mother."
"I wouldn't have you," he said. "I'm going to have my old nurse."
Madeleine took her seat in the carriage, gave a smiling nod
toward the group in the door, then held a cold hand out to her
companion.
"When you are a priest, and when you hear that I am dead, say a
Mass for me," she said faintly, then turned her face resolutely
away.
The violent color that had risen to the gentleman's face at her
words faded into a paleness as he went up the steps. By what
power did that girl sometimes divine the thoughts which he had
not yet owned to himself?
But she was a prophetess.
--------
{275}
Translated from the French of L. Vitet.
The Present Condition of Christianity in France
Some time ago M. Guizot published the second series of his
_Meditations on the Christian Religion_. He is now
prosecuting right valiantly, and will ere long have completed,
the noble task that won for him two years since so novel a
triumph among his many victories, and crowned his illustrious
life with what may be considered its brightest glory. That
calmest and most serene of creeds, a lucid definition and summary
of the fundamental dogmas of Christianity, viewed from the
highest stand-point, in all their native simplicity and grandeur,
was greeted, it will be remembered, with gratitude by some who
looked upon it as furnishing most timely aid, and with respect
and partial embarrassment by others; and so marked was its effect
that the most exciting religious polemics were for the time being
quieted. The first series referred to the very essence of the
Christian religion; what is the subject of the second?
The author, in his preface, had thus drawn the general plan of
the work: First, the essence of Christianity, next its history,
then its present condition, and, finally, its future. Thus a
complete history of Christianity was really promised us. The plan
determined upon had, perhaps, some advantages. The history of
Christianity is nowadays the point that anti-christian critics
would show to be vulnerable, and the portion of the armor they
seek to penetrate. The public, however, after a moment's
surprise, has of itself meted out partial justice to this manner
of attack; or at all events, new attempts, as skilfully devised
as the first, have been received with a coolness of good augury
that weakens vastly the importance of previously achieved
successes. Was it not most opportune, then, to enlighten still
more and at once a public whose _furore_ had but just died
away? was it not most important not to adjourn, even by a brief
delay, a decisive refutation? As for ourselves, we yearned to
behold, striving with the new-comers of criticism and
history--who claim to be their masters and almost their
inventors--him who, nearly half a century since, founded in our
land modern historical criticism. By setting face to face with
their rash assertions the true and severe laws of historic
certainty; by taking down, piece by piece, their most cleverly
contrived scaffolding; by reducing to naught their credit, was
not the writer rendering to Christianity a most great and needed
service?
M. Guizot has thought that there was something still more urgent
to be accomplished; without abandoning his original idea,
involving the four series, he has inverted their order of
sequence; he now dwells upon the present state of Christian
beliefs. At a later day he proposes to resume the discussion of
historical questions, dilate upon the authority of holy books,
continue his commentary on the concord of the Scriptures, and his
arguments concerning technicalities and minor details;
subsequently he will try to look into the future.
{276}
At present, he has but one care, one thought: he wishes to know
what is occurring, or rather what men are believing, around him.
To place in the strongest light the present state of
Christianity; to enumerate its armies and those of its opponents,
and establish a comparison between the strength of both; thus to
summon all Christians to awaken to a sense of the events
concerning the common safety; to teach them not to be deceived
either as to their might or as to the magnitude of the perils
besetting them, and to guard against a feeling of treacherous
security as against cowardly discouragement; this it is that
engrosses his attention, and, forming the subject of all his
thoughts, indicates to him that which he is to consider his first
duty. As he says himself, he supplies the most pressing
emergency, and, hurrying to the spot where the struggle is
commencing, rushes into the thick of the fight.
We can readily understand his impatience. All other questions
become unimportant when compared with such a problem. No
eagerness can be more legitimate than that of M. Guizot, and the
investigation which it is necessary to make is surely the most
serious and interesting that could be prosecuted. Let us add that
few inquiries are as intricate and as difficult.
It is not, in fact, the mere exterior and apparent state of
Christianity that it is necessary to depict; but its life, its
action, its power, which simple statistics can by no means
describe. Figures may set forth how many churches there are in
France; how many priests, congregations, and convents; how many
children are baptized, and couples married; how many dying
mortals receive spiritual succor; but after these computations
are completed, are they of any genuine value? Though the civil
code is not compulsory as to the choice of a religion, and though
each one be free to elect his own belief, does it follow that the
conclusion arrived at is always the result of proper reflection?
Are all those who, either from early childhood, through the
medium of their parents, or in after life and by their own free
will, on certain solemn days, publicly proclaim their adherence
to Christianity, real and true Christians? How many can you
designate who knew what they were doing, who did not simply
conform with a custom, and for whom the sacred contract did not
become at once a dead letter? To arrive at a correct estimate as
to the actual strength of Christianity, we must not consult
registers, but make researches in the bosoms of families, and
descend into the depths of consciences. Thus should we make our
soundings to ascertain the state of Christian belief. We admit
that such a mode of investigation would be impracticable; we must
be content, therefore, with less precise data, and pass judgment
upon apparent events. Draw a parallel, then, between Christianity
as it was in the early part of the century and Christianity as it
is, criticise the two periods in accordance with the same rules,
make allowances for deceptive appearances on both sides, and
exclude from your calculation the apocryphal believers who are
only Christians in name; however numerous the false men and
things at present, you will, nevertheless, be compelled to
concede that in our country, during the past sixty years,
Christianity has at least taken root again in the soil, that it
has recovered its life, and that its progress has been
undeniable.
{277}
M. Guizot describes the phases of the resurrection or rather the
awakening of Christianity; the comprehensiveness of his views and
the choiceness of his expressions render this largely developed
portion of his work of absorbing interest. We have, however, no
intention to attempt its analysis. In these later meditations, as
in those that precede them, one would in vain seek to follow the
author step by step. His work alone can speak for its contents; a
person must peruse it, or abandon the idea of becoming acquainted
with it. Let us only point out the plan the writer has drawn, and
notice the succession of his thoughts. From its commencement, by
a natural division, the volume to which we allude forms two
parts: one relates to Christianity, the other to its adversaries.
What do we see in the first? The narrative of the Christian
awakening, or rather an _exposé_ of the religious beliefs in
France since the year 1800. This is a composition in which the
incidents follow each other in natural sequence, an historical
painting as well as a picture-gallery, comprising none but
portraits from nature, such as M. Guizot, with that firmness and
concision that characterize in few words ideas as well as men,
can produce; portraits full of expression and life, though always
of a sober coloring and subdued effect. M. Guizot had abundant
opportunities for word-painting, for sitters were not scarce.
Evidently Providence was resolved, from the beginning of the
century, to repair by almost perceptible progress the effects of
the great disaster of Christianity, and the damage caused by the
cataclysm into which it seemed to have sunken. How numerous the
men who suddenly came into existence, each worthy of the mission
to be entrusted to him! How marked the contrast with the days
gone by, when there was none to shiver a lance for that ancient
religion still replete with honors, wealth, and apparent life,
but without credit, without influence upon souls, without new
adepts, and gradually forsaken, like unto those tottering
edifices whose abandonment ere their fall is decreed by a
prophetic instinct! The scaffold was needed to restore it to
life. The first symptom of regeneration was observed when humble
priests and monks, who, a day previous, were heedless of their
duty, arose as intrepid and as ready for martyrdom as if theirs
had been austere lives, passed in the desert or in the darkness
of the catacombs. Then a brighter signal and one more easily
understood was to be given by two men, who, each in his sphere
and within the limits of his power, were really the earliest
promoters of the Christian awakening. We refer to a great
politician and to a great writer--to the First Consul and to M.
de Chateaubriand, to the Concordat and to the _Genius of
Christianity_. There is nothing artificial nor strained in
this connection; for these two men and these two works, at the
commencement of this century, played the most important part in
the work of resurrecting the traditions of Christianity. M.
Guizot speaks of Bonaparte and Chateaubriand in a rare spirit of
justice and impartiality. Though possessed of little sympathy for
them, and aware that their works have become antiquated and, so
to say, somewhat out of fashion, he asserts quite warmly that the
_Genius of Christianity_, despite its imperfections, is a
great and powerful work, such as only appears at long
intervals--one of those productions that, having deeply moved
men's souls, leave behind them traces never to be effaced. And as
for the Concordat, albeit the sincerest friends of Christian
beliefs point out nowadays with sadness, if not with bitterness,
its defects and dangers, M. Guizot concedes that, in 1802, its
promulgation was, on the part of the First Consul, an act of
superior intelligence rather than of despotism, and, for the sake
of religion, the most opportune and necessary of events, the
_sine qua non_ condition of the existence of Christianity.
{278}
He thinks that, after ten years of revolutionary orgies, a solemn
recognition of religion by the state was needed to endow it with
that influence, dignity, and stability which it had totally lost.
In this respect, we share M. Guizot's opinion, certain
reservations, however, being made. The Concordat was a welcome
gift; neither its timely advent nor the necessity for it can be
disputed. Why? Because two years previous the national movement
of 1789 was suddenly transformed into an abdication, by which one
man benefited. If, instead of submitting to this saviour, half
out of lassitude and half out of enthusiasm, France had had the
energy, by making a supreme effort, and, perhaps, at the cost of
new calamities, to see to her own safety and remain mistress of
her fate, the Concordat would have been an unneeded blessing.
Christianity would have had more labor and expended more time in
regaining the lost ground; it would not have obtained possession
at once, by the scratch of a pen, and between sunrise and sunset,
of all its presbyteries and churches; it would have recovered
them little by little, after having conquered men's souls. Had it
had no other staff of support but its flock, it would have
neglected nothing to strengthen it and increase its numbers; it
would have won the confidence of the people and obtained their
acceptance of it as a counsellor, a father, a friend, and would
not have been looked upon as an emigrant, amnestied and recalled
by tolerance, favor, and an act of authority, and thus placed
under obligations to one man, and made the vassal of his power.
It is not sufficient that one should be cured of a fatal disease;
the remedy, in destroying the evil, must not leave the patient
with an altered constitution or impaired vitality. The Concordat
undoubtedly delivered us from a great affliction for a nation,
and saved us from a complete divorce from God; it restored
Christianity to France, but restored it less robust and less
prepared for the strife, less life-like and less popular, and in
a less fit condition to face the danger than if the old beliefs
had been compelled, when born anew, to clear their own pathways.
In religion, as in politics, France still feels, and will
probably ever experience, the effects of having been saved by the
events of the 18th of _Brumaire_.
That which we must admit with M. Guizot is that, when, in these
later days, we criticise the work of our fathers, written upward
of sixty years ago, we can speak of them with wondrous facility.
Their doubts are at hand to enlighten us. But we must carry
ourselves back to 1802, and behold flocks without shepherds,
tombs without prayers, and cradles without baptismal fonts! Where
is the proud and far-seeing Christian who would then have
refused, as a destructive present, in the name of his belief and
for the sake of his faith, a _régime_ that did the work of
Christian restoration, and by the touch of a magic wand repaired
all the evils that bore it down? No one then would have even
dreamed of such a paradox. Let us, therefore, blame with
indulgence, and to a certain degree only, the men who invented
the compromise, although the consequential events subsist, and
when we examine the present state of Christian belief, we cannot
avoid meeting at every step the still evident traces of defective
origin, and its resurrection by process of law.
{279}
Even as the government of the Restoration, despite its sincerest
efforts and never-failing good-will, was never absolved by France
from the reproach that attached to its self-commitment by
friendship with the Emperor Alexander and Lord Wellington, even
so Christianity in this land, during the past sixty years, is
partly indebted for its weakness, and for the prejudices that
maintain it in a state of excitement, to the honor of having had
for a godfather the Emperor Napoleon. Sheltered and warmed under
the purple, and having become an imperial pensioner, Christianity
acquired, against its will, a certain need of protection and
certain habits of submission and almost of complaisance, which
having rendered it under some _régimes_ a party to the acts
of the government, has caused it to be called upon to share the
responsibility of many errors, and exposed it to the perils of
unpopularity.
Within the sixty years gone by, have we not seen by a transient
example how much religion would have gained by remaining on less
compromising terms with the heads of the nation and boldly
dispensing with their favors? There was once a government whose
members were imbued with profound respect for the religious
interests of the country, and who were always ready to render
unto its ministers the most kindly offices; this same government,
however, from its earliest days, was viewed with coldness and
hostility by a certain number of Catholics and a great portion of
the clergy; is it not known how favorable that attitude proved to
Catholicism itself? For eighteen years it was looked upon as
possessed of no credit, and, for that very reason, each day
acquired more and more power, not, indeed, in public places and
in ante-chambers, but in men's consciences. It may be boldly
asserted that the greatest and most definite progress which the
Christian religion can justly claim for itself since the
commencement of the present century was made during that period.
We do not deduce from this fact that systematic hostility to the
ruling powers is necessary for the propagation of religious
ideas, for intestine strifes are evils and not to be fomented;
but that the sacred ministry, to have influence upon rulers, must
possess a degree of independence carried even to the extent of
pride, and bringing into prominence its abandonment of all things
earthly, and its absolute indifference to worldly interests.
From 1830 to 1851, whatever may have been the true motives of its
estrangement and indifference, the Catholic clergy was benefited
by the situation. It had prospered and increased in numbers, it
had won for itself, to the great advantage of Christian belief,
the esteem, the respect, and even the minds of persons who, until
then, had been rebellious and inclined to disparage it. Was it
aware of the cause of this unusual kindliness of feeling? Did it
comprehend how much this was to be preferred, for the cause of
religion and for its own sake, to former courtly favors? Has it
since guarded against the temptations which have surrounded it?
Has it persevered in burning incense before God only, in adoring
none but him? Have not more earthly and apparently less
disinterested bursts of enthusiasm caused it to lose a goodly
portion of the conquered ground? These are questions which it may
be well not to look into too deeply; but enough is known
concerning them to enable us to understand how it came that,
during the fifteen years that have just elapsed, the radical vice
of the Concordat, the spirit in which it was framed, the danger
of establishing between Christianity and the absolute power a
so-called natural alliance, a kind of necessary complicity, have
awakened in the hearts of some Christians objections, fears, and
antipathies now more active and potent than ever.
{280}
We next behold one of the great incidents of the Christian
awakening whose history M. Guizot recounts. The First Consul, by
raising the altar from the dust, partly obeying the great views
of his genius, and partly yielding to his despotic instincts; M.
de Chateaubriand, by moving and delighting French society by the
revelation of the treasures of Christian poetry, of the existence
of which it was unaware; M. de Bonald, by honoring the
governmental traditions of the old _régime_ by translating
them into metaphysical theories; M. de Maistre, by outpouring, in
floods of fiery eloquence, overwhelming invective against the
revolutionary spirit; all these but paid homage to noble ruins,
and, hurling indignation at the destroyers, made a generous
attempt to rehabilitate the past, to glorify it, and to give it
renewed life. The important questions, the questions of the
future, are not yet propounded. It is not sufficient that
Christianity should be restored; it must be given health, and
taught to live in peace and friendship with a power henceforward
beyond all estimate, with an irresistible force--that of modern
civilization. How could the Christian, and more especially the
Catholic Church, be led to acknowledge the liberty of civil
society as constituted by the French revolution? How could that
society be brought to respect the just rights of the church? Such
was the problem that could not fail to speedily appear.
Until the year 1830, the question was only foreshadowed; its
solution was by no means urgent. As Catholicism had recovered
under the government of the Restoration its former privilege as a
state religion, reconciliation, or a reciprocal tolerance between
itself and society, was no longer in discussion. It was
understood that its portion was to be secured by an actual
struggle, and the secular power was at its disposal--without
violence, with due moderation, but not without injury to its
authority and detriment to its influence upon men's souls. The
Catholic religion had to assume the responsibility as well as
accept the profits of its privileged situation. Subsequent to
1830, circumstances changed. Inasmuch as the words "state
religion" had been erased from the constitutional compact, no one
religion could lay claim to special immunities or occupy an
exceptionally exalted position. All enjoyed equal rights.
Whatever the number of their adherents, as soon as they were
recognized by and receiving a subsidy from the state, the law
held them to be equally sacred and deserving of respect. The
neutral attitude of the government excited the anger of some
Catholics. In their opinion, privilege was the very essence, the
normal and vital condition of their belief. The powers of the
day, by reducing them to the slender diet of equality and common
rights, was guilty not only of indifference and culpable
abandonment, but of spoliation and persecution. Their complaints
were loudest because their adversaries feigned to have won a most
brilliant triumph. Extremes meet: on both sides a firm belief
prevailed that, without special support, without the favors of
the magistracy and the soldiery, Catholicism had no chance of
life, and that, both armies being provided with equally effective
weapons, it could never withstand the onslaughts of the foe.
{281}
The conduct of the persons interested, however, differed; for
some wished to be regarded as martyrs, and cursed the atheism of
the government, charging it with bringing about the inevitable
ruin of the faith; whilst others reproached the same government
for its supposed weakness toward the once privileged religion,
and accused it of prolonging its existence by secretly favoring
it.
During the progress of this conflict there was gradually formed a
group of Catholics who contemplated events in an entirely new
light. They were all young in years and men of the age; their
hearts throbbed with the noble thoughts of liberty and
independence that were maddening France for the second time, and,
seemingly, carrying the nation back to the dawn of 1789. What did
these fervent and sincere Christians, animated by a firm resolve,
propose to do? Were they to sacrifice to their religious faith
that political faith just born within them? To what end? What was
to prevent them from being both Catholic and liberals? In what
respect were the principles of the evangels and those of a free
government incompatible with each other? Was not the government
of the church, in the early ages, the result of the free choice
of the faithful? Were not respect for human liberty, love of
justice, and opposition to tyranny and barbarity, the glory and
actual essence of Christian belief? Had not they who for three
centuries had linked religion to the fortunes and precepts of the
old monarchy, and identified it with them, really deformed
Catholicism?
When these men had become thoroughly convinced not only that
their views and their faith were, by no means irreconcilable, but
also that it was their duty as Christians to render the church
the greatest of all services by checking its retrogressive
tendency and reconciling it with the world and with modern ideas,
they inaugurated the campaign, unfurled their flag, organized a
committee, and commenced the publication of a journal, neglecting
none of the means by which to disseminate their ideas and gain
accessions to their ranks. Had they been so fortunate as to
choose, not a more eloquent, but a less rash and more
unimpassioned chief than the Abbé de Lamennais; had the noble
minds, the brave hearts, the wondrous talent centred in those
grouped around him belonged to men of riper years; had his
adherents been less fiery and impatient, and less prejudiced
against a new power which was still insecure on its foundation,
but was imbued with the spirit of true liberty to such a degree
that it imperilled its own existence every day to avoid attacking
the rights of its adversaries, and thus overstep the limits of
the law; had they understood what service their cause could have
expected of that government on the sole condition of not
demanding impossibilities, of not harassing and chiding it on all
occasions, and of not aiding and abetting its destroyers; in a
word, had the same talent, ardor, sincerity, and devotedness been
coupled with greater experience, prudence, and practicability,
perhaps, after thirty years had gone by, the great work of
effecting a reconciliation between the church and the spirit of
the age would be more thoroughly comprehended and approved than
it is at present. The boldness of the opinions professed from the
commencement by liberal Catholics increased the difficulty and
rendered the problem more complicated.
{282}
Their enterprise would certainly not have been one of easy
achievement had it even been reduced to the simplest form. Was it
not enough to ensure the acceptance, by a majority of the clergy
and of the faithful, of the definite results of the revolution,
the for ever acquired rights of civil society the blessings of
liberty as understood by the July government and by all truly
free governments; of liberty based upon the sovereignty of the
law, a respect for the rights of all, for the rights of the power
as for those of the poorest citizen? By preaching to Catholics
extreme liberalism, without either limits or guarantee, Utopian,
absolute, aggressive, and revolutionary liberalism, such as was
advocated by _l'Avenir_, the organ of the Abbé de Lamennais
and his young friends, they compromised everything, put an end to
all attempts at encouragement, terrified those whom they sought
to convert, and furnished a pretext to the faithful, in the event
of an opportunity being offered them, to throw themselves, out of
prudential considerations, into the arms of the absolute power.
The same ardor that carried them, in politics, even to the
practice of liberty unrestrained, led them, in religion, to the
recognition of the principles of excessive obedience. They never
dared dispense with the explicit approval of Rome; her silent
consent was deemed insufficient. They ever sought to elicit a
reply, notwithstanding the expectant reserve usually and most
prudently maintained by the Holy See previous to passing judgment
upon any new enterprise. They required a notice or a formal
decision. With this object in view, they never hesitated to risk
their all; they ceased not their endeavors until the Holy Father
had sanctioned or disapproved their action. Then, after the
sentence had gone forth, after such words of censure, as might
have been anticipated, had been uttered, they were compelled,
under pain of rendering themselves amenable to a charge of
revolt, to submit, to bow their heads and abandon the field, to
the great detriment of the cause in which they labored. Not only
had they lost their authority over the minds of a certain portion
of the faithful, as was seen when, a few years later, weary of
inaction, they reentered the arena, but they had brought about
another and greater misfortune: they had made the court of Rome
enter, before the time had come, and without the slightest
necessity for such a proceeding, upon the course that she now
follows, kept to it by her own words. Is it not possible that,
had she been questioned at a later day, in other terms and under
other circumstances, her reply might have been different?
But it happens that we cannot but admit that, though since the
beginning of this century Christianity has achieved in France
great and true progress; though valiant adherents and illustrious
champions have arisen; though it has recovered little by little a
portion of its domains; though it has in certain respects
extended the field of its conquests, one success is wanting, one
victory has not been achieved, the work commenced in 1830 is
still unfinished, the question is no nearer its solution, the
_entente cordiale_ is not yet established, and the treaty of
peace between Christianity and the spirit of the times has not
yet been concluded.
Some persons find consolation for this state of affairs: the
attempt to remedy it has borne in their eyes a chimerical
appearance, and they look upon the discord which most men would
quell as most natural.
{283}
Has not this manner of war, they say, ever raged between the lay
spirit and the religious spirit? Has not Christianity, since its
infancy, been destined to blame and combat, century after
century, the prevailing ideas and tastes; has not this been its
part, its mission, and, it may be said, its glory? Why seek to
change that which has always been? Christian faith is now, as
ever, quite intolerant toward the age in which it thrives: do not
interfere with events; it must be so. To these arguments we would
answer by stating that, not to discriminate between two objects
as distinct from each other as the spirit of the age which, to
speak in general terms, is the worldly spirit, that train of
never-changing passions and vices reappearing at all periods
under slightly different forms--and the spirit of each age taken
separately--that is to say, the uniformity of ideas, manners, and
institutions which give to the society of each century its
peculiar traits--is to quibble as to the significance of words
and deal in mere equivocation. That Christianity is the natural,
permanent, and necessary adversary of the worldly spirit and of
the vices and passions of men; that it is such at all times, in
all places, in the present as in the past; to assert that to give
its followers a word of advice as to the adoption of innovations
under any of these heads would be to mistake and forget its real
reason to exist, is incontestable: but to affirm that its very
character renders it incapable of adaptation to the spirit of
such and such an epoch, and that it can only blame and oppose the
ideas, tendencies, and laws of the days in which it lives, is to
give to the testimony of history, to the most self-evident and
authentic facts, a singular denial. Compare the latter centuries
of the empire of the West and the first of the feudal ages: was
the state of society, were the manners, customs, and institutions
of those days the same? Could aught have been more dissimilar and
contradictory? Yet, did not Christianity first uphold the empire
until it crumbled into the dust, and subsequently aid most
cheerfully and efficaciously in the establishment of the feudal
power? Again, when the monarchical system gradually regained the
ascendency and triumphed over feudal anarchy, did Christianity
prove an obstacle to the movement? Did it offer any opposition to
the change? Did it not submit to it with a good will? Did it not
share the ideas, principles, and even the good fortune and
greatness of royalty? What we now demand of it is, to do once
more that which it has always done, to recognize without regret
and without hostility a necessary and irrevocable change--a
change in conformity with the nature of circumstances, and
therefore legitimate; in a word, we call upon it to treat the
modern spirit of the day as it has treated all other modern
spirits that have successively appeared.
Why should a reconciliation be at present peculiarly difficult
and embarrassing? Are thoughts of liberty foreign and unknown to
Christianity? Has Christianity never acted in accordance with
them? Have not those thoughts watched, rather, over the cradle of
religion? Has not that system of elections, discussion, and
censure which honors our modern spirit come forth from the very
womb of the church? To make peace with liberty, to become suited
to its rule, to understand and bless its gifts, does not imply
the necessity of absolving it from its errors, approving its
crimes, or making the slightest concession to disorder and
anarchy.
{284}
Never mind, it will be said, do not mingle religion and party
questions, do not inspire it with any interest in wrangles of
such a kind. The more persistently Christianity stands aloof from
the affairs of this world, the more solid will be the foundation
of its power. With these views we cordially agree, and but
recently dwelt upon their importance; but of however little
moment politics or worldly affairs be to them, however deeply
engrossed by prayer and good works, can the most religious mind
and the clergy itself live on this earth in utter ignorance of
events? To attack the vices, meannesses, and misdeeds of the
time, must they not know them, and by their own knowledge? We ask
of those pious souls who are most terrified by the coupling of
the words liberalism and religion, do _they_ complain
because eloquent speakers denounce and stigmatize from the pulpit
the wanderings of the spirit of modern times and the
revolutionary delirium, those impious doctrines, the curse of
families and society? If religion is to wage war upon civil
liberty, ought it not to be authorized to allude to beneficial
freedom? Ought it not to be encouraged to speak of it in kindly
terms, to place it in the brightest light, to make us understand
and cherish it? If not, what is Christianity, and what fate have
you in store for it? Would you make of it but a puny doctrine, a
privilege to be enjoyed by a few chosen ones only, the tardy and
solitary consolation of those whom old age and grief separate
from the world? If you seek nothing else of it, if it be
sufficient for you to have it live just enough to prevent the
recording of its death, like a ruin guarded by archaeology, and
preserved and respected in its tottering condition, then keep it
apart from the rising generation, from the flood of democracy;
let it be isolated and grow old; let it seek a place of
concealment, and there, contenting itself with the praises of the
past, dwell in disdain of the present, lacking indulgence for all
persons and things--chagrin, morose, and unpopular. But if, with
a better understanding of its true destiny, you desire it to
exercise a salutary influence not only upon yourselves and your
friends, but upon all humanity; if you wish it to enter into the
hearts of all your brothers, young and old, small and great--to
inspire men with the spirit of justice and truth--to transform,
purify, and regenerate them, let it speak to them in their own
language; let it become interested in their ideas; let it suit
itself to their peculiarities--not like a weak flatterer, but as
a loving father, who takes unto himself his children and becomes
a child for their sake, by sharing their tastes while correcting
their errors, guarding them from the perils of life, and pointing
out to them the narrow and straight paths of wisdom and truth.
To Be Concluded In Next Number.
--------
{285}
New Publications.
Kathrina, Her Life And Mine, In A Poem.
By J. G. Holland. New York:
Charles Scribner & Co. 1867.
There can be little doubt that this is more than a commonplace
poem. The narrative has a charming simplicity about it, and is
happily told; the rhythm is smooth and graceful; and the
language, with the exception of a rather too free use of words
tortured into English from the Latin and German, both choice and
appropriate. In a first perusal of it, which will not be our
last, (for it is a book which will bear more than one reading,)
two points in the narrative impressed us disagreeably--the
revelation of his future career to the hero when but a child
rambling over the mountains, and the suicide of his mother. These
incidents were a part of the author's plan, and had to be told;
but they are both forced and unnatural, the more apparently so
because all other threads of romance which run through the story
are closely woven in harmony with real life. Very many passages
are marked by the truest pathos, with here and there touches of
quiet humor worthy of a Dickens. There is a deeper moral lesson
inculcated in this poem than we think will be appreciated or even
perceived by the mass of Dr. Holland's readers; and we venture to
predict that it will be either entirely overlooked, or made the
subject of ridicule by the majority of the Protestant or
rationalistic journals and reviews which may notice the volume.
We say this boldly, because we know that it elucidates a doctrine
entirely foreign to their experience, and is based upon
principles of life asserted only by the Catholic religion. What
the author has endeavored to bring out is nothing new in Catholic
ascetic theology. It is the old cry of St. Augustine:
"_Inquietum est cor nostrum, Deus, donec requiescat in te._"
God is the supreme illumination of the soul, and the object of
its highest aspirations. Life without God is a life of
disquietude, of disgust, and disappointment. The hero is made to
learn this truth through years of self-worship, of
creature-worship, and of world-worship. His mind passes from
ignorance to indifference, from that to scepticism, infidelity,
despair. A true and sad picture of many noble souls who, in our
age and country, grow up under the sterile influence of the
spirit of naturalism, the revolt of reason without the guidance
of faith against Protestantism. There is more than one who will
read the story of his own life depicted in Dr. Holland's poem.
Such will read it with more than an ordinary interest, and find,
we trust, some glimpses of that hidden truth whose clear
statement can only be found in the teachings of that religion
which shows man his true destiny and has the mission to guide him
to it.
We do not think the author is himself wholly aware of the
ultimate logical consequences of the principles of life he has
here developed. A study of Catholic ascetic theology, the perusal
of a few books like the _Imitation of Christ_, Henry Suso's
_Eternal Wisdom_, or Father Baker's _Sancta Sophia_
would be, if we mistake not, a revelation to him. In conclusion,
we cannot refrain from quoting one of those passages which
confirm the truth of the impressions we have received and the
reflections we have made. The hero, chagrined with the
disappointments of his career, finding the idols he has
worshipped turned to clay, deprived of all human consolation,
disgusted with the hollowness and unreality of his sceptical
life, at last turns to Him whom he had shunned, and yields his
soul to that higher will whose inspirations he had all his life
long so vainly rebelled against.
{286}
"Then the impulse came,
And I poured out like water all my heart.
'O God!' I said, 'be merciful to me
A reprobate! I have blasphemed thy name,
Abused thy patient love, and held from thee
My heart and life; and now, in my extreme
Of need and of despair, I come to thee.
Oh! cast me not away, for here, at last,
After a life of selfishness and sin,
I yield my will to thine, and pledge my soul--
All that I am, all I can ever be--
Supremely to thy service. I renounce
All worldly aims, all selfish enterprise,
And dedicate the remnant of my power
To thee and those thou lovest. Comfort me!
Oh! come and comfort me, for I despair!
Give me thy peace, for I am rent and tossed!
Feed me with love, else I shall die of want!
Behold! I empty out my worthlessness,
And beg thee to come in, and fill my soul
With thy rich presence. I adore thy love;
I seek for thy approval; I bow down
And worship thee, the Excellence Supreme.
I've tasted of the sweetest that the world
Can give to me; and human love and praise,
And all of excellence within the scope
Of my conception, and my power to reach
And realize in highest forms of art,
Have left me hungry, thirsty for thyself.
Oh! feed and fire me! Fill and furnish me!
And, if thou hast for me some humble task--
Some service for thyself, or for thy own--
Reveal it to thy sad, repentant child,
Or use him as thy willing instrument.
I ask it for the sake of Jesus Christ,
Henceforth my Master!'"
This beautiful prayer is the true climax of the poem. There is
not a word in it we could wish to see suppressed or a sentiment
altered. There are deep truths written in those few lines, well
put and timely uttered in a worldly-minded age like ours.
We observe the work placarded about the city as "Timothy
Titcomb's last poem." We are glad to see that this paltry _nom
de plume_ does not deface the title-page of the publication.
----
The Votary. A Narrative Poem.
By James D. Hewett.
New York: G. W. Carleton & Co. 1867.
"Great wits jump." This poem of Mr. Hewett is like Dr. Holland's
_Kathrina_--the story of a false and disappointed ambition.
The hero, Rudiger, loves Sybilla, goes forth to seek a famous
name, sacrifices his honor to the greed of ambition by forgetting
his first vows, and espousing Adelaide, the daughter of an
influential and rich politician. His wife, discovering his
infidelity to Sybilla and his subsequent remorse, becomes
jealous, charges him with having buried his heart in the grave,
(for Sybilla died of grief,) but offers to receive him back to
her affections if he can say his love is now wholly hers. This,
unfortunately, he cannot honestly do, and flies from his home for
ever, betaking himself to some religious brotherhood, there to do
penance, and labor, preach, and pray for a purpose which, to
judge from the sensual character of the entire poem, is too
vaguely described to allow us to be quite sure what is meant:
"He fathomed now the mighty truth that Love--
Love, the sole axis on which earth is swung--
Is the prime essence of the Deity,
And Intellect subservient to Love:
And that true glory is to serve, and bleed,
If need be, in Love's blessed cause."
And so he becomes a missionary to foreign parts:
"To teach all men the everlasting truth,
The blest, eternal truth of perfect Love,
I will go forth. I'll preach it far and wide.
To earth's last threshold will I pierce my way,
And speak to all the dwellers there of Love."
And again:
"Henceforth to Love my life I dedicate--
God's love, including every human phase."
This would do if we were not so painfully impressed by the
perusal of the whole poem, that the author's highest idea of love
is a sort of deification of the sensual. Being false to his troth
to Sybilla he calls "losing love's divine repast," in the very
line preceding our last quotation above. We do not like the book.
Its moral tone is not healthy. The poem is, however, full of rich
imagery, and evidences no little dramatic power; but the rhythm
is not always faultless, such words as "of" and "the" frequently
forming the last syllable of the verse, and couplets like the
following are not uncommon:
"With fitful step, across a verdurous lawn
Close venueing a dwelling, paced a youth."
Happily, we think, for the strength of our language, we are
becoming every day less and less tolerant of these attempts to
foist foreign words upon it.
----
{287}
Uberto; or, The Errors of the Heart.
A Drama in Five Acts.
By Frank Middleton. New York. 1867.
The writing of a drama is reckoned a bold project, for there is
scarce any sort of literary production apt to meet with severer
treatment at the hands of critics. The present one, however,
possesses merit enough to command their respect, if it does not
win their praise. The plot is well conceived, and the characters
sustained and combined with more than ordinary ability. The
speeches are, however, rather too lengthy, and become in many
places prosy. The little comedy introduced, of the loves of
Bellamori and Bonita, detracts considerably from the merit of the
tragedy, and is forced upon our notice, most unseasonably, in the
preparation for the final tableau.
------
History Of Blessed Margaret Mary,
a Religious of the Visitation of St. Mary;
and of the Origin of Devotion to the Heart of Jesus.
By Father Ch. Daniel, SJ.
Translated by the authoress of the
_Life of Catharine McAuley._
New York: P. O'Shea.
The subject of this memoir is celebrated in church history and in
Catholic theology. In church history she was the instrument
chosen by God to introduce a new feast, to render public and
obligatory in worship what had been merely a matter of private
and voluntary devotion, and against which for years all the
learning and determination of Jansenism unsuccessfully battled.
In Catholic theology she was the means developing another branch
of divine truth and asceticism. She popularized the Devotion to
the Sacred Heart of Jesus, made devotion to it the characteristic
of one religious order of women; and its name become the title of
another. Margaret Mary Alacoque is the apostle of the Sacred
Heart of Jesus.
She was a young girl, who, led by the power of grace, entered the
Visitation Order, sanctified her soul, fulfilled the mission
appointed for her by God, died a saint, and after death was
beatified by the church.
The history before us tells admirably the story of her life. It
is an agreeable narrative, full of edification, of pleasant
anecdotes, and interesting details.
The best biographies in the world are those of the saints. They
not only give us information, but they make us better It is
impossible to read the life of one devoted to God's service, full
of the spirit of Christian love and sacrifice, without being
stirred up to imitate, in some degree, the example set before us.
The world has its heroes, it is true, and makes the most of them;
but religion has hers also, and it is not surprising if she does
the same; the less so, as those whom she exalts and honors are in
every respect so much the more worthy of our admiration and
reverence.
He does a positive good to humanity, therefore, who calls
attention to the life and deeds of the Christian hero. That was a
good answer of the holy father. "I am complained of," said he,
"for canonizing so many saints; but it is a fault I cannot
promise to amend. Have we not more need than ever of intercessors
in heaven, and models of religious virtue in the world?"
The style of the translation of the present memoir does not
please us. It bears signs of haste and literary carelessness.
Whatever may be the character of the original French of Father
Daniel, the English of this is verbose, weak, and tiresome. It
makes the book larger, it is true, to use twice as many words as
are needful, and to select the longest words of the dictionary to
say what one wants to say; and we may add, it makes it heavier,
too. It is a common fault of religious biographies. Neither is
the style of the publication praiseworthy. Its typography is
close and heavy, and presents anything but an inviting page. If
this book were read to us, we should go to sleep; and if we were
to read it through ourselves without giving our eyes frequent
repose, we should seriously damage our eye-sight.
Nevertheless, it is a good book; it is written on a good subject,
and will do good; and as such our thanks are due to both
translator and publisher, whose efforts toward the formation of a
Catholic literature and the fostering of Catholic piety in the
reproduction of works like the present will not fail of earning a
higher reward than any amount of commendation on our part is
worth.
--------
{288}
The Battle-fields of Ireland, From 1688 to 1691,
including Limerick and Athlone, Aughrim, and the Boyne.
Being an outline of the History of the Jacobite
Wars in Ireland and the Causes which led to it.
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 323. New York: Robert Coddington. 1867.
Those who wish to read that portion of the sad record of
Ireland's checkered history which led to its subjugation to the
Prince of Orange will find this volume sadly interesting. Like
all of Ireland's history since the advent of Strongbow and his
robbers, it presents the usual amount of blunders, mistakes,
jealousies, and treachery on the part of those who should have
been faithful to their country. This epoch in Ireland's history
has been familiar to us since boyhood, and we think the author
has done his part of the work faithfully and honestly. His
description of the battles of the Boyne and of Aughrim are
concise and in the main correct; but we think he overestimates
William's army in the first-mentioned battle. His assertion, in a
note on page 304, that the doggerel, known as the "Battle of
Aughrim," was written by Garrick, is an error. It was the
production of Richard Ashton, an Englishman.
The book is handsomely printed, and makes a very
respectable-looking volume.
------
The Life Of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, of the Company of Jesus.
Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. 1867.
The republication of the English edition of this life will meet,
we are sure, with universal and hearty commendation. Such a book
as this is one for all Catholic parents to present to their
children, that they may learn how one may become a saint even in
youth. Reading the lives of such holy young men as a St. Aloysius
or a St. Stanislaus Kostka, our memory goes back to the friends
of our own youth, when they with ourself thought it necessary to
wait until we grew to be men before we could "get religion." We
advise our readers to do what we would wish to do ourself--give a
copy of this book to every Protestant young man of their
acquaintance. The perusal of it will show them how a Catholic boy
gets religion when he is baptized a Christian, and may possess
religion in its perfection and be a saint at an age when a
Protestant boy is not expected to have any religion at all.
------
Little Pet Books.
By Aunt Fanny.
Containing Books 1, 2, and 3.
New York: James O'Kane, 484 Broadway.
These little books are the best ones with which we are acquainted
for children. They contain pleasing stories, written in plain,
small words, not more than five letters to each word--a difficult
task, but one which the gifted authoress has accomplished in a
most satisfactory manner. The illustrations are good, and the
books are printed on good paper, bound in good style, and put up
in a neat box, making the set one of the best presents that one
could give, of this kind of books, to a child.
------
From P. O'Shea,
_Life of Lafayette_, written for children,
by E. Cecil, 218 pages, 12mo.
_The Bears of Angustenburg,_ an Episode in Saxon History,
by Gustave Nieritz;
translated by Trauermantel;
251 pages, 12mo.
_Hurrah for the Holidays_,
or The Pleasures and Pains of Freedom;
translated from the German;
220 pages, 12mo.
_Nannie's Jewel Case_, or True Stories and False;
Tales translated from the German by Trauermantel;
223 pages, 12mo.
_Well Begun is Half Done_,
or The Young Painter and Fiddlehanns;
Tales translated from the German of
Richard Baron and Dr. C. Deutsch;
246 pages, 12mo. Price, $1.25 each.
------
From D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York,
_The Book of Oratory_, compiled for the use of Colleges,
Academies, and the High Classes of Select Schools.
By a member of the Order of the Holy Cross,
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 648.
------
From Fowler & Wells, New York,
_An Essay on Man_, by Alexander Pope,
and _The Gospel among the Animals_,
by Samuel Osgood, D.D. Paper.
--------
{289}
The Catholic World.
Vol. VI., No. 33. December, 1867.
------
The Third Catholic Congress Of Malines.
The ancient city of Malines, which has once more been the seat of
one of those remarkable Catholic congresses already described in
our pages, is well worthy of the distinguished honor conferred
upon it by these illustrious assemblages. A few words of
description will not, therefore, be amiss, as introductory to our
sketch of the proceedings of the congress of last September.
The province of South Brabant, in which the city of Malines, or,
as it is called in Flemish, Mechelen, is situated, has had a most
varied and eventful history. Having originally formed a part of
the province of Belgic Gaul, under the Roman empire, it was
successively included in the domains of the Frankish and
Austrasian kingdoms, and of the duchy of Lorraine. In the year
1005, Brabant, including North Brabant which is now a province of
Holland as well as the Belgian province of South Brabant, was
erected into a duchy. Godfrey of Bouillon was one of its dukes.
Its independence ceased in 1429, when it was annexed to Burgundy.
In 1484 it passed under the dominion of the emperor of Germany,
at the death of Charles V. was transferred to Spain, again
reverted to Germany at the beginning of the eighteenth century,
was annexed by conquest to France in 1794, taken from France and
annexed to Holland by the Congress of Vienna, and finally, by the
revolution of 1830, became a portion of the new kingdom of
Belgium, to which we wish perpetuity and prosperity with our
whole heart.
South Brabant covers an area of 1269 square miles, containing a
population of about 750,000. It is a flat, well-wooded country,
crowded with beautiful towns and villages, intersected by several
rivers and canals, cultivated throughout like a garden, and alive
with thrift and industry. The city of Malines is at the point of
intersection of the principal Belgian railways, about fifteen
miles from Brussels, and at the same distance from Antwerp and
Louvain. The river Dyle partly encircles and partly intersects
the city, affording pleasant walks, well shaded, on the
outskirts, and creating some most picturesque scenes within the
town, by winding among some of the streets, whose residences and
warehouses front upon the river.
{290}
The railway depots have been kept, by the city authorities, on a
remote outskirt of the town, so that its quiet and antique
streets are not disturbed by the noise and bustle of the trains.
Nor are they disturbed by any other kind of noise or bustle.
Whatever business is done there seems to be out of sight and
hearing. It is the most quiet, tranquil, and clean city that can
possibly be imagined. In the centre is a great public square,
upon which are situated the cathedral, the headquarters of
administration, the military barracks, located in a very antique
and picturesque building, the museum, and two hotels, as well as
numerous shops and houses. In the centre of the square stands a
statue of Margaret of Austria. The city contains a population of
33,000. The streets are wide and regular, but winding. Nearly all
the buildings are white, being either constructed of white stone,
or covered with a very fine and durable white stucco. Among them
are numerous residences of great comfort and elegance, some of
them really palatial, although their exterior surface is
perfectly plain and simple, without porches, balconies, or grand
entrances, to relieve their monotonous smoothness, or break up
the continuity of white wall which gives Malines the appearance
of a city of mural monuments. The great metropolitan cathedral of
St. Rumbold, in the Grand Place, presents, however, a striking
contrast to this general effect of uniform and brilliant
whiteness, by its vast mass of dark stone and its immense
unfinished tower, 340 feet high, which domineers in dark, sombre
grandeur over the city. Returning on the Saturday night before
the congress to Malines, from Ostend, in company with a friend
who has travelled throughout all Europe and seen all its finest
churches, we were particularly impressed by the great beauty of
the picture presented by the Grand Place and the cathedral in a
very clear moonlight and our friend remarked that he never saw
anything more grand than the view of the vast, dark cathedral,
overshadowing the white walls of the adjacent buildings, and
towering above them in strong relief against their moon-bright
surfaces. Notwithstanding the sneers of M. Baedeker, the
cathedral of Malines is a truly grand and imposing church. It was
commenced in the twelfth and completed in the fifteenth century;
the tower, which is slowly growing upward toward its proposed
height of 480 feet, was commenced in 1452, with the aid of
contributions from the pilgrims who resorted there to gain the
indulgences of the crusade, granted by Nicholas V. The patron
saint of the cathedral, called in French St. Rombaut, in Flemish
St. Rumbold, and in English St. Rumold, was the first apostle of
Brabant. He is supposed by many writers to have been an Irishman,
although others think that he was an Englishman. Not being able
to form any opinion of our own on this point, we will take leave
to quote what Alban Butler says on the subject:
"The place of St. Rumold's birth is contested. According to
certain Belgic and other martyrologies, he was of the blood
royal of Scotland (as Ireland was then called) and Bishop of
Dublin. This opinion is ably supported by F. Hugh Ward, an
Irish Franciscan, a man well skilled in the antiquities of his
country, in a work entitled _Dissertatio Historica de vitâ et
patriâ, S. Rumoldi, Archiepiscopi Dubliniensis_, published
at Louvain, in 1662, in 4to. The learned Pope Benedict XIV.
seems to adjudge St. Rumold to Ireland, in his letters to the
prelates of that kingdom, dated the 1st of August, 1741,
wherein are the following words: 'If we were disposed to
recount those most holy men, Columbanus, Kilianus, Virgilius,
_Rumoldus_, Gallus, and many others who brought the
Catholic faith out of Ireland into other provinces, or
illustrated by shedding the blood of martyrdom.' (_Hib. Dom.
Suppl_. p. 831.) On the other hand, Janning, the Bollandist,
undertakes to prove that St. Rumold was an English Saxon."
[Footnote 45]
[Footnote 45: Butler's _Lives of the Saints_, July 1.
Note.]
{291}
Whether St. Rumold was Irish or English, at all events his
reputation as an Irish saint obtained for us the pleasure of
having two very agreeable priests from Ireland to dine with us
one Sunday afternoon, who had stopped _en route_ for
Aix-la-Chapelle in order to visit the cathedral.
St. Rumold, after spending the earlier part of his life in a
monastery, went to Rome in order to receive the apostolic
blessing of the pope and authority to preach the faith in the
then heathen country of Lower Germany. He was consecrated bishop
at some period of his missionary life, when we are not informed,
and converted a great number of the people of Brabant. He was
assassinated by some wicked men whose crimes he had reproved, on
the 24th of June, 775, and is therefore honored as a martyr. A
church was built to honor his memory and receive his relics at
Malines, and these are still preserved and venerated in the
present cathedral, the successor of the original church of St.
Rumbold. The church of Malines was made a metropolitan see by
Paul IV., and is now the primatial see of Belgium, including
Brussels within its diocesan limits. In more recent times, the
archbishops have usually been raised to the dignity of cardinals.
The Cardinal de Frankenberg, who governed the see in the reign of
Joseph II., distinguished himself by his firm opposition to the
anti-catholic policy of that emperor. Cardinal de Mean, who died
in 1831, and has a beautiful monument in the cathedral, has left
behind him the reputation of an intrepid and valiant defender of
the rights of the church in most difficult and dangerous times.
Cardinal de Sterckx is the present Archbishop of Malines, a
prelate advanced in years, but still retaining the full vigor of
mind and body, and universally beloved for his patriarchal
benignity and mildness of character, as was evident by the
genuine and heartfelt warmth of the expressions of attachment
which greeted his presence at the congress.
The chapter consists of twenty-two resident canons, who chant the
entire office with great solemnity every day. The interior of the
cathedral is imposing, and contains some fine pictures,
especially a Crucifixion by Vandyke, a Last Supper by Wouters,
and other paintings by Flemish masters. The chimes of the
cathedral tower, which are unusually melodious and joyous in
their tone, ring at the striking of the hours and half-hours, and
on many other occasions, especially on festivals and their eves,
when they are rung almost without cessation during the greater
part of the day, with a very festive and enlivening effect.
There are eight or ten other churches, some of them very large
and of imposing architecture, the most remarkable of which is the
church of Notre Dame d'Hanswyck, on the outskirts of the city,
containing a picture by Rubens of the miraculous draught of
fishes. St. John's church has a picture of the Adoration of the
Magi, and several smaller pictures, all by Rubens, forming an
altar-piece with wings on the high altar.
{292}
St. Peter's was formerly the Jesuits' church, and some adjacent
buildings were once used as a novitiate. Here the B. John
Berchmans, whose picture is in the church, lived for a time; and
here are still memorials of the noble order so unjustly expelled
from their peaceful home, in a beautiful marble statue of St.
Francis Xavier placed in a recumbent position under the high
altar, and in a series of large paintings on the side walls
representing scenes in the life of the saint. The carved work of
the pulpit and the confessionals in this church is remarkably
fine, and in general this is the case throughout Belgium.
There is a large and commodious grand seminary at Malines, a
little seminary, which is on a corresponding scale of
completeness and extent, and a college. There are several
religious communities of men and women, and, under the care of
one of the latter, a very extensive and well-built hospital of
recent construction.
The motto of the city, _In fide constans_, was conferred
upon it two centuries and a half ago by one of the emperors of
Germany, and is still appropriate, notwithstanding the strenuous
and in part successful efforts of the anti-catholic party to
seduce the population from their fidelity to the church. Malines
is still one of the most thoroughly and openly Catholic cities of
Europe. It would be impossible to find more intelligent,
courageous, warm-hearted, or devout Catholics than are found in
great numbers among the nobility and higher classes. A large
proportion of the people are also, as indeed throughout Belgium,
especially in the country places, sincerely attached to their
religion and in the habit of complying with its duties.
Nevertheless, even in Malines that infidel clique calling itself
the liberal party, which has the control of the administration,
is able to influence a sufficiently large number of the voters to
carry all the elections. We were informed by intelligent
gentlemen of Malines that this is due in great measure to the
official patronage in connection with the railway system, which
is a state affair, and places a great number of appointments in
the hands of the government. A large class are also excluded from
voting in Belgium by the peculiar law of property qualification.
The keepers of estaminets, as the drinking-shops are called, are
also there as here a very numerous class, and possessed of great
influence in politics, all of which is on the side of the
pseudo-liberals.
The liberal party is undoubtedly thoroughly anti-catholic and
infidel in its principles and aims. Nevertheless, as the devil
knows better than to send up his carte-de-visite with his name
and likeness on it, the leaders of that party are adroit and
plausible enough to carry with them not only the portion of the
people which is corrupt, but also a number of good and
well-meaning Catholics, as well as a large number of those who
are apathetic and indifferent. All the bad Catholics are
liberals, we were told, but not all the liberals are bad
Catholics. It is a great disgrace, however, to such an ancient
and Catholic city as Malines, that the anti-catholic party should
rule it, and we hope the stain on its escutcheon may ere long be
wiped off.
On the Sunday morning before the opening of the congress, it was
difficult to imagine that anything of the sort was at hand.
Everything looked as quiet as usual, and there were no visible
signs of any great influx of strangers. All at once, however, the
congress came, like the sun bursting suddenly in its full
splendor out of a cloud.
{293}
The preparations had been made quietly but efficiently, and
during the latter part of Sunday afternoon one became aware all
at once of something going on. The city appeared to become full
at once, as if by magic, of a thousand or more of clergymen and
lay gentlemen from various parts of Belgium, France, and other
countries of the world, and even a few adventurous ladies made
their appearance at the _tables d' hôte_ of the hotels. The
central bureau of the congress held its preliminary session on
Sunday afternoon, and during the ceremony of tea, at our hotel on
the Grand Place, M. Ducpetiaux, the founder, the prime mover, and
the secretary-general of the congress, made his appearance, with
various red and blue tickets and printed programmes in his
pockets, which indicated that the ball was about to open.
Under the guidance of this experienced pilot, we put out into the
hitherto unknown sea of congressional life, by crossing the Grand
Place toward the cathedral, to take part in a reunion given by an
association of young men, called "The Circle of Loyalty." As we
approached the place of meeting, the first object which greeted
our eyes was a brilliant, semicircular jet of gas over the arched
entrance to a garden enclosed by a high wall, forming the words,
"_Cercle Catholique._" A crowd of juvenile Flamanders with
their broad backs and good-humored countenances, watched, and
chatted, and peeped about the outside, as is always the case with
the boys of all countries whenever there are great doings going
on from which they are excluded. Inside the gate, which was
vigilantly guarded by well-dressed young men clothed with the
usual badges of office, we found ourselves in the midst of a
garden filled with a gay and talkative crowd of priests in
various sorts of ecclesiastical costumes, and of gentlemen of all
ages and many countries, all making themselves as social and
happy as possible. Passing through the garden, we were ushered
into the large and commodious building which forms the hall of
the association, and which was also filled with the members of
the circle and of the congress from top to bottom. In the first
room we entered, we found the president of the circle, M. Cannart
d'Hamalle, one of the principal gentlemen of Malines, and a
member of the Belgian senate, in full evening dress, receiving
the members as they arrived, with that courtly and at the same
time cordial politeness in which the Belgians excel all others.
From the lower apartments of the hall we were soon summoned to
the audience-room above, where speeches were made and applauded
_con amore_, and a musical entertainment given by a choir
and orchestra, consisting of Belgian national hymns, the hymn of
Pius IX., and concluding with an exquisite _morceau_ on the
violoncello by a young artist of merit, which was vehemently
applauded. These social reunions were continued without the
formalities every evening during the week.
The congress was opened on the next morning. The place of meeting
was the little seminary, situated on the outskirts of the city,
near the boulevard which skirts the banks of the river Dyle. The
grounds and buildings of the seminary are extremely convenient
for the purpose. The buildings are extensive, and, together with
the high wall connecting them, enclose a large, quadrangular
space. Within this space the members of the congress assembled at
an early hour on Monday.
{294}
The entrances were guarded by young men of the Circle of Loyalty,
who formed a body of volunteer police and commissariat during the
sessions of the congress, performing their duties in such a
manner as to receive well-merited eulogiums approved by the
entire assembly, the most eloquent and delicate of which came
from the lips of the Count de Falloux. The illustrious statesman
and orator, with that felicity and charming grace of manner and
expression which are his peculiar characteristics, uttered the
sentiment, during one of his speeches, that the array of Catholic
youth in attendance upon the congress was its most beautiful and
attractive feature, and seemed, as it were, like a little legion
of Stanislas Kostkas.
In the enclosure of the seminary, everything was arranged which
could facilitate the business of the congress or promote the
comfort and convenience of its members. A post-office, booths for
the sale of newspapers and for writing letters, a restaurant
where refreshments could be obtained at all hours, and where a
dinner was provided every day, with other similar conveniences,
were established on the premises. The assembly-room was a large
exhibition hall, tastefully decorated with the busts of the pope
and king, the flags of various nations, and appropriate mottoes.
All the members of the congress were furnished with a ticket of
membership; no other persons being admitted within the enclosure,
except a few ladies, for whom seats were reserved. Special
tickets for reserved places and the platform were given to the
foreign members and others specially privileged. The number of
members in attendance during the week was about three thousand, a
large proportion of whom were assembled at the place of
rendezvous on Monday morning, the majority being clergymen
dressed in the various ecclesiastical costumes of Belgium,
France, and Germany, with a sprinkling of the picturesque habits
of the old religious orders. At the appointed hour, all moved in
a procession, not remarkably well ordered, but very dignified and
respectable in appearance, to the cathedral, through a double
hedge of citizens lining the streets, by a pretty long route,
along which many of the houses and shops were decorated with
banners, armorial bearings, and other ornaments of a festal and
welcoming nature. After the arrival of the procession, pontifical
Mass was celebrated by the cardinal, a number of Belgian and
foreign bishops and prelates assisting, and the procession
returned once more to the seminary, where the opening session was
held.
The cardinal, who is always the honorary president of the
congress, on his arrival at the hall of assemblage, assumed the
chair amid loud cheers and vivas, and, after pronouncing a short
prayer, delivered a brief and paternal allocution. At the close
of his allocution, he descended from the platform to a chair in
front of it, near which were placed chairs for the prelates.
Among the foreign bishops assisting at the congress were the
Patriarch of Antioch, the Archbishop of Bosra, Vicar-Apostolic of
Bengal, the Vicar-Apostolic of Alexandria, the Archbishop of Rio
Grande in Brazil, the Bishop of Vancouver, the Bishops of Natchez
and Charleston, U. S., and Chatham, N. S.; Mgr. de Merode was
also present during the early part of the session. Mgr.
Dupanloup, Père Hyacinthe, and the Count de Falloux came by
special invitation as the great orators of the congress. A few
clergymen and gentlemen from Germany, Italy, Poland, Spain,
Holland, and America, a moderately large number from France, and
some scattering individuals from almost everywhere, representing,
it was said, eighteen different nations, made up the foreign
element of the congress.
{295}
Among the more distinguished foreign members of the congress,
were Mgr. Kubinski, rector of the seminary of Pesth, in Hungary;
Mgr. Woodlock, rector of the Catholic university of Dublin; F.
Formby, of England; Mgr. Sacré, rector of the Belgian College in
Rome; Baron de Bach, formerly Austrian ambassador at Rome;
Chevalier Alberi of Florence; Viscount de la Fuente, professor of
canon law in the University of Madrid; Don Manè y Flaquer, an
eminent Spanish publicist; Count Cieszkowski, of Poland; the Abbé
Brouwers, editor of the _Tyd_, of Amsterdam, etc. The
strangers were treated with marked distinction and the most
cordial kindness by their Belgian _confrères_. Nevertheless,
apart from the brilliant orators from abroad, whose eloquence was
chiefly directed to an object identical with the special and
local purposes of the active members of the congress, the
international character of the assembly was much less marked than
in former years. England had but one representative, F. Formby,
and other European countries were not strongly represented, with
the single exception of France. Germany had its own congress a
week after the one at Malines; and it appears probable that the
Catholic congresses will become hereafter more and more
exclusively national, occupied with local affairs of practical
necessity, and having less of the character of international
_réunions_. The Baron della Faille, in an article published
in _La Revue Generale,_ seems, however, to regret this
tendency, and to desire that the congress should become more of
an international reunion. The late congress was especially marked
by this practical and business-like character, and, if it fell
behind the former ones somewhat in numbers and _éclat_, was
probably increased in practical utility by this very
circumstance. This is precisely the view taken in the
_Compte-Rendu_ of the congress published in _Le
Catholique_ of Brussels:
"Its labors went more directly to their object, had something
about them stronger and better developed, and a more practical
character. The accessory aspects occupied a smaller space.
Eloquence, even--we speak of the eloquence of words, not of
realities--played a lesser _rôle_. We may say that
rhetorical display scarcely appeared at all, and that there was
a decided preference for the reality of ideas and facts. Read
the details of the general sessions and of the sections. You
will see there fewer speeches for effect, but more that give
information and instruction. The congress meddled little with
speculations, properly so-called; it did not set forth any
religious or political metaphysics; it proceeded to its end by
the shortest and surest routes. The rights of the church, its
necessities, the liberty which it needs, its perils and trials
in various countries, the organization and results of pious
undertakings, the means of propagating them, the precise and
urgent duties of Catholics in respect to religion, such were
the matters principally discussed."
It may be well to state also, in this connection, that purely
political discussions were prohibited in the congress, and
strictly excluded from its deliberations.
The Cardinal Archbishop of Malines, as we have said, is always
the honorary president of the congress, and it is by him that the
sessions are solemnly opened and closed. The active presidency is
confided to some distinguished Belgian nobleman, and this high
office has been hitherto filled by the Baron de Gerlache, a
statesman and patriot of one of the most illustrious families of
the kingdom, who was the president of the national congress by
which the constitution was established, and until of late the
chief judge of the court of cassation.
{296}
The Baron de Gerlache having resigned the office of president of
the Catholic congress on account of his advanced age and
infirmities, he was associated with the cardinal as honorary
president, in order to testify the gratitude and veneration of
the Catholics of Belgium for his illustrious career of public
service; and the office of active president was left vacant. Its
duties were performed with great dignity and ability by the first
vice-president, Baron Hippolyte della Faille, a senator and
leading Catholic statesman. The other vice-presidents were
Viscount Kerckhove, Mgr. Laforet, rector magnificus of the
University of Louvain, Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, senator, and
Count de Theux, honorary vice-president, to whom were added as
honorary vice-presidents the Count de Falloux and a number of the
other foreigners present. The central bureau, which is a supreme
council of management, was composed of the active
vice-presidents, M. Ducpetiaux, secretary-general, with four
other secretaries and a treasurer, and ten other gentlemen of
distinguished rank and character, three of whom are clergymen and
seven laymen. The presidents of the sections were Count Legrelle,
Canon de Haerne, Mgr. Laforet, Viscount Dubus de Gisignies, and
M. Dechamps, with a number of vice-presidents and secretaries.
About fifty or sixty clergymen and lay-gentlemen of rank are thus
placed at the head of the congress as members of the central and
subordinate bureaux, constituting really the working congress.
The great mass of the members, the majority of whom are clergymen
of Belgium, constitute the audience, and cooperate chiefly by
their presence and sympathy, although any member is at liberty to
attend any section and gain a hearing for himself, if he has
anything to propose to the attention of his colleagues. The
measures to be proposed are initiated by the central bureau, sent
down to the appropriate section for discussion and preparation,
and, after approbation by the central bureau, laid before the
congress for their ratification, which is usually given without
further discussion, either by acclamation or by a formal vote.
The real business meetings are consequently those of the bureaux
and sections, the general sessions being devoted to hearing
speeches, addresses, and reports. The sections meet during the
morning, the members attending any of them they may choose. They
are five in number. The first section is occupied with works of
Catholic piety, the second with social science and works of
general public improvement, the third with education, the fourth
with Christian art, and the fifth with the Catholic press.
The general sessions are held during the afternoon, and at the
last congress one of the evenings was devoted to a musical
entertainment; another to a _fête_, given by the city, in
the Botanical Garden; and the others were spent, by many of the
members, in social conversation at the Catholic circle.
Before we give a _résumé_ of the proceedings of these
sectional and general sessions of the late congress, it may be
well to state the reasons, objects, and guiding principles in
view of which the assemblage of these congresses at Malines has
been inaugurated and carried on. A great deal has been already
published in our former numbers upon this topic; but as our
readers may have forgotten it, and not care to look it up afresh,
we think it will enable them to appreciate the proceedings of the
congress we are describing more thoroughly, if we furnish them
the substance anew in a brief and summary manner.
{297}
In making this explanation, we shall be guided by the published
and official statements of His Eminence the Cardinal de Sterckx,
the Baron de Gerlache, and M. Ducpetiaux, which are to be found
in the authentic documents of the first congress.
The necessity of the times which induced the leading Catholics of
Belgium to conceive and execute the plan of convoking a general
assembly of the clergy and laity of the kingdom, under the
auspices of their primate and bishops, was the peculiar condition
of the Catholic Church in relation to the civil administration of
the state. The revolution of 1830, which severed Belgium from
Holland and made it an independent kingdom, was accomplished by
the concurrence of the Catholic majority of the nobility and
people with the smaller but more active and enterprising liberal
party who were the originators of the movement. By a similar
concurrence and compromise between these two totally different
elements, a constitution was formed on principles of very
enlarged civil and religious liberty, and a Protestant prince,
Leopold I., was called to the throne. The late king is usually
spoken of by Catholics as a monarch of honorable and upright
character, who endeavored to fulfil the duties entrusted to him
in a just and impartial manner. Nevertheless, it is quite true
that the position of affairs with a Protestant sovereign at the
head of a Catholic people was an anomalous one, most unfavorable
to the interests of the church and affording the greatest
facilities to the so-called liberals to obtain a predominant
influence in the state. The Catholic nobility and gentry, whose
position, intelligence, and wealth made them the most capable of
taking the principal part in directing political affairs, seem to
have been too apathetic, and to have confided too much in the
sincerity, loyalty, and good faith of the opposite party. The
consequence was, that this party was allowed to get the control
into its own hands, and enabled to secure an amount of influence
over the people, who are fundamentally good, but too apathetic to
their own highest interests, which has proved very dangerous, and
has threatened to prove very disastrous, to religion. The
accusation publicly made against this party by the gravest and
most high-minded statesmen of Belgium is, that it has pursued an
unremittingly perfidious policy in direct violation of the
constitution, the end of which is to deprive the Catholic Church
of that liberty and those rights solemnly guaranteed to it by the
fundamental law of the realm, and, as far as possible, to
decatholicize and unchristianize the people. The Catholic
congress was called together and organized in order to unite the
most influential laymen of the kingdom with the leading members
of the clerical order, to take counsel together and adopt
measures for counteracting this anti-catholic, infidel policy of
the pseudo-liberal party. The honor of originating this glorious
and happy enterprise, and of doing more than any other individual
to promote its success, is ascribed by unanimous consent to M.
Edouard Ducpetiaux, of Brussels, a gentleman whose name deserves
to be enrolled with those of the most illustrious benefactors of
his country.
{298}
M. Ducpetiaux is a gentleman of wealth and high education, the
author of some valuable works on social science, a corresponding
member of the French Institute, and was formerly
inspector-general of the prisons and public charitable
institutions of Belgium. It is impossible to find in the world a
man more genial, kind-hearted, unassuming, and energetic in
prosecuting every benevolent work or one more enthusiastically
beloved by those who are associated with him in the noble cause
of promoting the Catholic faith in Belgium and Europe. Happily
for the interests of religion in this ancient Catholic country, a
number of other gentlemen of the highest standing and the most
thorough Catholic loyalty cooperated with him in his great
undertaking. The wise, generous, and unfaltering patronage and
support of the venerable primate of Belgium, the Cardinal
Archbishop of Malines, crowned it with that sanction and imparted
to it that spirit of union with the Holy Roman Church and the
hierarchy, which are the guarantee of its genuine Catholicity and
the vital principle of its activity. The congress was intended to
serve as an instrument for thwarting the destructive policy of
the infidel party by combining together those zealous and loyal
Catholics who, in their isolation and separation, were in danger
of losing courage; revealing to them their real strength,
animating their faith and ardor by able and eloquent addresses
from the most illustrious champions of the church, concerting and
taking means to carry out all kinds of measures for preserving
and extending a Catholic spirit among the people. The more
precise and definite objects to be aimed at were, to win for the
church the full and perfect possession of her liberty and other
divine rights, to promote the cause of Catholic education, to
make known and give new impetus to all kinds of religious and
charitable works and associations already existing, as well as to
found new ones; to provide for the publication of books, tracts,
magazines, and newspapers devoted to the sound and wholesome
instruction of the people; to preserve, restore, and augment the
treasures of religious art; and to work for social reform by
alleviating the burdens, miseries, and privations of the laboring
classes. The special reason for calling a congress for these
purposes was, in order that the nobility and other influential
classes of the laity might be brought into direct and immediate
cooperation with the clergy for promoting and defending the
sacred cause of religion. The words of the Most Eminent Cardinal
de Sterckx carry with them such a weight of authority and wisdom
on this head, not only on account of his position as primate of
the Belgian hierarchy, but also from the still higher rank which
he holds as a prince of the Roman Church, and from the fact that
he has spoken and acted throughout after seeking counsel and
direction from the Holy Father, as well as from his own high
personal character, that we will make a citation of them from his
allocution at the opening of the first congress:
"It is true, gentlemen, that the government of the church
belongs to the clergy; it is true that it is to the sovereign
pontiff, to the bishops, and to the priests that the deposit of
faith and the care of souls has been confided. It is to them
that the divine Founder of the church has said: _'Go, teach
all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of
the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.'_ It is to them that He has
said: _'You are the light of the world, you are the salt of
the earth.'_ Nevertheless, the Christian laity are also
called to contribute to the propagation of the gospel, to
sustain and defend the church of God.
{299}
By baptism they have become the children of the church, and
they are bound to take to heart the interests of their mother;
by confirmation they have become soldiers of the church, and
they are bound to defend her against the attacks of her
enemies. It is, moreover, by the practice of good works that we
are all obliged, both ecclesiastics and laymen, to secure our
salvation. '_Strive_,' says the prince of apostles to all
Christians without distinction, '_strive to secure your
vocation and election by the practice of good works_.'
"But, if such is the duty of the laity, they ought to concert
together in order to fulfil it with zeal and perseverance; they
ought to combine and form associations; they ought to confer
together, in order to plan the means of doing with more
certainty and success that which they could only do in a very
incomplete manner if they were abandoned to their own
individual capacities."
We add one more sentence from the same allocution, which
manifests the genuine and large-minded liberality of sentiment so
conspicuous in this wise and venerable prelate and in the body of
eminent men who have had the principal direction of the congress:
"All honest opinions may be expressed, all measures proper for
promoting that which is good may be proposed. Both the one and
the other may be defended, discussed, and combated with the
greatest liberty; but you will also be all ready to abandon, if
necessary, your sentiments and your projects, in order to rally
to the support of those measures which shall be judged to be
the best. In this way you will arrive at that perfect union
which the Saviour demanded for his disciples: You will all have
but one heart and one soul, and the success of your labors will
be secured."
There can be no doubt that the congress of Malines has
accomplished a great deal of the good contemplated by its eminent
and excellent promoters. The mere assemblage of so many fervent
Catholics together, and the enunciation of their common
sentiments, wishes, and purposes, have had a great influence in
giving increased courage, confidence, and zeal to the faithful
adherents of the church in Belgium. Moreover, many works of great
practical utility have either been inaugurated or have received
additional extent and vigor. Among them may be mentioned the
support given to the Catholic University of Louvain, the
formation of a society among the alumni of the university, the
establishment of Catholic circles of young men in the towns, the
formation of libraries, the establishment of lectures and
conferences, the formation of charitable and religious
associations, the foundation of a Catholic publication house, the
multiplication of books, tracts, and newspapers, the care given
to the preservation, repair, and increase of churches, the
cultivation of the fine arts in connection with religion, the
efforts made for the sanctification of the Sunday and for the
amelioration of the condition of the laboring classes. It is
impossible to enumerate all that has been done, and would require
a more minute knowledge of the state of things in Belgium than we
possess--such a knowledge as is possessed only by those who have
been engaged permanently in the work of the congress from the
beginning.
{300}
In regard to the work of the congress lately held, our
information is also much restricted and very general, as we are
obliged to rely on the succinct reports already published. The
meetings of the sections being held simultaneously in different
rooms, and their proceedings being a continuation of those of
preceding congresses as well as of a great number of various
branches of active effort carried on perpetually by those engaged
in them, we cannot pretend to give any complete and detailed
statement of practical results, but merely an indication of the
general topics discussed and the general objects had in view in
the measures adopted.
In the first section, the topics discussed related to the
Christian burial of the poor, the sanctification of the Sunday,
the work of St. Francis Xavier for the instruction of laboring
men, which has forty thousand members from this class in the
cities of Belgium, the work of St. Francis Regis for legitimating
illicit unions and facilitating marriages among the poor, and the
contribution in aid of the pope called St. Peter's pence.
The second section was exclusively occupied with considering the
interest of the laboring class and the relation of capital to
labor, the terrible and at present insoluble European _question
ouvrière_. The discussions in this section were more lively
and the interest excited more general than in any other section.
The third section discussed three questions:
1. The attitude which Catholics ought to take in view of the war
declared against the law of 1842, and in the eventuality of its
abrogation.
2. The means of protecting the schools of the middle class
against the incursions of official bureaucracy.
3. The improvement to be introduced in the Catholic system of
instruction, under which head the improvement of historical
text-books was especially considered.
The fourth section discussed the subject of instruction and
improvement in religious art, the permanent exposition of fine
paintings and statuary in churches, the means of developing and
propagating religious art, and literary works imbued with a
Christian spirit. M. Bordeaux, an eminent French archaeologist,
was present, and spoke with ability in this section, giving
interesting details of the progress of sacred archaeology in
France. Among other recommendations, we were happy to find one
relative to the removal of the ridiculous images which disfigure
some fine churches, and the abolition of the unpleasant custom of
paying a franc to the sacristan for removing the curtains before
certain pictures. Desires were expressed for the publication of a
manual of sacred archaeology and architecture as a guide to
priests and architects.
The fifth section had a great number of important questions
before it relating to the Catholic press, Catholic circles,
popular lectures, secret societies, judicial oaths, etc., which
it appears were not so well prepared beforehand or dealt with in
so thorough a manner as the questions laid before the other
sections. The most important resolution arrived at by this
section was that of effecting a union of the Catholic circles for
young men by means of a central organization. The formation of
similar circles for the benefit of the industrial classes, and
the giving of popular lectures on a more extensive scale, were
also recommended.
Such is an imperfect and meagre outline of the work accomplished
in the morning sessions of the several congressional sections.
These sessions were opened at eight or nine o'clock, and
continued until twelve or later.
{301}
At three o'clock the general sessions of the congress were
opened, continuing until six or seven in the evening; and we will
now attempt to give a sketch of their proceedings.
The opening of the congress by the cardinal has already been
noticed. After His Eminence had left the president's chair, the
nominations of the central and sectional bureaux made by the
committee of delegates were proposed and ratified by the
assembly, and the chair was taken by the Baron della Faille, who
immediately pronounced a long, elaborately written, and extremely
able opening discourse. The baron is a gentleman of plain but
impressive dignity, whose entire bearing and language bear the
stamp of solid sense, elevated principles, thorough
conscientiousness, and quiet but indomitable courage. A tone of
profound and deeply meditative Christian thought and fervent
Catholic piety predominates in his discourses, with a little
shadow of sadness, as if he felt the great interests of the
church and society to be in great danger; together with an
undercurrent of suppressed emotion, as of a just and high-minded
man indignant at the baseness of those who are faithless to their
duty toward God and their fellow-men; as well as deeply resolved
to be faithful to the death himself, at whatever cost of selfish
interests.
At the outset of his discourse, the distinguished vice-president
laid down the proposition that a state of conflict is the
perpetual condition of the church, and proceeded to develop his
views concerning the radical causes of the hostility which
Christianity perpetually excites in the human bosom against its
principles, its precepts, and its claim of authority over reason,
conscience, and human activity. This part of his discourse was
profoundly theological, the views and reasonings presented being
all derived from the doctrine that man, in consequence of the
original sin into which he fell from his primitive state of
integrity, finds a perpetual repugnance and struggle in his own
bosom of selfish passion against the supernatural law. This
repugnance and resistance tends to produce itself in society even
after it has been christianized and civilized, in the form of a
retrograde movement toward irreligion and barbarism.
The orator proceeded then to examine the question whether this
conflict could be terminated, so far as its disturbing influence
on political tranquillity and the peace of society is concerned,
by a reformation or reconstruction of the relations between the
two orders, spiritual and temporal, religion and society, the
church and the state. To this question he addressed himself to
give a historical solution, arguing from the facts of the past as
to what might be expected in the future. "When the irreconcilable
adversaries of the truth," said the orator, with energy and
emotion, "tear the state away from the church, reject Christ, ah!
gentlemen, it is not in order to create for us a more peaceful
condition; it is, on the contrary, in order to attack us more
freely. If the civil power forces itself to be impartial, guided
by reason alone, it is not secure from error; it will often be
deceived, and the Catholic religion, being incapable of
submitting to the manipulations of the temporal authority, will
always be the first thing menaced. But what if this same power is
malevolent? what if it has fallen into the hands of our enemies?"
The orator then went on to sustain the position thus laid down by
a reference to the actual policy of the so-called liberal
governments of Europe toward the Catholic Church.
{302}
He demanded that a single European state should be indicated,
where liberalism is in power, which has not persecuted the
church. After reproaching the blindness and apathy of a great
number of Catholics who hang loose from an active part in the
conflict against infidelity, he set forth, in very forcible
language, the common duty of all to maintain, or rather to make a
conquest of, the liberties of the church. This, he said, could
only be accomplished by an obstinate conflict with the enemies of
the church, in which there could be _ni paix ni trêve_.
Touching then upon Belgium in particular, the country which
liberty has made so famous, he asked the question, What is the
condition of things there now? Without disparaging the amount of
liberty still left to them, he declared that they had already
lost enough to awaken just regret in their own minds, and to
suggest the caution to their too confident friends: "Do not
exaggerate the authority of this example, and take care for
yourselves." He then went on to affirm that the church in Belgium
is combated in its religious and charitable works--in the
exercise of worship, where it has new assaults to expect, without
any respect for the conditions which have been affixed to
charitable institutions, or to the solemn engagements of the
state. Such, he exclaimed, is our situation, in spite of our
legislation which was favorable to us, in spite of promises the
most formal, compacts the most solemn. Elsewhere, he asked, is
the situation more favorable? The orator then deduced the
conclusion which was the final object aimed at throughout his
closely reasoned discourse, that the Catholics of Europe must
rely on themselves alone, and prepare for a combat which must be
sustained with courage, constancy, and union. In this part of his
discourse, the baron proved how legitimate is the title he has
received from his warlike ancestors, and we were reminded of the
old days and old scenes of the chivalrous, warlike Netherlands,
when the fathers of the peaceable gentlemen in the costume of
civilians, who sat upon the platform or on the floor of the
congress, rode forth with their pennons flying, clad in steel
armor and coat of mail, to fight against the paynim for the cross
and sepulchre. "We are the children of the Crusaders!" he
exclaimed. "To a threatening infidelity let us oppose a new
crusade, and let us each one bring his own arms with him."
On the conclusion of the discourse, which had been frequently
interrupted by applause, the assembly gave loud and
long-continued expression to the universal sentiment of
admiration with which this introductory discourse of the
illustrious Belgian statesman was received.
An address to the Holy Father was then voted by the assembly; the
address was intrusted to Mgr. de Merode, to be presented by him
to His Holiness on his return to Rome. Information of the vote
was transmitted to Rome by telegraph, and in response to it the
Holy Father sent his benediction on the opening of the congress,
and subsequently another benediction on its close. After some
communications from the secretary, the first public session of
the congress was adjourned.
At the second session, on Tuesday afternoon, the hall was still
more crowded than on the day previous. A few moments before it
was opened, the Count de Falloux entered, leaning on the arm of
Mgr. Laforet, amid prolonged and enthusiastic acclamations.
{303}
At the opening of the session an address to the cardinal was
proposed and voted. M. de Falloux was nominated honorary
vice-president, and a large number of the foreign members were
honored with the same mark of distinction.
The favorite demonstration of cheering accompanied all these
courteous formalities, and no sooner had it subsided than it was
awakened to new and increased vigor by the arrival of the
cardinal with the accompanying prelates, conducting the
illustrious Bishop of Orleans, Mgr. Dupanloup, together with the
celebrated orator of the Carmelite order, Father Hyacinthe. Long,
loud, and often renewed were the acclamations with which the
assembly greeted the heroic, veteran champion of the Catholic
cause, "the Lamoricière of the episcopate," as he was happily
designated by one of the orators of the congress. The president
succeeded in silencing the thunders of congratulation long enough
to allow him to address a few words of salutation to Mgr.
Dupanloup in the name of the assembly, when they again burst
forth with irrepressible energy, and could not be appeased until
the illustrious orator, reluctantly yielding to the irresistible
demand of three thousand voices, ascended the tribune to
pronounce a short but fervid allocution.
Mgr. Dupanloup presents much more the exterior aspect of a
hard-working apostolic missionary, or of an austere and
self-denying religious, than of a stately dignitary of the
church; and his style of address is in accordance with his
personal appearance, having more of the unstudied energy, the
spontaneous fire, of an earnest, popular preacher, than of the
polished, artistic eloquence of a French academician.
His dress was a simple black cassock, with the slightest possible
amount of purple trimming, and a cloak of the same color, just
enough to indicate his episcopal rank, but still more significant
of his profound indifference for its decorations. Everything else
about his person and manner wore the same air of unstudied
_negligé_ and inattention to the ceremonial of exterior
elegance and polish. As he appeared in full view of the audience
upon the platform, an expression used by Rufus Choate of Napoleon
the First could be applied to him, as giving with terse
completeness a designation to the impression we received of the
physical, intellectual, and moral _tout ensemble_ of the
man--"the worn child of a thousand battles." The same idea is
conveyed by the title given him by general acclamation at the
congress, "the Lamoricière of the episcopate." The bishop is
somewhat over sixty years of age, his hair is gray, his movements
somewhat indicative of failing bodily strength, his countenance
vivid, lighting up as if from the flame of an internal,
ever-burning furnace which is consuming his physical frame, his
manner natural, easy, familiar, yet kindling at intervals into a
startling, vibrating eloquence that thrills through the nerves
like an electric shock. Mgr. Dupanloup had not preached in his
diocese for the last two years on account of weakness in the
throat, and, on taking the tribune at Malines, he apologized for
himself on the ground that his voice was weakened by long and
laborious use. In point of fact, his excuses seemed to be
well-grounded; yet, as he caught the expression of the eyes and
faces of his sympathetic audience, the electrical influence of
the atmosphere of the place, surcharged with the enthusiasm of
the Catholic faith, seemed to reanimate all his ancient fire, and
he sent forth, like a flash of lightning, with a tone that
vibrated through every heart in that august assembly, the
eloquent exclamation, "_Nous savions que le feu sacré est
immortel dans l'Eglise; mais_ ICI ON EN VOIT LA FLAMME!"
{304}
The bishop spoke but a few minutes, seizing the opportunity of
the renewed applause which broke out on his uttering these words
to descend hastily from the tribune, having produced an effect by
this sudden _coup de main_ of eloquence which it would be
impossible to describe in any language we have at command.
The acclamations caused by Mgr. Dupanloup's _début_ in the
assembly having subsided, a short and amusing conflict arose
between the amiable pertinacity of M. Ducpetiaux in insisting
upon an immediate address from the Count de Falloux, and the
reluctance of that gentleman to yield to the demand; in which the
latter was obliged to succumb. Indeed, the audience came at once
to the support of their secretary in such overwhelming force that
resistance was impossible, and the illustrious French statesman
was borne up to the tribune just vacated by the illustrious
French bishop, as it were by a great wave of applause.
The Count de Falloux is a finished specimen of the most graceful
and polished type of French gentlemen, orators, and men of polite
letters. The paleness of his countenance, together with an
expression of subdued languor in his eye and movements, bore
witness to the truth of his avowal, that a pitiable state of
health had prevented him from making any preparation for
addressing the congress. In consequence of this, the count made
no long or elaborate discourses. In his discourse of Tuesday,
which was the longest, he spoke but half an hour. Nevertheless,
this brief discourse, although apparently an unstudied, impromptu
utterance of thoughts and sentiments occurring at the moment;
delivered, without any effort at oratory, in a simple, almost
conversational manner; was a specimen of the most consummate,
captivating, and classical eloquence; as our readers will see for
themselves, we hope, so far as a translation can enable them to
do so, when the text of the discourse is published in full in our
pages, as we intend it shall be; together with those of Mgr.
Dupanloup and Father Hyacinthe. The expression of M. de Falloux's
countenance, the tones of his voice, and his entire manner of
address bear an impress of gentleness, of graceful, charming
persuasiveness, through which he wins the hearts of his audience
at once, and gains an easy, almost imperceptible dominion over
their minds. With exquisite grace and delicacy, he complimented
all the most distinguished persons present, the congress, and the
Belgian nation; thanking the latter especially for the honor and
kindness shown to his illustrious and suffering friend
Montalembert, then confined to his chamber by sickness at his
villa of Brixensart, near Brussels. The genuine, affectionate
tenderness and emotion with which he spoke of Montalembert
communicated itself at once to his sympathetic audience, and
called out the most energetic, enthusiastic acclamations of the
name so dear to the Belgian Catholics. "It is to you," said the
orator, "that Montalembert owes the motto expressive of that
sacred cause to which his life has been devoted, _Liberty as in
Belgium_." The theme thus introduced with such consummate
skill and effect occupied the remainder of the discourse, which
was in its drift and aim a modest, reserved, courteous, but not
the less powerful apology and defence of the nineteenth century
and the cause of liberty against the charge of being essentially
anti-catholic and irreligious.
{305}
The name of Montalembert was, in every instance when it was
mentioned, greeted with the same hearty applause during all the
sessions of the congress; a circumstance which elicited from him
a letter of thanks and sympathy, afterward publicly read by the
Count de Falloux, and received with acclamations of the most
energetic character by the assembly.
We do not feel ourselves competent to express an opinion on the
question how far the applause given by the congress to these two
illustrious Catholic statesmen of France indicated an approbation
of the principles in regard to the alliance of religion and
liberty which they advocate. There is, no doubt, a great
difference regarding this very important, delicate, and
complicated question, in Belgium as well as throughout Europe; a
difference existing, consequently, among the members of the
Congress of Malines. The Count de Falloux's speech has been
courteously but searchingly criticised by some of the most
prominent writers for the Catholic press in Belgium, and still
more severely by another writer in one of the English papers;
while, as is natural, it is sustained with equal courtesy as well
as with equal decision by _Le Correspondant_ of France. All
the members of the congress, as well as all other firm adherents
of the Catholic cause in Europe and the world, are of one mind
and one heart, in filial devotion to the Pope, loyalty to the
Holy See and the Catholic Church, determination to fight against
anti-catholic, infidel pseudo-liberalism in both its phases of
despotism and radical demagogueism for the perfect liberation,
the complete liberty of the Catholic Church from the tyranny,
both of governments and of revolutions. In regard to the basis of
settlement between the church and civil, political society, or
the state, through which this liberty can be most effectually
gained, most durably established, there is a divergence which
sometimes threatens to become a sharp contest, involving in its
issues other questions more directly ecclesiastical or
theological. The most admirable feature of the Congress of
Malines was, that this difference of opinion was neither
violently smothered nor permitted to burst into a flame of
discord, but subdued by the dominant power of mutual charity,
respect, and courtesy. The Catholics of Belgium, we may also add
those of France also, give a good example in this respect worthy
to be imitated by all, but especially _needing to be
imitated_ by the Catholics of England and our own country. The
Belgian Catholics are too deeply sensible of the imminent duties
and perils of the Catholic cause in front of the deadly enemy of
all religion, to tolerate the excesses of party spirit or
internal dissension among themselves, to allow the tyranny of
theological opinion the right of branding all dissidents as
disloyal to the church, to tolerate the secret undermining or
open detraction of the reputation of eminent, meritorious
advocates of the Catholic cause, much less to permit the
violation of the rules of Christian charity and courtesy by those
who write for the press. They have felt the necessity of shunning
personal or party disputes, rising above the spirit of clique or
sectional interest, throwing off indifference and apathy toward
measures or enterprises set on foot by men of zeal and courage
for the common good, and combining together in a spirit of
disinterested, self-sacrificing effort, strong enough to sweep
away and drown all petty interests, for the common, the sacred,
the glorious, but deeply endangered cause of God, religion, and
true philanthropy.
{306}
If we are so fortunate as to have a Catholic congress in the
United States, we trust it will be animated by the same spirit
which prevailed in the Congress of Malines, and that its
influence will promote powerfully this truly Catholic spirit
wherever it is felt.
To return from this digression; when the Count de Falloux had
finished his speech, a very pleasing interlude occurred in the
presentation of a magnificent vase of gold, on the part of the
central bureau, to M. Ducpetiaux, by the Viscount Kerckhove, who
made a graceful and appropriate speech on the occasion, embracing
affectionately the amiable secretary at its conclusion, to the
unbounded delight of the audience. Several other addresses were
then read, some compliments were passed between the congress and
the representatives of the city of Malines, an excellent report
was read by Mgr. Nameche, vice-rector of the University of
Louvain, from a committee appointed to give a premium to the best
treatise on the education of young ladies, an animated speech was
made by one of the juvenile members of the congress, and the
session was adjourned.
The general session of Wednesday was addressed, after a few
preliminary proceedings, by Lieutenant-General de Lannoy, a
veteran warrior of the Belgian army, in a brief but exceedingly
eloquent speech, commending the charitable heroism of the
pontifical Zouaves during the visitation of Rome and Albano by
the cholera. It was resolved to send an expression of the
sentiment of the assembly to the secretary of war at Rome, and
two young Belgian Zouaves present in the audience were invited to
a seat on the platform. Father Tondini, an _Italian_
Barnabite, then read a paper relating to a work in which he is
engaged, for promoting the return of Russia to the unity of the
church. He was followed by the celebrated Mgr. Dechamps, formerly
a Redemptorist missionary, now the Bishop of Namur, who
pronounced an able and eloquent discourse on the subject of
Catholic unity. After this eloquent prelate had left the tribune,
it was taken by the Bishop of Charleston, who employed the
remaining time of the session, the hour of adjournment having
been fixed at five P.M., on account of the oratorio in the
evening, in a discourse on the state of the Catholic religion in
the United States, but principally in his own diocese. The
learned bishop, whose presence did so much honor to the hierarchy
and the Catholic body of our own country at the Congress of
Malines, exposed the sad state of the Catholic people of South
Carolina, as well as of the whole population, but more especially
of the colored race, in consequence of the late war. He
communicated a project of his own for establishing a community of
monks upon an island on the coast of South Carolina, as the
nucleus of a great work for converting and civilizing the colored
population. The address of Bishop Lynch produced a most profound
impression upon the assembly; and we are happy to state that some
of the wealthy members of the congress gave handsome
contributions toward his benevolent undertaking.
On Thursday the great event of the session was the discourse of
Mgr. Dupanloup, of which we give no analysis here, as the text of
the discourse is to appear in our pages. It was throughout a
scathing denunciation of the principle of the pseudo-liberals,
the _liberâtres_, as he designated them, the
_liberticides_, as we would propose to call them in English.
{307}
Near the close of his discourse he gave utterance to a sentence
which has aroused the attention of all Europe, and bids fair to
make its echo heard for a long time to come. It was _à
propos_ of a plan, proposed, we believe, by the editor of the
Paris _Siède_, for erecting a statue to Voltaire.
"Shall I remind you of Voltaire, the inventor of the title
_The Infamous_, by which he designated the church? And he,
what name did he give himself? He called himself philosopher.
Ah! well, gentlemen, no one shall ever bring me to give the
name of philosophers to a d'Holbach, to a Lamettrie, or the
rest of the impious men who conspired with their master to
crush the Infamous. But what do I hear? People say that they
desire to erect a statue to the man who gave this name to
Christianity. Indeed! and I, on my part, say that they will
have raised a statue to INFAMY PERSONIFIED. (Prolonged bravos.)
I should like to encounter here a man who would contradict me!
I would promise to give him, as soon as he pleased, proofs with
which all Europe would resound. This violence done to good
sense, to rectitude, to French honor, revolts me. I repeat it,
they will raise a statue to INFAMY PERSONIFIED. The Bishop of
the Orleans of Joan of Arc could not have or express a more
worthy sentiment." (Prolonged acclamations.)
The editor of the _Siède_ has offered to take up the glove
thus thrown at him, and a short but spicy correspondence has been
interchanged between himself and the bishop, who is preparing to
redeem his pledge in a pamphlet containing the proofs of his
assertion.
We cannot refrain from noticing one more passage in this
remarkable discourse, one which came like a flash of lightning
from the bishop's mouth, striking the assembly with an
irresistible force, but especially kindling every heart of a
Belgian there present into aflame of patriotic enthusiasm. The
effect was indeed indescribable. We add our fervent hope that it
may be _ineffaceable_, especially upon the hearts of the
Belgian youth there present, to whom their country looks with
such fond hope for the future.
"O patriotism! it is not to you that I have to preach it; but I
say to you simply, You HAVE A COUNTRY, KNOW HOW TO KEEP IT!"
Words apparently simple and commonplace as written down on paper
to be read by those who are remote from the scene of their
utterance, strangers to the memories, the associations, the hopes
and fears whose key-note they struck, and unable to represent to
themselves the attitude, the tone, the expression of the orator
who gave them utterance. But words which, as Dupanloup uttered
them, with a sudden _élan_, in which his whole soul of fire
seemed to blaze forth before the eyes of his audience, "VOUS AVEZ
UNE PATRIE, SACHEZ LA CARDER!" Were sufficient to set a whole
nation on fire.
The castigation given to infidelity by the intrepid Bishop of
Orleans caused the party suffering from his well-applied lash to
give utterance to its smarting sensations by an outcry in the
_Independence Belge_, repeated by the London Times, and
echoed by some of its feeble imitators in America. The burden of
the complaint against Mgr. Dupanloup is, that he did not treat
the _soi-disant_ liberal party with sufficient courtesy or
respect. For our own part, we did not find anything in his
discourse, nor have we ever seen anything in any of his writings,
in the slightest decree contrary to the charity of a Christian or
the dignity of a bishop.
{308}
In speaking of the party called by the extremely vague, general
name of liberal, we must distinguish. We assent to the opinion of
the amiable writer who furnished the sketch of the late congress
in _Le Correspondant_, that it is incumbent on the champion
of the Catholic cause to combat for it with _courteous
arms_. We allow that a very large proportion of those who
would class themselves under the general head of liberals,
whether they call themselves liberal Christians or liberal
philosophers, are entitled to courtesy. But, when it is question
of such men as Voltaire and his modern disciples, who are engaged
in the nefarious work of destroying all Christian faith in the
hearts of the Catholic people, as well as poisoning the very
well-spring of all political and social life, we deny that, apart
from courtesies of private life, and in the public arena of
discussion, they are entitled to any courtesy at the hands of a
loyal defender of Christian faith and civilization, beyond that
which his own self-respect and Christian charity require him to
show to the deadliest enemies of the human race. We trust the
time has not yet come in England or America when the name of
Voltaire must be mentioned with respect. Whatever courtesy any
man of that class deserves can only be given on the same
principle that the poor woman addressed the executioner during
the French reign of terror, with a plea to spare the lives of
herself and her children, in the words, "_Ayez pitie, M. le
Bourreau_." We hope it is through ignorance only that so many
in England and America, calling themselves by the Christian name,
extend their sympathy to a class of men who are laboring for the
destruction of all religion and all social order; if it be
through ignorance, their eyes will be opened in due time, perhaps
in a somewhat startling manner.
When the thunders of acclamation, in the midst of which the
Bishop of Orleans descended from the tribune, had subsided, the
audience felt as if they had been swept up, by the hurricane of
his eloquence, to a height from which it was difficult as well as
unpleasant to descend on _terra firma_. His discourse was
well styled in the _Bulletin_ of the next morning, "_ce
discours monument_" and, in our own mind, it is like some of
these _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Raffaelle in the Louvre, whose
excellence is more vividly appreciated in the reminiscence than
in the actual moment of viewing them.
The remainder of the session was occupied by an interesting
memoir on the state of Italy, by the Chevalier Alberi of
Florence, and an address on North American missions, by the
Bishop of Vancouver.
The great speech of the Friday session was that of Father
Hyacinthe. It was preceded by a short though brilliant address
from the eminent statesman M. Adrian Dechamps, and another short
address from the Count de Falloux, who read a letter from M. de
Montalembert, which will be published hereafter.
Father Hyacinthe, dressed in the picturesque, impressive habit of
the Carmelites, presented a striking contrast in appearance, as
well as in the style of his eloquence, to the two great French
orators who had preceded him. He is still in the full vigor of
the prime of manhood, untouched by any token of decline; on the
contrary, hardly more than just arrived at the full efflorescence
of physical and intellectual maturity. The poetic sentiment seems
to predominate in him, with an exuberance of the tender and
expansive emotions of the heart, the pleasing, radiant creations
of the imagination, yet not without the power of descending to
the deeper region of tragic sentiment, or striking out more bold
and sublime conceptions.
{309}
His ordinary manner and expression are gentle and winning, his
eye and countenance full of benevolence, his voice sweet,
musical, somewhat feminine. When the spirit of oratorical
inspiration carries him away, his countenance changes to a more
earnest, impassioned expression, his gestures are rapid and
vehement, his voice alternately sinks to a deep, low, organ-like
tone, or rings out clearly like a trumpet, and the whole mind and
body are roused into an action in which every cord and nerve has
the tension of a ship's cordage under full sail. After the
discourse, which was two hours long, and held the audience in a
breathless attention interrupted only by their applauses, the
eloquent father was completely exhausted and obliged to return
home to his lodgings at once for a period of perfect quiet and
repose. Of the discourse, which was on the _question
ouvrière_, we will not speak, leaving our readers to peruse it
in the translation which will be given in our pages hereafter.
A short address was made by Mgr. Rogers, Bishop of Chatham, N.
S., thanking the Catholics of Europe for their charitable
assistance to the missions of America, and giving some naive
details of the primitive manners of the Acadians. Canon Rousseau
then gave an analysis of the memoir presented by Father Hecker in
a French translation for publication among the congressional
documents, relating to the progress of the Catholic religion in
the United States. Finally, M. l'Abbé Brouwers, a young priest of
Amsterdam, succeeded in gaining the attention of the audience,
already fatigued and impatient, to an address on the religious
condition of Holland. This young priest exhibited proofs in his
speech, of possessing the gift of sacred eloquence in no common
degree. Another thing about him that pleased every one was, that
he gave a bright, cheerful picture of the state of things in his
own country. Everything was going on well, and promised to go on
still better in the future--a circumstance quite creditable to
the contented disposition of the compatriots of our first
settlers in New York.
The closing service on Saturday morning was devoted to the
reading of the reports of the sections and voting their
conclusions. This work had been commenced at an extraordinary
general session on Friday morning. The president gave a short
concluding discourse, and after some usual formalities the
members of the congress repaired to the cathedral, where a sermon
was preached by Father Hyacinthe, the _Te Deum_ was chanted,
and the cardinal gave his benediction on the close of the
congress. A general communion of the Society of St. Vincent de
Paul had already been made on Friday morning in the church of
Notre Dame d'Hanswyck. We may add here that a bulletin of the
acts of the congress was published every morning, and also that
there is an association called the Catholic Union, which is a
sort of permanent standing committee of the congress during the
intervals of its assemblages.
An elegant and _recherché_ banquet, at which about three
hundred gentlemen were present, concluded the Catholic
_réunion_ at Malines in a very pleasant manner, and before
nightfall we had bidden adieu to Malines and were on our way to
Brussels, preparatory to a return to Paris, and thence to
America.
{310}
In conclusion, we beg leave to thank, in the name of the entire
American delegation, the Cardinal Archbishop of Malines, and the
other distinguished gentlemen of Belgium who are the chief
directors of the congress, especially the noble-hearted and
amiable secretary, M. Ducpetiaux, for the hospitality and
consideration so kindly extended by them during our stay at
Malines; and we trust that it may be in our power at a future day
to return this hospitality in an equally cordial manner to some
of their number as guests of the Catholics of the United States
of America. _Vive la Belgique! Vive le Congrès Catholique de
Malines!_
--------
Translated From The French.
The Story Of A Conscript.
I.
Those who have not seen the glory of the Emperor Napoleon, during
the years 1810, 1811, and 1812, can never conceive what a pitch
of power one man may reach.
When he passed through Champagne, or Lorraine, or Alsace, people
gathering the harvest or the vintage would leave everything to
run and see him; women, children, and old men would come a
distance of eight or ten leagues to line his route, and cheer and
cry, "_Vive l'Empereur! Vive l'Empereur!_" One would think
that he was a god, that mankind owed its life to him, and that,
if he died, the world would crumble and be no more. A few old
republicans might shake their heads and mutter over their wine
that the emperor might yet fall, but they passed for fools.
I was in my apprenticeship since 1804, with an old watchmaker,
Melchior Goulden, at Phalsbourg. As I seemed weak and was a
little lame, my mother wished me to learn an easier trade than
those of our village, for at Dagsberg there were only
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners. Monsieur Goulden liked me very
much. We lived on the first story of a large house opposite the
"Red Ox" inn, and near the French gate.
That was the place to see princes, ambassadors, and generals come
and go, some on foot, and some in carriages drawn by two or four
horses; there they passed in embroidered uniforms, with waving
plumes and decorations from every country under the sun. And in
the highway what couriers, what baggage-wagons, what
powder-trains, cannon, caissons, cavalry, and infantry did we
see! Those were stirring times!
In five or six years the innkeeper, George, had made a fortune.
He had fields, orchards, houses, and money in abundance; for all
these people, coming from Germany, Switzerland, Russia, Poland,
or elsewhere, cared little for a few handfuls of gold scattered
upon their road; they were all nobles who took a pride in showing
their prodigality.
From morning until night, and even during the night, the "Red Ox"
kept its tables in readiness. Through the long windows on the
first story nothing was to be seen but great white table-cloths,
glittering with silver and covered with game, fish, and other
rare viands, around which the travellers sat side by side.
{311}
In the yard behind, horses neighed, postilions shouted,
maid-servants laughed, coaches rattled.
Sometimes, too, people of the city stopped there, who in other
times were known to gather sticks in the forest or work on the
highway. But now they were commandants, colonels, generals, and
had won their grades by fighting in every land on earth.
Old Melchior, with his black silk cap pulled over his ears, his
weak eyelids, his nose pinched between great horn spectacles, and
his lips tightly pressed together, could not sometimes avoid
putting his magnifying-glass and punch upon the work-bench, and
throwing a glance toward the inn, especially when the cracking of
the whips of the postilions awoke the echoes of the ramparts and
announced a new arrival. Then he became all attention, and from
time to time would exclaim:
"Hold! It is the son of Jacob, the slater," or of "the old scold,
Mary Ann," or of "the cooper, Franz Lépel! He has made his way in
the world; there he is, colonel and baron of the empire into the
bargain. Why don't he stop at the house of his father who lives
yonder in the _Rue des Capucins?_"
But, when he saw them shaking hands right and left in the street
with those who recognized them, his tone changed; he wiped his
eyes with his great spotted handkerchief, and murmured:
"How pleased poor old Annette will be! Good! good! _He_ is
not proud; he is a man. God preserve him from cannon-balls!"
Others passed as if ashamed to recognize their birthplace; others
went gayly to see their sisters or cousins, and everybody spoke
of them. One would imagine that all Phalsbourg wore their crosses
and their epaulettes; while the arrogant were despised even more
than when they swept the roads.
Nearly every month _Te Deums_ were chanted, and the cannon
at the arsenal fired their salutes of twenty-one rounds for some
new victory. During the week following every family was uneasy;
poor mothers especially waited for letters, and the first that
came all the city knew of; the rumor spread like wildfire that
such an one had received a letter from Jacques or Claude, and all
ran to see if it spoke of their Joseph or their Jean-Baptiste. I
do not speak of promotions or the official reports of deaths; as
for the first, every one knew that the killed must be replaced;
and as for the reports of deaths, parents awaited them weeping,
for they did not come immediately; sometimes they never came, and
the poor father and mother hoped on, saying, "Perhaps our boy is
a prisoner. When they make peace, he will return. How many have
returned whom we thought dead!"
But they never made peace. When one war was finished, another was
begun. We always needed something, either from Russia or from
Spain, or some other country. The emperor was never satisfied.
Often when regiments passed through the city, with their
great-coats pulled back, their knapsacks on their backs, their
great gaiters reaching to the knee, and muskets carried at will;
often when they passed covered with mud or white with dust, would
Father Melchior, after gazing upon them, ask me dreamily:
"How many, Joseph, think you we have seen pass since 1804?"
"I cannot say, Monsieur Goulden," I would reply', "at least four
or five hundred thousand."
{312}
"Yes, at least!" he said, "and how many have returned?"
Then I understood his meaning, and answered: "Perhaps they return
by Mayence or some other route. It cannot be possible otherwise!"
But he only shook his head, and said: "Those whom you have not
seen return are dead, as hundreds and hundreds of thousands more
will die, if the good God does not take pity on us, for the
emperor loves only war. He has already spilt more blood to give
his brothers crowns than our Revolution cost to win the rights of
man."
Then we set about our work again; but the reflections of Monsieur
Goulden gave me some terrible subjects for thought.
It was true that I was a little lame in the left leg; but how
many others with defects of body had received their orders to
march notwithstanding!
These ideas kept running through my head, and when I thought long
over them, I grew very melancholy. They seemed terrible to me,
not only because I had no love for war, but because I was going
to marry Catharine of Quatre-Vents. We had been in some sort
reared together. Nowhere could be found a girl so fresh and
laughing. She was fair-haired, with beautiful blue eyes, rosy
cheeks, and teeth white as milk. She was approaching eighteen; I
was nineteen, and Aunt Margrédel seemed pleased to see me coming
early every Sunday morning to breakfast and dine with them.
It was I who took her to high Mass and vespers; and on holidays
she never left my arm, and refused to dance with the other youths
of the village. Everybody knew that we would some day be married;
but, if I should be so unfortunate as to be drawn in the
conscription, there was an end of matters. I wished that I was a
thousand times more lame; for at the time of which I speak they
had first taken the unmarried men, then the married men who had
no children, then those with one child; and I constantly asked
myself, "Are lame fellows of more consequence than fathers of
families? Could they not put me in the cavalry?" The idea made me
so unhappy that I already thought of fleeing.
But in 1812, at the beginning of the Russian war, my fear
increased. From February until the end of May, every day we saw
pass regiments after regiments--dragoons, cuirassiers,
carbineers, hussars, lancers of all colors, artillery, caissons,
ambulances, wagons, provisions, rolling on for ever, like the
waters of a river. All flowed through the French gate, crossed
the Place d'Armes, and streamed out at the German gate.
At last, on the 10th of May, in the year 1812, in the early
morning, the guns of the arsenal announced the coming of the
master of all. I was yet sleeping when the first shot shook the
little panes of my window till they rattled like a drum, and
Monsieur Goulden, with a lighted candle, opened my door, saying,
"Rise up, he is here!"
We opened the window. Through the night I saw a hundred dragoons,
of whom many bore torches, entering at a gallop; they shook the
earth as they passed; their lights glanced along the house-fronts
like dancing flames, and from every window we heard the shouts of
"_Vive l'Empereur!_"
{313}
I was gazing at the carriage, when a horse crashed against the
post to which the butcher Klein was accustomed to fasten his
cattle. The dragoon was thrown to the pavement, his helmet rolled
in the gutter, and a head leaned out of the carriage to see what
had happened--a large head, pale and fat, with a tuft of hair on
the forehead: it was Napoleon; he held his hand up as if about
taking a pinch of snuff, and said a few words roughly. The
officer galloping by the side of the coach bent down to reply;
and his master took his snuff and turned the corner, while the
shouts redoubled and the cannons roared louder than ever.
This was all that I saw.
The emperor did not stop at Phalsbourg, and, when he was on the
road to Saverne, the guns fired their last shot, and silence
reigned once more. The guards at the French gate raised the
drawbridge, and the old watchmaker said:
"You have seen him?"
"I have, Monsieur Goulden."
"Well," he continued, "that man holds all our lives in his hand;
he need but breathe upon us and we are gone. Let us bless Heaven
that he is not evil-minded; for if he were, the world would see
again the horrors of the days of the barbarian kings and the
Turks."
He seemed lost in thought, but in a moment he added:
"You can go to bed again. The clock is striking three."
He returned to his room, and I to my bed. The deep silence
without seemed strange after such a tumult, and until daybreak I
never ceased dreaming of the emperor. I dreamed, too, of the
dragoon, and wanted to know if he were killed. The next day we
learned that he was carried to the hospital and would recover.
From that day until the month of September they often sang the
_Te Deum_, and fired twenty-one guns for new victories. It
was nearly always in the morning, and Monsieur Goulden cried:
"Eh, Joseph! Another battle won! Fifty thousand men lost!
Twenty-five standards, a hundred guns won. All goes well, all
goes well. It only remains now to order a new levy to replace the
dead!"
He pushed open my door, and I saw him bald, in his shirt-sleeves,
with his neck bare, washing his face in the wash-bowl.
"Do you think, Monsieur Goulden," I asked, in great trouble,
"that they will take the lame?"
"No, no," he said kindly; "fear nothing, my child, you could not
serve. We will fix that. Only work well, and never mind the
rest."
He saw my anxiety, and it pained him. I never met a better man.
Then he dressed himself to go to wind up the city clocks--those
of Monsieur the Commandant of the place, of Monsieur the Mayor,
and other notable personages. I remained at home. Monsieur
Goulden did not return until after the _Te Deum_. He took
off his great brown coat, put his peruke back in its box, and
again pulling his silk cap over his ears, said:
"The army is at Wilna or at Smolensk, as I learn from Monsieur
the Commandant. God grant that we may succeed this time and make
peace, and the sooner the better, for war is a terrible thing."
I thought, too, that, if we had peace, so many men would not be
needed, and that I could marry Catharine. Any one can imagine the
wishes I formed for the emperor's glory.
II.
It was on the 15th of September, 1812, that the news came of the
great victory of the Moskowa. Every one was full of joy, and all
cried, "Now we will have peace! now the war is ended!"
{314}
Some discontented folks might say that China yet remained to be
conquered; such mar-joys are always to be found.
A week after, we learned that our forces were in Moscow, the
largest and richest city in Russia, and then everybody figured to
himself the booty we would capture, and the reduction it would
make in the taxes. But soon came the rumor that the Russians had
set fire to their capital, and that it was necessary to retreat
on Poland or to die of hunger. Nothing else was spoken of in the
inns, the breweries, or the market; no one could meet his
neighbor without saying, "Well, well, things go badly; the
retreat has commenced."
People grew pale, and hundreds of peasants waited morning and
night at the post-office, but no letters came now. I passed and
repassed through the crowd without paying much attention to it,
for I had seen so much of the same thing. And besides, I had a
thought in my mind which gladdened my heart, and made everything
seem rosy to me.
You must know that for six months past I had wished to make
Catharine a magnificent present for her _fête_ day, which
fell on the 18th of December. Among the watches which hung in
Monsieur Goulden's window was one little one, of the prettiest
kind, with a silver case full of little circles, which made it
shine like a star. Around the face, under the glass, was a thread
of copper, and on the face were painted two lovers, the youth
evidently declaring his love, and giving to his sweetheart a
large bouquet of roses, while she modestly lowered her eyes and
held out her hand.
The first time I saw the watch, I said to myself: "You will not
let that escape; that watch is for Catharine, and, although you
must work every day till midnight for it, she must have it."
Monsieur Goulden, after seven in the evening, allowed me to work
on my own account. He had old watches to clean and regulate; and,
as this work was often very troublesome, old father Melchior paid
me reasonably for it. But the little watch was thirty-five
francs, and one can imagine how many hours at night I would have
to work for it. I am sure that, if Monsieur Goulden knew that I
wanted it, he would have given it me for a present, but I would
not have let him take a farthing less for it; I would have
regarded doing so something shameful. I kept saying, "You must
earn it; no one else must have any claim upon it." Only for fear
somebody else might take a fancy to buy it, I put it aside in a
box, telling father Melchior that I knew a purchaser.
Under these circumstances, every one can readily understand how
it was that all these stories of war went in at one ear and out
at the other with me. While I worked I imagined Catharine's joy,
and for five months that was all I had before my eyes. I thought
how pleased she would look, and asked myself what she would say.
Sometimes I imagined she would cry out, "O Joseph what are you
thinking of? It is much too beautiful for me. No, no; I cannot
take so fine a watch from you!" Then I thought I would force it
upon her; I would slip it into her apron-pocket, saying, "Come,
come, Catharine! Do you wish to give me pain?" I could see how
she wanted it, and that she spoke so only to seem to refuse it.
Then I imagined her blushing, with her hands raised, saying,
"Joseph, now I know indeed that you love me!" And she would
embrace me with tears in her eyes. I felt very happy. Aunt Grédel
approved of all.
{315}
In a word, a thousand such scenes passed through my mind, and
when I retired at night I said: "There is no one as happy as you,
Joseph. See what a present you can make Catharine by your toil;
and she surely is preparing something for your _fête_, for
she thinks only of you; you are both very happy, and, when you
are married, all will go well."
While I was thus working on, thinking only of happiness, the
winter began, earlier than usual, toward the commencement of
November. It did not begin with snow, but with dry, cold weather
and strong frosts. In a few days all the leaves had fallen and
the earth was hard as ice and all covered with hoar-frost; tiles,
pavement, and window-panes glittered with it. Fires had to be
made to keep the cold out, and, when the doors were opened for a
moment, the heat seemed to disappear at once. The wood crackled
in the stoves and burnt away like straw in the fierce draught of
the chimneys.
Every morning I hastened to wash the panes of the shop-window
with warm water, and I scarcely closed it when a frosty sheen
covered it. Without, people ran puffing with their coat-collars
over their ears and their hands in their pockets. No one stood
still, and, when doors opened, they soon closed.
I don't know what became of the sparrows, whether they were dead
or living, but not one twittered in the chimneys, and, save the
reveille and retreat sounded in the barracks, no sound broke the
silence.
Often when the fire crackled merrily did Monsieur Goulden stop
his work, and, gazing on the frost-covered panes, exclaim:
"Our poor soldiers! our poor soldiers!"
He said this so mournfully that I felt a choking in my throat as
I replied:
"But, Monsieur Goulden, they ought now to be in Poland in good
barracks; for to suppose that human beings could endure a cold
like this, it is impossible."
"Such a cold as this," he said; "yes, here it is cold, very cold,
from the winds from the mountains; but what is this frost to that
of the north, of Russia and of Poland? God grant that they
started early enough. My God! my God! the leaders of men have a
heavy weight to bear."
After the frosts so much snow fell that the couriers were stopped
on the road toward Quatre-Vents. I feared that I could not go to
see Catharine on her _fête_ day; but two companies of
infantry set out with pickaxes, and dug through the frozen snow a
way for carriages, and that road remained open until the
commencement of the month of April, 1813.
Nevertheless, Catharine's _fête_ approached day by day, and
my happiness increased in proportion. I had already the
thirty-five francs, but I did not know how to tell Monsieur
Goulden that I wished to buy the watch; I wanted to keep the
whole matter secret; and it annoyed me greatly to talk about it.
At length, on the eve of the eventful day, between six and seven
in the evening, while we were working in silence, the lamp
between us, suddenly I took my resolution, and said:
"You know, Monsieur Goulden, that I spoke to you of a purchaser
for the little silver watch."
"Yes, Joseph," said he, without raising his head, "but he has not
come yet."
"It is I who am the purchaser, Monsieur Goulden."
Then he looked up in astonishment. I took out the thirty-five
francs and laid them on the work-bench. He stared at me.
{316}
"But," he said, "it is not such a watch as that you want, Joseph;
you want one that will fill your pocket and mark the seconds.
Those little watches are only for women."
I knew not what to say.
Monsieur Goulden, after meditating a few moments, began to smile.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "good! good! I understand now; to-morrow is
Catharine's _fête_. Now I know why you worked day and night.
Hold! take back this money; I do not want it."
I was all confusion.
"Monsieur Goulden, I thank you," I replied; "but this watch is
for Catharine, and I wish to have earned it. You will pain me if
you refuse the money; I would as lief not take the watch."
He said nothing more, but took the thirty-five francs; then he
opened his drawer, and chose a pretty steel chain, with two
little keys of silver-gilt, which he fastened to the watch. Then
he put all together in a box with a rose-colored favor. He did
all this slowly, as if affected; then he gave me the box.
"It is a pretty present, Joseph," said he. "Catharine ought to
deem herself happy in having such a lover as you. She is a good
girl. Now we can take our supper. Set the table."
The table was arranged, and then Monsieur Goulden took from a
closet a bottle of his Metz wine, which he kept for great
occasions, and we supped like old friends rather than as master
and apprentice; all the evening he never stopped speaking of the
merry days of his youth; telling me how he once had a sweetheart,
but that, in 1792, he left home in the _levée en masse_ at
the time of the Prussian invasion, and that on his return to
Fénétrange, he found her married--a very natural thing, since he
had never mustered courage enough to declare his love. However,
this did not prevent his remaining faithful to the tender
remembrance, and when he spoke of it he seemed sad indeed. I
recounted all this in imagination to Catharine, and it was not
until the stroke of ten, at the passage of the rounds, which
relieved the sentries on post every twenty minutes on account of
the great cold, that we put two good logs in the fire, and at
length went to bed.
III.
The next day, the 18th of December, I arose about six in the
morning. It was terribly cold; my little window was covered with
a sheet of frost.
I had taken care the night before to lay out on the back of a
chair my sky-blue coat, my trousers, my goat-skin vest, and my
fine black silk cravat. Everything was ready; my well-polished
shoes lay at the foot of the bed; I had only to dress myself; but
the cold I felt upon my face, the sight of those window-panes,
and the deep silence without made me shiver in advance. If it
were not Catharine's _fête_, I would have remained in bed
until midday; but suddenly that recollection made me rush to the
great delf stove, where some embers of the preceding night almost
always remained among the cinders. I found two or three, and
hastened to collect and put them under some split wood and two
large logs, after which I ran back to my bed.
Monsieur Goulden, under the huge curtains, with the coverings
pulled up to his nose and his cotton night-cap over his eyes,
woke up, and cried out:
"Joseph, we have not had such cold for forty years. I never felt
it so. What a winter we shall have!"
{317}
I did not answer, but looked out to see if the fire was lighting;
the embers burnt well; I heard the chimney draw, and at once all
blazed up. The sound of the flames was merry enough, but it
required a good half-hour to feel the air any warmer.
At last I arose and dressed myself. Monsieur Goulden kept on
chatting, but I thought only of Catharine, and when at length,
toward eight o'clock, I started out, he exclaimed:
"Joseph, what are you thinking of? Are you going to Quatre-Vents
in that little coat? You would be dead before you accomplished
half the journey. Go into my closet, and take my great cloak, and
the mittens, and the double-soled shoes lined with flannel."
I was so smart in my fine clothes that I reflected whether it
would be better to follow his advice, and he, seeing my
hesitation, said:
"Listen! a man was found frozen yesterday on the way to Wecham.
Doctor Steinbrenner said that he sounded like a piece of dry wood
when they tapped him. He was a soldier, and had left the village
between six and seven o'clock, and at eight they found him; so
that the frost did not take long to do its work. If you want your
nose and ears frozen, you have only to go out as you are."
I knew, then, that he was right; so I put on the thick shoes, and
passed the cord of the mittens over my shoulders, and put the
cloak over all. Thus accoutred, I sallied forth, after thanking
Monsieur Goulden, who warned me not to stay too late, for the
cold increased toward night, and great numbers of wolves were
crossing the Rhine on the ice.
I had not gone as far as the church when I turned up the fox-skin
collar of the cloak to shield my ears. The cold was so keen that
it seemed as though the air were filled with needles, and one's
body shrank involuntarily from head to foot.
Under the German gate, I saw the soldier on guard, in his great
gray mantle, standing back in his box like a saint in his niche;
he had his sleeve wrapped about his musket where he held it, to
keep his fingers from the iron, and two long icicles hung from
his mustaches. No one was on the bridge, but, a little further
on, I saw three carts in the middle of the road with their
canvas-tops all covered with frost; they were unharnessed and
abandoned. Everything in the distance seemed dead; all living
things had hidden themselves from the cold; and I could hear
nothing but the snow crunching under my feet. On each side were
walls of ice, as I ran along the trench the soldiers had dug in
the snow; in some places swept by the wind, I could see the oak
forest and the bluish mountain, both seeming much nearer than
they were, on account of the clearness of the air. Not a dog
barked in a farm-yard; it was even too cold for that.
But the thought of Catharine warmed my heart, and soon I descried
the first houses of Quatre-Vents. The chimneys and the thatched
roofs, to the right and left of the road, were scarcely higher
than the mountains of snow, and the villagers had dug trenches
along the walls, so that they could pass to each other's houses.
But that day every family kept around its hearth, and the little
round window-panes seemed painted red, from the great fires
burning within. Before each door was a truss of straw to keep the
cold from entering beneath it.
{318}
At the fifth door to the right I stopped to take off my mittens;
then I opened and closed it very quickly. I was at the house of
Grédel Bauer, the widow of Matthias Bauer and Catharine's mother.
As I entered, and while Aunt Grédel, astonished at my fox-skin
collar, was yet turning her gray head, Catharine, in her Sunday
dress--a pretty striped petticoat, a kerchief with long fringe
folded across her bosom, a red apron fastened around her slender
waist, a pretty cap of blue silk with black velvet bands setting
off her rosy and white face, soft eyes, and slightly
_retroussé_ nose--Catharine, I say, exclaimed:
"It is Joseph!"
And she ran to greet me, saying:
"I knew the cold would not keep you from coming."
I was so happy that I could not speak. I took off my cloak, which
I hung upon a nail on the wall, with my mittens; I took off
Monsieur Goulden's great shoes, and felt myself pale with joy.
I would have said something agreeable, but could not; suddenly I
exclaimed:
"See here, Catharine; here is something for your _fête_."
She ran to the table. Aunt Grédel also came to see the present.
Catharine untied the cord and opened the box. I was behind them,
my heart bounding--I feared that the watch was not pretty enough.
But in an instant, Catharine, clasping her hands, said in a low
voice:
"How beautiful! It is a watch!"
"Yes," said Aunt Grédel; "it is beautiful; I never saw so fine a
one. One would think it was silver."
"But it _is_ silver," returned Catharine, turning toward me
inquiringly.
Then I said:
"Do you think, Aunt Grédel, that I would be capable of giving a
gilt watch to one whom I love better than my own life? If I could
do such a thing, I would despise myself more than the dirt of my
shoes."
Aunt Grédel asked:
"But what is this painted upon the face?"
"That painting, Aunt Grédel," said I, "represents two lovers who
love each other more than they can tell: Joseph Bertha and
Catharine Bauer; Joseph is offering a bouquet of roses to his
sweetheart, who is stretching out her hand to take them."
When Aunt Grédel had sufficiently admired the watch, she said:
"Come until I kiss you, Joseph. I see very well that you must
have economized very much and worked hard for this watch, and I
think it is very pretty, and that you are a good workman, and
will do us no discredit."
From then until midday we were happy as birds. Aunt Grédel
bustled about to prepare a large pancake with dried prunes, and
wine, and cinnamon and other good things in it; but we paid no
attention to her, and it was only when she put on her red jacket
and black sabots, and called, "Come, my children; to table!" that
we saw the fine table-cloth, the great porringer, the pitcher of
wine, and the large round, golden pancake on a plate in the
middle. The sight rejoiced us not a little, and Catharine said:
"Sit there, Joseph, opposite the window, that I may look at you.
But you must fix my watch, for I do not know where to put it."
I passed the chain around her neck, and then, seating ourselves,
we ate gayly. Without, not a sound was heard; within the fire
crackled merrily upon the hearth. It was very pleasant in the
large kitchen, and the gray cat, a little wild, gazed at us
through the balusters of the stairs without daring to come down.
{319}
Catharine, after dinner, sang _Der liebe Gott_. She had a
sweet, clear voice, and it seemed to float to heaven. I sang low,
merely to sustain her. Aunt Grédel, who could never rest doing
nothing, began spinning; the hum of her wheel filled up the
silences, and we all felt happy. When one air was ended, we began
another. At three o'clock, Aunt Grédel served up the pancake, and
as we ate it, laughing, she would exclaim:
"Come, come, now, you are children in reality."
She pretended to be angry, but we could see in her eyes that she
was happy from the bottom of her heart. This lasted until four
o'clock, when night began to come on apace; the darkness seemed
to enter by the little windows, and, knowing that we must soon
part, we sat sadly around the hearth on which the red flames were
dancing. I would almost have given my life to remain longer.
Another half-hour passed, when Aunt Grédel cried:
"Listen, Joseph! It is time for you to go; the moon does not rise
till after midnight, and it will soon be dark as a kiln outside,
and an accident happens so easily in these great frosts."
These words seemed to fall like a bolt of ice, and I felt
Catharine's clasp tighten on my hand. But Aunt Grédel was right.
"Come," said she, rising and taking down the cloak from the wall;
"you will come again Sunday."
I had to put on the heavy shoes, the mittens, and the cloak of
Monsieur Goulden, and would have wished that I were a hundred
years doing so, but, unfortunately, Aunt Grédel assisted me. When
I had the great collar drawn up to my ears, she said:
"Now, Joseph, you must go!"
Catharine remained silent. I opened the door, and the terrible
cold, entering, admonished me not to wait.
"Hasten, Joseph," said my aunt.
"Good-night, Joseph, good-night!" cried Catharine, "and do not
forget to come Sunday."
I turned around to wave my hand; then I ran on without raising my
head, for the cold was so intense that it brought tears to my
eyes even behind the great collar.
I ran on thus some twenty minutes, scarcely daring to breathe,
when a drunken voice called out:
"Who goes there?"
I looked through the dim night, and saw, fifty paces before me,
Pinacle, the pedler, with his huge basket, his otter-skin cap,
woollen gloves, and iron-pointed staff. The lantern, hanging from
the strap of his basket lit up his debauched face, his chin
bristling with yellow beard, and his great nose shaped like an
extinguisher. He glared with his little eyes like a wolf, and
repeated, "Who goes there?"
This Pinacle was the greatest rogue in the country. He had, the
year before, a difficulty with Monsieur Goulden, who demanded of
him the price of a watch which he undertook to deliver to
Monsieur Anstett, the curate of Homert, and the money for which
he put into his pocket, saying he had paid it to me. But,
although the villain made oath before the justice of the peace,
Monsieur Goulden knew the contrary, for on the day in question
neither he nor I had left the house. Besides, Pinacle wanted to
dance with Catharine at a festival at Quatre-Vents, and she
refused because she knew the story of the watch, and was,
besides, unwilling to leave me.
{320}
The sight, then, of this rogue with his iron-shod stick in the
middle of the road did not tend to rejoice my heart. Happily a
little path which wound around the cemetery was at my left, and,
without replying, I dashed through it, although the snow reached
my waist.
Then he, guessing who I was, cried furiously:
"Aha! it is the little lame fellow! Halt! halt! I want to bid you
good-evening. You came from Catharine's, you watch-stealer."
But I sprang like a hare through the heaps of snow; he at first
tried to follow me, but his pack hindered him, and, when I gained
the ground again, he put his hands around his mouth, and
shrieked:
"Never mind, cripple, never mind! Your reckoning is coming all
the same; the conscription is coming--the grand conscription of
the one-eyed, the lame, and the hunch-backed. You will have to
go, and you will find a place under ground like the others."
He continued his way, laughing like the sot he was, and I,
scarcely able to breathe, kept on, thanking Heaven that the
little alley was so near me; for Pinacle, who was known always to
draw his knife in a fight, might have done me an ill turn.
In spite of my exertion, my feet, even in the thick shoes, were
intensely cold, and I again began running.
That night the water froze in the cisterns of Phalsbourg and the
wines in the cellars--things that had not happened before for
sixty years.
On the bridge and under the German gate the silence seemed yet
deeper than in the morning, and the night made it seem terrible.
A few stars shone between the masses of white cloud that hung
over the city. All along the street I met not a soul, and when I
reached home, after shutting the door of our lower passage, it
seemed warm to me, although the little stream that ran from the
yard along the wall was frozen. I stopped a moment to take
breath; then I ascended in the dark, my hand on the baluster.
When I opened the door of my room, the cheerful warmth of the
stove was grateful indeed. Monsieur Goulden was seated in his
arm-chair before the fire, his cap of black silk pulled over his
ears, and his hands resting upon his knees.
"Is that you, Joseph?" he asked without turning round.
"It is," I answered. "How pleasant it is here, and how cold out
of doors! We never had such a winter."
"No," said he gravely. "It is a winter that will long be
remembered."
I went into the closet and hung the cloak and mittens in their
places, and was about relating my adventure with Pinacle, when he
resumed:
"You had a pleasant day of it, Joseph,"
"I have had, indeed. Aunt Grédel and Catharine wished me to make
you their compliments."
"Very good, very good," said he; "the young are right to amuse
themselves, for when we grow old, and suffer, and see so much of
injustice, selfishness, and misfortune, everything is spoiled in
advance."
He spoke as if talking to himself, gazing at the fire. I had
never seen him so sad, and I asked:
"Are you not well, Monsieur Goulden?"
But he, without replying, murmured:
"Yes, yes; this is to be a great military nation; this is glory!"
He shook his head and bent over gloomily, his heavy gray brows
contracted in a frown.
{321}
I knew not what to think of all this, when, raising his head
again, he said:
"At this moment, Joseph, there are four hundred thousand families
weeping in France; the grand army has perished in the snows off
Russia; all those stout young men whom for two months we saw
passing our gates are buried beneath them. The news came this
afternoon. Oh! it is horrible! horrible!"
I was silent. Now I saw clearly that we must have another
conscription, as after all campaigns, and this time the lame
would most probably be called. I grew pale, and Pinacle's
prophecy made my hair stand on end.
"Go to bed, Joseph; rest easy," said Monsieur Goulden. "I am not
sleepy; I will stay here; all this upsets me. Did you remark
anything in the city?"
"No, Monsieur Goulden."
I went to my room and to bed. For a long time I could not close
my eyes, thinking of the conscription, of Catharine, and of so
many thousands of men buried in the snow, and then I plotted
flight to Switzerland.
About three o'clock Monsieur Goulden retired, and a few minutes
after, through God's grace, I fell asleep.
IV.
When I arose in the morning, about seven, I went to Monsieur
Goulden's room to begin work; but he was still in bed, looking
weary and sick.
"Joseph," said he, "I am not well. This horrible news has made me
sick, and I have not slept at all. I will get up by and by. But
this is the day to regulate the city clocks; I cannot go; for to
see so many good people--people I have known for thirty
years--in misery, would kill me. Listen, Joseph; take those keys
hanging behind the door, and go. I will try to sleep a little. If
I could sleep an hour or two, it would do me good."
"Very well, Monsieur Goulden," I replied; "I will go at once."
After putting more wood in the stove, I took the cloak and
mittens, drew Monsieur Goulden's bed-curtains, and went out, the
bunch of keys in my pocket. The illness of Father Melchior
grieved me very much for a while, but a thought came to console
me, and I said to myself: "You can climb up the city clock-tower,
and see the house of Catharine and Aunt Grédel." Thinking thus, I
arrived at the house of Brainstein, the bell-ringer, who lived at
the corner of the little court, in an old, tumble-down barrack.
His two sons were weavers, and in their old home the noise of the
loom and the whistle of the shuttle was heard from morning till
night. The grand-mother, old and blind, slept in an arm-chair, on
the back of which perched a magpie. Father Brainstein, when he
did not have to ring the bells for a christening, a funeral, or a
marriage, kept reading his almanac behind the small round panes
of his window.
The old man, when he saw me, rose up, saying:
"It is you, Monsieur Joseph."
"Yes, Father Brainstein; I come in place of Monsieur Goulden, who
is not well."
"Very well; it is all the same."
He took up his staff and put on his woollen cap, driving away the
cat that was sleeping upon it; then he took the great key of the
steeple from a drawer, and we went out together, I [was] glad to
find myself again in the open air, despite the cold; for their
miserable room was gray with vapor, and as hard to breathe in as
a kettle; I could never understand how people could live in such
a way.
{322}
At last we gained the street, and Father Brainstein said:
"You have heard of the great Russian disaster, Monsieur Joseph?"
"Yes, Father Brainstein; it is fearful
"Ah!" said he, "there will be many a Mass said in the churches;
every one will weep and pray for their children, the more that
they are dead in a heathen land."
We crossed the court, and in front of the tower-hall, opposite
the guard-house, many peasants and city people were already
standing, reading a placard. We went up the steps and entered the
church, where more than twenty women, young and old, were
kneeling on the pavement, in spite of the terrible cold.
"Is it not as I said?" said Brainstein. "They are coming already
to pray, and half of them have been here since five o'clock."
He opened the little door of the steeple leading to the organ,
and we began climbing up in the dark. Once in the organ-loft, we
turned to the left of the bellows, and went up to the bells.
I was glad to see the blue sky and breathe the free air again,
for the bad odor of the bats which inhabited the tower almost
suffocated me, But how terrible the cold was in that cage, open
to every wind, and how dazzlingly the snow shone over twenty
leagues of country! All the little city of Phalsbourg, with its
six bastions, three _demilunes_, two advanced works; its
barracks, magazines, bridges, _glacis_, ramparts; its great
parade-ground, and little, well-aligned houses, were beneath me,
as if drawn on white paper. I was not yet accustomed to the
height, and I held fast on the middle of the platform for fear I
might jump off, for I had read of people having their heads
turned by great heights. I did not dare go to the clock, and, if
Brainstein had not set me the example, I would have remained
there, pressed against the beam from which the bells hung; but he
said:
"Come, Monsieur Joseph, and see if it is right."
Then I took out Monsieur Goulden's large watch which marked
seconds, and I saw that the clock was considerably slow.
Brainstein helped me to wind it up, and we regulated it.
"The clock is always slow in winter," said he, "because of the
iron working."
After becoming somewhat accustomed to the elevation, I began to
look around. There were the oak-wood barracks, the upper
barracks, Bigelberg, and lastly, opposite me, Quatre-Vents, and
the house of Aunt Grédel, from the chimney of which a thread of
blue smoke rose toward the sky. And I saw the kitchen, and
imagined Catharine, in sabots and woollen skirt, spinning at the
corner of the hearth and thinking of me. I no longer felt the
cold; I could not take my eyes from their cottage.
Father Brainstein, who did not know what I was looking at, said:
"Yes, yes, Monsieur Joseph; now all the roads are covered with
people in spite of the snow. The news has already spread, and
every one wants to know the extent of his loss."
He was right; every road and path was covered with people coming
to the city; and, looking in the court, I saw the crowd
increasing every moment before the guard-house, and the mairie,
and the post-office. A deep horror arose from the mass.
At length, after a last, long look at Catharine's house, I had to
descend, and we went down the dark, winding stairs, as if
descending into a well. Once in the organ-loft, we saw that the
crowd had greatly increased in the church; all the mothers, the
sisters, the old grandmothers, the rich, and the poor, were
kneeling on the benches in the midst of the deepest silence; they
prayed for the absent, offering all only to see them once
again.
{323}
At first I did not realize all this; but suddenly the thought
that, if I had gone the year before, Catharine would be there
praying and asking me of God, fell like a bolt on my heart, and I
felt all my body tremble.
"Let us go! let us go!" I exclaimed, "this is terrible."
"What is?" he asked.
"War."
We descended the stairs under the great gate, and I went across
the court to the house of Monsieur the Commandant Meunier, while
Brainstein took the way to his house.
At the corner of the Hotel de Ville, I saw a sight which I shall
remember all my life. There, around a placard, were more than
five hundred people, men and women crowded against each other,
all pale and with necks outstretched, gazing at it as at some
horrible apparition. They could not read it, and from time to
time one would say in German or French:
"But they are not all dead! Some will return."
Others cried out:
"Let us see it! let us get near it."
A poor old woman in the rear lifted up her arms, and cried:
"Christopher! my poor Christopher!"
Others, angry at her clamor, called out to silence her.
Behind, the crowd continued to pour through the German gate.
At length, Harmautier, the _sergent-de-ville_, came out of
the guard-house, and stood at the top of the steps, with another
placard like the first; a few soldiers followed him. Then a rush
was made toward him, but the soldiers kept off the crowd, and old
Harmautier began to read the placard, which he called the
twenty-ninth bulletin, and in which the emperor informed them
that during the retreat the horses perished every night by
thousands. He said nothing of the men!
The _sergent-de-ville_ read slowly; not a breath was heard
in the crowd; even the old woman, who did not understand French,
listened like the others. The buzz of a fly could have been
heard. But when he came to this passage, "Our cavalry was
dismounted to such an extent that we were forced to collect the
officers who yet owned horses to form four companies of one
hundred and fifty men each. Generals rated as captains, and
colonels as under-officers"--when he read this passage, which
told more of the misery of the grand army than all the rest,
cries and groans arose on all sides; two or three women fell and
were carried away.
It is true that the bulletin added, "The health of his majesty
was never better," and that was a great consolation.
Unfortunately it could not restore life to three hundred thousand
men buried in the snow; and so the people went away very sad.
Others came by dozens who had not heard the news read, and from
time to time Harmautier came out to read the bulletin.
This lasted until night; still the same scene over again.
I ran from the place; I wanted to know nothing about it.
I went to Monsieur the Commandant's. Entering a parlor, I saw him
at breakfast. He was an old man, but hale, with a red face and
good appetite.
"Ah! it is you!" said he, "Monsieur Goulden is not coming, then?"
"No, Monsieur the Commandant, the bad news has made him ill."
{324}
"Ah! I understand," he said, emptying his glass, "yes, it is
unfortunate."
And while I was regulating the clock, he added:
"Bah! tell Monsieur Goulden that we will have our revenge. We
cannot always have the upper hand. For fifteen years we have kept
the drums beating over them, and it is only right to let them
have this little morsel of consolation. And then our honor is
safe; we were not beaten fighting; without the cold and the snow,
those poor Cossacks would have had a hard time of it. But
patience; the skeletons of our regiments will soon be filled, and
then let them beware."
I wound up the clock; he rose and came to look at it, for he was
a great amateur in clock-making. He pinched my ear in a merry
mood; and then, as I was going away, he cried as he buttoned up
his overcoat, which he had opened before beginning breakfast:
"Tell Father Goulden to rest easy, the dance will begin again in
the spring; the Kalmucks will not always have winter fighting for
them. Tell him that."
"Yes, Monsieur the Commandant," I answered, shutting the door.
His burly figure and air of good humor comforted me a little; but
in all the other houses I went to, at the Horwiches, the
Frantz-Tonis, the Durlachs, everywhere I heard only lamentations.
The women especially were in misery; the men said nothing, but
walked about with heads hanging down, and without even looking to
see what I was doing.
Toward ten o'clock there only remained two persons for me to see:
Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlin, one of the ancient nobility,
who lived at the end of the main street, with Madame
Chamberlin-d'Ecof and Mademoiselle Jeanne, their daughter, They
were _émigrés_, and had returned about three or four years
before. They saw no one in the city, and only three or four old
priests in the environs. Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlin
loved only the chase. He had six dogs at the end of the yard, and
a two-horse carriage; Father Robert, of the Rue des Capucins,
served them as coachman, groom, footman, and huntsman. Monsieur
de la Vablerie-Chamberlin always wore a hunting vest, a leathern
cap, and boots and spurs. All the town called him the hunter, but
they said nothing of Madame nor of Mademoiselle de Chamberlin.
I was very sad when I pushed open the heavy door, which closed
with a pulley whose creaking echoed through the vestibule. What
was then my surprise to hear, in the midst of general mourning,
the tones of a song and harpsichord! Monsieur de la Vablerie was
singing, and Mademoiselle Jeanne accompanying him. I knew not, in
those days, that the misfortune of one was often the joy of
others, and I said to myself, with my hand on the latch: "They
have not heard the news from Russia."
But while I stood thus, the door of the kitchen opened, and
Mademoiselle Louise, their servant, putting out her head, asked:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, Mademoiselle Louise."
"Ah! it is you, Monsieur Joseph. Come this way."
They had their clock in a large parlor which they rarely entered;
the high windows, with blinds, remained closed; but there was
light enough for what I had to do. I passed then through the
kitchen and regulated the antique clock, which was a magnificent
piece of work of white marble. Mademoiselle Louise looked on.
"You have company, Mademoiselle Louise?" I asked.
{325}
"No, but monsieur ordered me to let no one in."
"You are very cheerful here."
"Ah! yes," she said; "and it is for the first time in years; I
don't know what is the matter."
My work done, I left the house, meditating on these occurrences,
which seemed to me strange. The idea never entered my mind that
they were rejoicing at our defeat.
Then I turned the corner of the street to go to Father Féral's,
who was called the "Standard-Bearer," because, at the age of
forty-five, he, a blacksmith, and for many years the father of a
family, had carried the colors of the volunteers of Phalsbourg in
'92, and only returned after the Zurich campaign. He had his
three sons in the army of Russia, Jean, Louis, and George Féral.
George was commandant of dragoons; the two others, officers of
infantry.
I imagined the grief of Father Féral while I was going, but it
was nothing to what I saw when I entered his room. The poor old
man, blind and bald, was sitting in an arm-chair behind the
stove, his head bowed upon his breast, and his sightless eyes
open, and staring as if he saw his three sons stretched at his
feet. He did not speak, but great drops of sweat rolled down his
forehead on his long, thin cheeks, while his face was pale as
that of a corpse. Four or five of his old comrades of the times
of the republic--Father Demarets, Father Nivoi, old Paradis, and
tall old Froissard--had come to console him. They sat around him
in silence, smoking their pipes, and looking as if they
themselves needed comfort.
From time to time one or the other would say:
"Come, come, Féral! are we no longer veterans of the army of the
Sambre and Meuse?"
Or,
"Courage, Standard-Bearer! courage! Did we not carry the battery
at Fleuries?"
But he did not reply; every minute he sighed, and the old friends
made signs to each other, shaking their heads, as if to say:
"This looks bad."
I hastened to regulate the clock and depart, for to see the poor
old man in such a plight made my heart bleed.
When I arrived at home, I found Monsieur Goulden at his
work-bench.
"You are returned, Joseph," said he. "Well?"
"Well, Monsieur Goulden, you had reason to stay away; it is
terrible."
And I told him all in detail.
He arose. I set the table, and, whilst we were dining in silence,
the bells of the steeples began to ring.
"Some one is dead in the city," said Monsieur Goulden.
"Indeed? I did not hear of it."
Ten minutes after, the Rabbi Rose came in to have a glass put in
his watch.
"Who is dead?" asked Monsieur Goulden.
"Poor old Standard-Bearer."
"What! Father Féral?"
"Yes, near an hour ago. Father Demarets and several others tried
to comfort him; at last, he asked them to read to him the last
letter of his son George, the commandant of dragoons, in which he
says that next spring he hoped to embrace his father with a
colonel's epaulettes. As the old man heard this, he tried to
rise, but fell back with his head upon his knees. That letter had
broken his heart."
Monsieur Goulden made no remark on the news.
"Here is your watch, Monsieur Rose," said he, handing it back to
the rabbi; "it is twelve sous."
{326}
Monsieur Rose departed, and we finished our dinner in silence.
V.
On the eighth of January, a huge placard was posted on the
town-hall, stating that the emperor would levy, after a
_senatus-consultus_, as they said in those days, in the
first place, one hundred and fifty thousand conscripts of 1813;
then one hundred _cohortes_ of the first call of 1812, who
thought they had already escaped; then one hundred thousand
conscripts of from 1809 to 1812, and so on to the end; so that
every loophole was closed, and we would have a larger army than
before the Russian expedition.
When Father Fouze, the glazier, came to us with this news, one
morning, I almost fell through faintness, for I thought:
"Now they will take all, even fathers of families. I am lost!"
Monsieur Goulden poured some water on my neck; my arms hung
useless by my side; I was pale as a corpse.
But I was not the only one upon whom the placard had such an
effect: that year many young men refused to go; some broke their
teeth off, so as not to be able to tear the cartridge; others
blew off their thumbs with pistols, so as not to be able to hold
a musket; others, again, fled to the woods; they proclaimed them
"refractories," but they had not _gens d'armes_ enough to
capture them.
The mothers of families took courage to revolt after a manner,
and to encourage their sons not to obey the _gens d'armes_.
They aided them in every way; they cried out against the emperor,
and the clergy of all denominations sustained them in so doing.
The cup was at last full!
The very day of the proclamation I went to Quatre-Vents; but it
was not now in the joy of my heart; it was as the most miserable
of unhappy wretches, about to be bereft of love and life. I could
scarcely walk, and when I reached there I did not know how to
announce the evil tidings; but I saw at a glance that they knew
all, for Catharine was weeping bitterly, and Aunt Grédel was pale
with indignation.
"You shall not go," she cried. "What have we to do with wars? The
priest himself told us it was at last too much, and that we ought
to have peace! You shall not go! Do not cry, Catharine; I say he
shall not go!"
"This carnage," she continued, "has lasted long enough. Our two
poor cousins, Kasper and Yokel, are already going to lose their
lives in Spain for this emperor, and now he comes to ask us for
the younger ones. He is not satisfied to have slain three hundred
thousand in Russia. Instead of thinking of peace, like a man of
sense, he thinks only of massacring the few who remain. We will
see! We will see!"
"In the name of Heaven! Aunt Grédel, be quiet; speak lower," said
I, looking at the window. "If they hear you, we are lost."
"I speak for them to hear me," she replied. "Your Napoleon does
not frighten me. He commenced by closing our mouths, so that he
might do as he pleased; but the end approaches. Four young women
are losing their husbands in our village alone, and ten poor
young men are forced to abandon everything, despite father,
mother, religion, justice, God! Is not this horrible?"
Then Aunt Grédel became silent. Instead of giving us an ordinary
dinner, she gave us a better one than on Catharine's _fête_
day, and said, with the air of one who has taken a resolution:
"Eat, my children, and fear not; there will soon be a change!"
{327}
I returned about four in the evening to Phalsbourg, somewhat more
calm than when I set out. But as I went up the Rue de la
Munitionnaire, I heard at the corner of the college the drum of
the _sergent-de-ville_, Harmautier, and I saw a throng
gathered around him. I ran to hear what was going on, and I
arrived just as he began reading a proclamation.
Harmautier read that, by the _senatus-consultus_ of the 3d,
the drawing for the conscription would take place on the 15th.
It was already the 8th, and only seven days remained. This upset
me completely.
The crowd dispersed in the deepest silence. I went home sad
enough, and said to Monsieur Goulden:
"The drawing takes place next Thursday."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "they are losing no time; things are
pressing."
It is easy to imagine my grief that day and the days following. I
could scarcely stand; I constantly saw myself on the point of
leaving home. I saw myself flying to the woods, the _gens
d'armes_ at my heels, crying, "Halt! halt!" Then I thought of
the misery of Catharine, of Aunt Grédel, of Monsieur Goulden.
Then I imagined myself marching in the ranks with a number of
other wretches, to whom they were crying out, "Forward! charge
bayonets!" while whole files were being swept away. I heard
bullets whistle and shells shriek; in a word, I was in a pitiable
state.
"Be calm, Joseph," said Monsieur Goulden; "do not torment
yourself thus. I think that of all who may be drawn there are
probably not ten who can give as good reasons as you for staying
at home. The surgeon must be blind to receive you. Besides, I
will see Monsieur the Commandant. Calm yourself."
But these kind words could not reassure me.
Thus I passed an entire week almost in a trance, and when the day
of the drawing arrived, Thursday morning, I was so pale, so
sick-looking, that the parents of conscripts envied, so to speak,
my appearance for their sons. "That fellow," they said, "has a
chance; he would drop the first mile. Some people are born under
a lucky star!"
To Be Continued.
--------
{328}
"Per Liquidum AEthera Vates."
Oh! to chant the grander story,
And to muse the melting tale!
Oh! to rouse the soul of glory,
And to charm the happy vale!
I should love to make the nations
Bow before my lofty song,
While my fancy's fair creations
Endless pleasures should prolong.
I should love to have my pages
Eager sought by wise and old,
While throughout the countless ages
Fair and young my numbers told.
II.
Ever thus gay Hope will wander
Up the shining mount of fame;
Ere you follow, pause and ponder,
While she waves her luring flame.
Souls are blest that dwell more lowly,
Braving not the gaze of earth,
Where they lead a life all holy,
And the gentler joys have birth.
You may guide your kindred kindly
Through the rosy ways of life,
While the world shall trample blindly
Down the thorny paths of strife.
You may seek the 'feast of reason,'
And enjoy the 'flow of soul,'
Dearest friends in every season,
Peaceful age the blessed goal.
Nature spreads her rich attractions
On the earth, and sea, and sky;
Art, religion, man's great actions
Food for mind and soul supply.
God in heaven giveth vision
Of the better land beyond:
Good on earth, and joys elysian,
These shall sate thy yearnings fond.
{329}
III.
But to wake the hills and valleys
With the poet's sounding lyre!
Glory yet my spirit rallies,
I would breathe the sacred fire.
Nature, art, and holy friendship,
Books and men shall give me aid;
Even Heaven will grant me kinship,
I would tell what God hath made.
I will dwell apart with heroes,
I will mate with saintly men;
God and nature ever near us,
I shall be more blessed then.
Humbled, chaste, my soul shall listen
To the chiming of the spheres,
Where, on high, His glories glisten,
As His throne the spirit nears.
IV.
Yes, ye bands of bright immortals,
Free throughout all earth and time,
I would ope the grand old portals
Leading to your realms sublime;
Suns and starry worlds beneath you,
Lords of wisdom, light, and air,
I would sip rare nectar with you,
I would taste ambrosia there;
There to feel exultant powers
Lift me up the ethereal tide,
O'er your bright and airy towers,
Where the boldest plume is tried.
V.
Holiest helpers, lend assistance,
That I fail not in the flight!
Pride, away! in that grand distance
Thou art black as shades of night.
Faithful, pure, and single-hearted,
I may soar on tireless wing,
Till the folds of light are parted
Where the heavenly muses sing.
Whitmore.
--------
{330}
Faith and the Sciences.
In the last half of the seventeenth century and the first half of
the eighteenth, the so-called free-thinkers defended their
rejection of the Christian mysteries on the alleged ground that
the mathematicians had exploded them. Thus Dr. Garth, in his last
illness, resisted the efforts of Addison to persuade him to die
as a Christian, by saying, "Surely, Mr. Addison, I have good
reason not to believe those trifles, since my friend, Dr. Halley,
who has dealt much in demonstration, has assured me that the
doctrines of Christianity are incomprehensible, and the religion
itself an imposture."
In this assurance of Dr. Halley, we see a trace of Cartesianism
which places certainty in clearness of ideas, and assumes that
what is incomprehensible, or what cannot be clearly apprehended
by the mind, is false; as if the human mind were the measure of
the true, and as if there were not truths too large for it to
comprehend! But since Berkeley, the Protestant Bishop of Cloyne,
exposed in his _Analyst_, and Letters in its defence, the
confused and false reasoning of mathematicians, especially in
fluxions or the differential calculus, in which, though their
conclusions are true, they are not obtained from their premises,
the free-thinkers have abandoned the authority of mathematicians,
and now seek to justify their infidelity by that of the so-called
physicists. They appeal now to the natural sciences, chiefly to
geology, zoology, and philology, and tell us that the progress
made in these sciences has destroyed the authority of the Holy
Scriptures and exploded the Christian dogmas. Geology, we are
told, has disproved the chronology of the Bible, zoology has
disproved the dogma of creation, and ethnology and philology have
disproved the unity of the species; consequently the dogma of
original sin, and all the dogmas that presuppose it. Hence our
scientific chiefs, whom the age delights to honor, look down on
us, poor, benighted Christian believers, with deep pity or
supreme contempt, and despatch our faith by pronouncing the word
"credulity" or "superstition" with an air that anticipates or
admits no contradiction. It is true, here and there a man, not
without scientific distinction, utters a feeble protest, and
timidly attempts to show that there is no discrepancy between the
Christian faith and the facts really discovered and classified by
the sciences; but there is no denying that the predominant
tendency of the modern scientific world is decidedly unchristian,
even when not decidedly anti-christian.
The most learned men and profoundest thinkers of our age, as of
every age, are, no doubt, believers, sincere and earnest
Christians; but they are not the men who represent the age, and
give tone to its literature and science. They are not the
_popular_ men of their times, and their voice is drowned in
the din of the multitude. There is nothing novel or
_sensational_ in what they have to tell us, and there is no
evidence of originality or independence of thought or character
in following them. In following them we have no opportunity of
separating ourselves from the past, breaking with tradition, and
boldly defying both heaven and earth.
{331}
There is no chance for war against authority, of creating a
revolution, or enjoying the excitement of a battle; so the
multitude of little men go not with them. And they who would deem
it gross intellectual weakness to rely on the authority of St.
Paul, or even of our Lord himself, have followed blindly and with
full confidence an Agassiz, a Huxley, a Lyell, or any other
second or third-rate physicist, who is understood to defend
theories that undermine the authority of the church and the
Bible.
We are not, we frankly confess, learned in the sciences. They
have changed so rapidly and so essentially since our younger
days, when we did take some pains to master them, that we do not
know what they are to-day any more than we do what they will be
to-morrow. We have not, in our slowness, been able to keep pace
with them, and we only know enough of them now to know that they
are continually changing under the very eye of the spectator.
But, if we do not know all the achievements of the sciences, we
claim to know something of the science of sciences, the science
which gives the law to them, and to which they must conform or
cease to pretend to have any scientific character. If we know not
what they have done, we know something which they have not done.
We said, in our article on the _Cartesian Doubt_, that the
ideal formula does not give us the sciences; but we add now, what
it did not comport with our purpose to add then, that, though it
does not give them, it gives them their law and controls them. We
do not deduce our physics from our metaphysics; but our
metaphysics or philosophy gives the law to the inductive or
empirical sciences, and prescribes the bounds beyond which they
cannot pass without ceasing to be sciences. Knowing the ideal
formula, we do not know all the sciences, but we do know what is
not and cannot be science.
The ideal formula, being creates existences, which is only the
first article of the creed, is indisputable, certain, and the
principle alike of all the real and all the knowable, of all
existence and of all science. This formula expresses the
primitive intuition, and it is given us by God himself in
creating us intelligent creatures, because without it our minds
cannot exist, and, if it had not been given us in the very
constitution of the mind, we never could have obtained it. It is
the essential basis of the mind, the necessary condition of all
thought, and we cannot even in thought deny it, or think at all
without affirming it This we have heretofore amply shown; and we
may add here that no one ever thinks without thinking something
the contrary of which cannot be thought, as St. Anselm asserts.
As Berkeley says to the mathematicians, "Logic is logic, and the
same to whatever subject it is applied." When, therefore, the
cultivators of the inductive sciences allege a theory or
hypothesis which contradicts in any respect the ideal formula,
however firmly persuaded they may be that it is warranted by the
facts observed and analyzed, we tell them at once, without any
examination of their proofs or reasonings, that their hypothesis
is unfounded, and their theory false, because it contradicts the
first principle alike of the real and the knowable, and therefore
cannot possibly be true. We deny no facts well ascertained to be
facts, but no induction from any facts can be of as high
authority as the ideal formula, for without it no induction is
possible. Hence we have no need to examine details any more than
we have to enter into proofs of the innocence or guilt of a man
who confesses that he has openly, knowingly, and intentionally
violated the law.
{332}
The case is one in which judgment _à priori_ may be safely
pronounced. No induction that denies all science and the
conditions of science can be scientific.
The ideal formula does not put any one in possession of the
sciences, but it enables us to control them. We can entertain no
doctrine, even for examination, that denies any one of the three
terms of the formula. If existences are denied, there are no
facts or materials of science; if the creative act is denied,
there are no facts or existences; and finally, if God is denied,
the creative act itself is denied. God and creature are all that
is or exists, and creatures can exist only by the creative act of
God. Do you come and tell me that you are no creature? What are
you, then? Between God and creature there is no middle term. If,
then, you are not creature, you must be God or nothing. Well, are
you God? God, if God at all, is independent, necessary,
self-existent, immutable, and eternal being. Are you that, you
who depend on other than yourself for every breath you draw, for
every motion you make, for every morsel of food you eat, whom the
cold chills, the fire burns, the water drenches? No? do you say
you are not God? What are you, then, I ask once more? If you are
neither God nor creature, then you are nothing. But nothing you
are not, for you live, think, speak, and act, and even reason,
though not always wisely or well. If something and not God, then
you are creature, and are a living assertion of the ideal
formula. Do you deny it, and say there is no God? Then still
again, what are you who make the denial? If there is no God,
there is no real, necessary, and eternal being--no being at all;
if no being, then no existence, for all existence is from being,
and if no existence, then what are _you_ who deny God?
Nothing? Then your denial is nothing, and worth nothing.
It is impossible to deny any one of the three terms of the
formula, for every man, though he may believe himself an atheist
or a pantheist, is a living assertion of each one of them, and in
its real relation to the other two. We have the right, then, to
assert the formula as the first principle in science, and oppose
it as conclusive against any and every theory that denies
creation, and asserts either atheism or pantheism. Do not think
to divert attention from the intrinsic fallacy of such a theory
by babbling about natural laws. Nature, no doubt, has her laws,
according to which, or, if you please, by virtue of which, all
natural phenomena or natural effects are produced, and it is the
knowledge of these laws that constitutes natural science or the
sciences. But these laws, whence come they? Are they superior to
nature, or inferior? If inferior, how can they govern her
operations? If superior, then they must have their origin in the
supernatural, and a reality above nature must be admitted.
Nature, then, is not the highest, is not ultimate, is not herself
being, or has not her being in herself; is, therefore, contingent
existence, and consequently creature, existing only by virtue of
the creative act of real and necessary being, which brings us
directly back to the ideal formula. God denied, nature and the
laws of nature are denied.
The present tendency among naturalists is to deny creation and to
assert development--to say with Topsy, in _Uncle Tom's
Cabin_, only generalizing her doctrine, "Things didn't come;
they _growed_." Things are not created; they are developed
by virtue of natural laws. Developed from what? From nothing?
_Ex nihilo nihil fit_.
{333}
From nothing nothing can be developed. A universe self-developed
from nothing is somewhat more difficult to comprehend than the
creation of the universe from nothing through the word of his
power by One able to create and sustain it. You can develop a
germ, but you cannot develop where there is nothing to be
developed. Then the universe is not developed from nothing: then
from something. What is that something? Whatever you assume it to
be, it cannot be something created, for you deny all creation.
Then it is eternal, self-existent being, being in itself,
therefore being in its plenitude, independent, immutable,
complete, perfect in itself, and therefore incapable of
development. Development is possible only in that which is
imperfect, incomplete, for it is simply the reduction of what in
the thing developed is potential to act.
There is great lack of sound philosophy with our modern
theorists. They seem not to be aware that the real must precede
the possible, and that the possible is only the ability of the
real. They assume the contrary, and place possible being before
real being. Even Leibnitz says that St. Anselm's argument to
prove the existence of God, drawn from the idea of the most
perfect being, the contrary of which cannot be thought, is
conclusive only on condition that most perfect being is first
proved to be possible. Hegel makes the starting-point of all
reality and all science to be naked being in the sense in which
it and not-being are identical; that is, not real, but possible
being, the _abyssus_ of the Gnostics, and the _void_ of
the Buddhists, which Pierre Leroux labors hard, in his
_L'Humanité_ and in the article _Le Ciel_ in his
_Encyclopédie Nouvelle_, to prove is not nothing, though
conceding it to be not something, as if there could be any medium
between something and nothing. In itself, or as abstracted from
the real, the possible is sheer nullity; nothing at all. The
possibility of the universe is the ability of God to create it.
If God were not himself real, no universe would be possible. The
possibility of a creature may be understood either in relation to
its creability on the part of God, or in relation to its own
perfectibility. In relation to God every creature is complete the
moment the Divine Mind has decreed its creation, and, therefore,
incapable of development; but, in relation to itself, it has
unrealized possibilities which can be only progressively
fulfilled. Creatures, in this latter sense, can be developed
because there are in them unrealized possibilities or capacities
for becoming, by aid of the real, more than they actually are,
that is, because they are created, in relation to themselves, not
perfect, but perfectible. Hence, creatures, not the Creator, are
progressive, or capable, each after its kind, of being
progressively developed and completed according to the original
design of the Creator.
Aristotle, whom it is the fashion just now to sneer at, avoided
the error of our modern sophists; he did not place the possible
before the real, for he knew that without the real there is no
possible. The _principium_, or beginning, must be real
being, and, therefore, he asserted God, not as possible, but
real, most real, and called him _actus purissimus_, most
pure act, which excludes all unactualized potentialities or
unrealized possibilities, and implies that he is most pure, that
is, most perfect being, being in its plenitude. God being
eternally being in himself, being in its plenitude, as he must be
if self-existent, and self-existent he must be if not created, he
is incapable of development, because in him there are no
possibilities not reduced to act.
{334}
The developmentists must, then, either admit the fact of
creation, or deny the development they assert and attempt to
maintain; for, if there is no creation, nothing distinguishable
from the uncreated, nothing exists to be developed, and the
uncreated, being either nothing, and therefore incapable of
development, or self-existent, eternal, and immutable being,
being in its plenitude, and therefore from the very fulness and
perfection of its being also incapable of development. If the
developmentists had a little philosophy or a little logic, they
would see that, so far from being able to substitute development
for creation, they must assert creation in order to be able to
assert even the possibility of development. Is it on the
authority of such sciolists, sophists, and sad blunderers as
these developmentists that we are expected to reject the Holy
Scriptures, and to abandon our faith in Christianity? We have a
profound reverence for the sciences, and for all really
scientific men; but really it is too much to expect us to listen,
with the slightest respect, to such absurdities as most of our
_savans_ are in the habit of venting, when they leave their
own proper sphere and attempt to enter the domain of philosophy
or theology. In the investigation of the laws of nature and the
observation and accumulation of facts they are respectable, and
often render valuable service to mankind; but, when they
undertake to determine by their inductions from facts of a
secondary order what is true or false in philosophy or theology,
they mistake their vocation and their aptitudes, and, if they do
not render themselves ridiculous, it is because their
speculations are too gravely injurious to permit us to feel
toward them anything but grief or indignation.
None of the sciences are apodictic; they are all as special
sciences empirical, and are simply formed by inductions from
facts observed and classified. To their absolute certainty two
things are necessary: First, that the observation of the facts of
the natural world should be complete, leaving no class or order
of facts unobserved and unanalyzed; and, second, that the
inductions from them should be infallible, excluding all error,
and all possibility of error. But we say only what every one
knows, when we say that neither of these conditions is possible
to any mortal man. Even Newton, it is said, compared himself to a
child picking up shells on the beach; and after all the
explorations that have been made it is but a small part of nature
that is known. The inductive method, ignorantly supposed to be an
invention of my Lord Bacon, but which is as old as the human mind
itself, and was always adopted by philosophers in their
investigations of nature, is the proper method in the sciences,
and all we need to advance them is to follow it honestly and
strictly. But, every day, facts not before analyzed or observed
come under the observation of the investigator, and force new
inductions, which necessarily modify more or less those
previously made. Hence it is that the natural sciences are
continually undergoing more or less important changes. Certain
principles, indeed, remain the same; but set aside, if we must
set aside, mathematics and mechanics, there is not a single one
of the sciences that is now what it was in the youth of men not
yet old. Some of them are almost the creations of yesterday.
{335}
Take chemistry, electricity, magnetism, geology, zoology,
biology, physiology, philology, ethnology, to mention no more;
they are no longer what they were in our own youth, and the
treatises in which we studied them are now obsolete.
It is not likely that these sciences have even as yet reached
perfection, that no new facts will be discovered, and no further
changes and modifications be called for. We by no means complain
of this, and are far from asking that investigation in any field
should be arrested, and these sciences remain unchanged, as they
now are. No: let the investigations go on, let all be discovered
that is discoverable, and the sciences be rendered as complete as
possible. But, then, is it not a little presumptuous, illogical
even, to set up any one of these incomplete, inchoate sciences
against the primitive intuitions of reason or the profound
mysteries of the Christian faith? Your inductions to-day militate
against the ideal formula and the Christian creed; but how know
you that your inductions of to-morrow will not be essentially
modified by a fuller or closer observation of facts? Your
conclusions must be certain before we can on their authority
reject any received dogma of faith or any alleged dictamen of
reason.
We know _á priori_ that investigation can disclose no fact
or facts that can be incompatible with the ideal formula. No
possible induction can overthrow any one of its three terms. It
is madness to pretend that from the study of nature one can
disprove the reality of necessary and eternal being, the fact of
creation, or of contingent existences. The most that any one, not
mad, does or can pretend is, that they cannot be proved by way of
deduction or induction from facts of the natural world. The
atheist Lalande went no further than to say, "I have never seen
God at the end of my telescope." Be it so, what then? Because you
have never seen God at the end of your telescope, can you
logically conclude that there is no God? For ourselves, we do not
pretend that God is, or can be asserted by way of deduction or
induction from the facts of nature, though we hold that what he
is, even his eternal power and divinity, may be clearly seen from
them; but the fact that God cannot be proved in one way to be
does not warrant the conclusion that he cannot in some other way
be proved, far less that there is no God.
We do not deduce the dogmas of faith from the ideal formula, for
that is in the domain of science; but they all accord with it,
and presuppose it as the necessary preamble to faith. We have not
the same kind of certainty for faith that we have for the
scientific formula; but we have a certainty equally high and
equally infallible. Consequently, the inductions or theories of
naturalists are as impotent against it as against the formula
itself. The authority of faith is superior, we say not to
science, but to any logical inductions drawn from the facts of
the natural world, or theories framed by natural philosophers,
and those then, however plausible, can never override it. No
doubt the evidences of our faith are drawn in part from history,
and therefore from inductive science; but even as to that part
the certainty is of the same kind with that of any of the
sciences, rests on the analysis of facts and induction from them,
and is at the very lowest equal to theirs at the highest.
{336}
But let us descend to matters of fact. We will take geology,
which seems just now to be regarded as the most formidable weapon
against the Christian religion. Well, what has geology done? It
has by its researches proved an antiquity of the earth and of man
on the earth which is far greater than is admissible by the
chronology of the Holy Scriptures. It has thus disproved the
chronology of the Bible; therefore it has disproved the divine
inspiration of the Bible, and therefore, again, the truth of the
Christian dogmas, which have no other authority than that
inspiration. But have you, geologists, really proved what you
pretend? You have discovered certain facts, fossils, etc., which,
if some half a dozen possible suppositions are true, not one of
which you have proved or in the nature of the case can prove,
render it highly probable that the earth is somewhat more than
six thousand years old, and that it is more than five thousand
eight hundred and sixty-seven years since the creation of man. As
to the antiquity of man, at least, you have not proved what you
pretend. Your proofs, to be worth anything, must destroy all
possible suppositions except the one you adopt, which they do not
do, for we can suppose many other explanations of the undisputed
facts besides the one you insist on our accepting. Moreover, the
facts on which you rely, if fairly given by Sir Charles Lyell in
his _Antiquity of Man_, by no means warrant his inductions.
Suppose there is no mistake as to facts, which is more than we
are willing to concede, especially as to the stone axes and
knives, which, according to the drawings given of them, are
exactly similar to hundreds which we have seen when a boy
strewing the surface of the ground, the logic, by which the
conclusion is obtained is puerile, and discreditable to any man
who has had the slightest intellectual training.
But suppose you have proved the antiquity of the earth and of man
on it to be as you pretend, what then? In the first place, you
have not proved that the earth and man on it were not created,
that God did not in the beginning create the heavens and the
earth, and all things therein. You leave, then, intact both the
formula and the dogma which presupposes and reasserts it as a
truth of revelation as well as of science. But we have disproved
the chronology of the Bible. Is it the chronology of the Bible or
chronology as arranged by learned men that you have disproved?
Say the chronology as it actually is in the Bible, though all
learned men know that that chronology is exceedingly difficult if
not impossible to make out, and we for ourselves have never been
able to settle it at all to our entire satisfaction, is it
certain that the Scriptures themselves even pretend that the date
assigned to the creation of the world is given by divine
revelation and is to be received as an article of faith? There is
an important difference between the chronology given in the
Hebrew Bible and that given in the Septuagint used by the
apostles and Greek fathers, and still used by the united as well
as by the non-united Greeks, and we are not aware that there has
ever been an authoritative decision as to which or either of the
two chronologies must be followed. The commonly received
chronology certainly ought not to be departed from without strong
and urgent reasons; but, if such reasons are adduced, we do not
understand that it cannot be departed from without impairing the
authority of either the Scriptures or the church. We know no
Christian doctrine or dogma that could be affected by carrying
the date of the creation of the world a few or even many
centuries further back, if we recognize the fact of creation
itself.
{337}
Our faith does not depend on a question of arithmetic, as seems
to have been assumed by the Anglican Bishop Colenso. Numbers are
easily changed in transcription, and no commentator has yet been
able to reconcile all the numbers as we now have them in our
Hebrew Bibles, or even in the Greek translation of the Seventy.
Supposing, then, that geologists and historians of civilization
have found facts, not to be denied, which seem to require for the
existence of the globe, and man on its face, a longer period than
is allowed by the commonly received chronology, we do not see
that this warrants any induction against any point of Christian
faith or doctrine. We could, we confess, more easily explain some
of the facts which we meet in the study of history, the political
and social changes which have evidently taken place, if more time
were allowed us between Noah and Moses than is admitted by
Usher's chronology; it would enable us to account for many things
which now embarrass our historical science; yet whether we are
allowed more time or not, or whether we can account for the
historical facts or not, our faith remains the same; for we have
long since learned that, in the subjects with which science
proposes to deal, as well as in revelation itself, there are many
things which will be inexplicable even to the greatest, wisest,
and holiest of men, and that the greatest folly which any man can
entertain is that of expecting to explain everything, unless
concluding a thing must needs be false because we know not its
explanation is a still greater folly. True science as well as
true virtue is modest, humble indeed, and always more depressed
by what it sees that it cannot do than elated by what it may have
done.
Science, it is further said, has exploded the Christian doctrine
of the unity and the Adamic origin of the species, and therefore
the doctrines of Original Sin, the Incarnation, the Redemption,
indeed the whole of Christianity so far as it is a supernatural
system, and not a system of bald and meagre rationalism. Some
people perhaps believe it. But science is knowledge, either
intuitive or discursive; and who dares say that he _knows_
the dogma of the unity of the human species is false, or that all
the kindreds and nations of men have _not_ sprung from one
and the same original pair? The most that can be said is that the
sciences have not as yet proved it, and it must be taken, if at
all, from, revelation.
Take the unity of the species. The naturalists have undoubtedly
proved the existence of races or varieties of men, like the
Caucasian, the Mongolian, the Malayan, the American, and the
African, more or less distinctly marked, and separated from one
another by greater or less distances; but have they proved that
these several races or varieties are distinct species, or that
they could not all have sprung from the same original pair?
Physiologists, we are told, detect some structural differences
between the negro and the white man. The black differs from the
white in the greater length of the spine, in the shape of the
head, leg, and foot and heel, in the facial angles, the size and
convolutions of the brain. Be it so; but do these differences
prove diversity of species, or, at most, only a distinct variety
in the same species? May they not all be owing to accidental
causes? The type of the physical structure of the African is
undeniably the same with that of the Caucasian, and all that can
be said is, that in the negro it is less perfectly realized,
constituting a difference in degree, indeed, but not in kind.
{338}
But before settling the question whether the several races of men
belong to one and the same species or not, and have or have not
had the same origin, it is necessary to determine the
characteristic or _differentia_ of man. Naturalists treat
man as simply an animal standing at the head of the class or
order mammalia, and are therefore obliged to seek his
_differentia_ or characteristic in his physical structure;
but if it be true, as some naturalists tell us, that the same
type runs through the physical structure of all animals, unless
insects, reptiles, and crustacea form an exception, it is
difficult to find in man's physical structure his
_differentia_. The schoolmen generally define man, a
rational animal, _animal rationale_, and make the genus
animal, and the _differentia_ reason. The characteristic of
the species, that which constitutes it, is reason or the rational
mind, and certainly science can prove nothing to the contrary.
Some animals may have a degree of intelligence, but none of them
have reason, free will, moral perceptions, or are capable of
acting from considerations of right and wrong. We assume, then,
that the _differentia_ of the species _homo_, or man,
is reason, or the rational soul. If our naturalists had
understood this, they might have spared the pains they have taken
to assimilate man to the brute, and to prove that he is a monkey
developed.
This point settled, the question of unity of the species is
settled. There may be differences among individuals and races as
to the degree of reason, but all have reason in some degree.
Reason may be weaker in the African than in the European, whether
owing to the lack of cultivation or to other accidental causes,
but it is essentially the same in the one as in the other, and
there is no difference except in degree; and even as to degree,
it is not rare to find negroes that are, in point of reason, far
superior to many white men. Negroes, supposed to stand lowest in
the scale, have the same moral perception and the same capacity
of distinguishing between right and wrong and of acting from free
will, that white men have; and if there is any difference, it is
simply a difference of degree, not a difference of kind or
species.
But conceding the unity of the species, science has, at least,
proved that the several races or varieties in the same species
could not have all sprung from one and the same original pair.
Where has science done this? It can do it only by way of
induction from facts scientifically observed and analyzed. What
facts has it observed and analyzed that warrant this conclusion
against the Adamic origin of all men? There are, as we have just
said, no anatomical, physiological, intellectual, or moral facts
that warrant such conclusion, and no other facts are possible.
Wherever men are found, they all have the essential
characteristic of men as distinguished from the mere animal; they
all have substantially the same physical structure; all have
thought, speech, and reason, and, though some may be inferior to
others, nothing proves that all may not have sprung from the same
Adam and Eve. Do you say ethnology cannot trace all the kindreds
and nations of men back to a common origin? That is nothing to
the purpose; can it say they cannot have had a common origin? But
men are found everywhere, and could they have reached from the
plains of Shinar continents separated from Asia by a wide expanse
of water, and been distributed over America, New Holland, and the
remotest islands of the ocean, when they had no ships or were
ignorant of navigation?
{339}
Do you know that they had, in what are to us antehistorical
times, no ships and no knowledge of navigation, as we know they
have had them both ever since the first dawn of history? No? Then
you allege not your _science_ against the Christian dogma,
but your _ignorance_, which we submit is not sufficient to
override faith. You must prove that men could not have been
distributed from a common centre as we now find them before you
can assert that they could not have had a common origin. Besides,
are you able to say what changes of land and water have taken
place since men first appeared on the face of the earth? Many
changes, geologists assure us, have taken place, and more than
they know may have occurred, and have left men where they are now
found, and where they may have gone without crossing large bodies
of water. So long as any other hypothesis is possible, you cannot
assert your own as certain.
But the difference of complexion, language, and usage which we
note between the several races of men proves that they could not
have sprung from one and the same pair. Do you know they could
not? Know it? No; not absolutely, perhaps; but how can you prove
they could and have? That is not the question. Christianity is in
possession, and must be held to be rightfully in possession till
real science shows the contrary. I may not be able to explain the
origin of the differences noted in accordance with the assertion
of the common origin of all men in a single primitive pair; but
my ignorance can avail you no more than your own. My nescience is
not your science. Your business is by science to disprove faith;
if your science does not do that, it does nothing, and you are
silenced. We do not pretend to be able to account for the
differences of the several races, any more than we pretend to be
able to account for the well-known fact that children born of the
same parents have different facial angles, different sized
brains, different shaped mouths and noses, different
temperaments, different intellectual powers, and different moral
tendencies. We may have conjectures on the subject, but
conjectures are not science. If necessary to the argument, we
might, perhaps, suggest a not improbable hypothesis for
explaining the difference of complexion between the white and the
colored races. The colored races, the yellow, the olive, the red,
the copper-colored, and the black, are inferior to the Caucasian,
have departed farther from the norma of the species, and
approached nearer to the animal, and therefore, like animals,
have become more or less subject to the action of the elements.
External nature, acting for ages on a race, enfeebled by
over-civilization and refinement, and therefore having in a great
measure lost the moral and intellectual power of resisting the
elemental action of nature, may, perhaps, sufficiently explain
the differences we note in the complexion of the several races.
If the Europeans and their American descendants were to lose all
tradition of the Christian religion, as they are rapidly doing,
and to take up with spiritism or some other degrading
superstition, as they seem disposed to do, and to devote
themselves solely to the luxuries and refinements of the material
civilization of which they are now so proud, and boast so much,
it is by no means improbable that in time they would become as
dark, as deformed, as imbecile as the despised African or the
native New Hollander.
{340}
We might give very plausible reasons for regarding the negro as
the degraded remnant of a once over-civilized and corrupted race;
and perhaps, if recovered, Christianized, civilized, and restored
to communication with the great central current of human life, he
may in time lose his negro hue and features, and become once more
a white man, a Caucasian. But be this as it may, we rest, as is
our right, on the fact that the unity of the human species and
its Adamic origin are in possession, and it is for those who deny
either point to make good their denial.
But the Scriptures say mankind were originally of one speech, and
we find that every species of animals has its peculiar song or
cry, which is the same in every individual of the same species;
yet this is not the case with the different kindred and nations
of men; they speak different tongues, which the philologist is
utterly unable to refer to a common original. Therefore there
cannot be in men unity of species, and the assertion of the
Scriptures of all being of one speech is untrue. If the song of
the same species of birds or the cry of the same species of
animals is the same in all the individuals of that species, it
still requires no very nice ear to distinguish the song or the
cry of one individual from that of another; and therefore the
analogy relied on, even if admissible, which it is not, would not
sustain the conclusion. Conceding, if you insist on it, that
unity of species demands unity of speech, the facts adduced
warrant no conclusion against the Scriptural assertion; for the
language of all men is even now one and the same, and all really
have one and the same speech. Take the elements of language as
the sensible sign by which men communicate with one another, and
there is even now, at least as far as known or conceivable, only
one language. The essential elements of all dialects are the
same. You have in all the subject, the predicate, and the copula,
or the noun, adjective, and verb, to which all the other parts of
speech are reducible. Hence the philologist speaks of universal
grammar, and constructs a grammar applicable alike to all
dialects. Some philologists also contend that the signs adopted
by all dialects are radically the same, and that the differences
encountered are only accidental. This has been actually proved in
the case of what are called the Aryan or Indo-European dialects.
That the Sanskrit, the Pehlvi or old Persic, the Keltic, the
Teutonic, the Slavonic, the Greek, and the Latin, from which are
derived the modern dialects of Europe, as Italian, French,
Spanish, Portuguese, English, Dutch, German, Scanian, Turk,
Polish, Russian, Welsh, Gaelic, and Irish, all except the Basque
and Lettish or Finnish, have had a common origin, no philologist
doubts. That the group of dialects called Semitic, including the
Hebrew, Chaldaic, Syriac, Coptic, and Ethiopic, have had an
origin identical with that of the Aryan group is, we believe, now
hardly denied. All that can be said is, that philologists have
not proved it, nor the same fact with regard to the so-called
Turanian group, as the Chinese, the Turkish, the Basque, the
Lettish or Finnish, the Tataric or Mongolian, etc., the dialects
of the aboriginal tribes or nations of America and of Africa. But
what conclusion is to be drawn from the fact that philology, a
science confessedly in its infancy, and hardly a science at all,
has not as yet established an identity of origin with these for
the most part barbarous dialects? From the fact that philology
has not ascertained it, we cannot conclude that the identity does
not exist, or even that philology may not one day discover and
establish it.
{341}
Philology may have also proceeded on false assumptions, which
have retarded its progress and led it to false conclusions. It
has proceeded on the assumption that the savage is the primitive
man, and that his agglutinated dialect represents a primitive
state of language instead of a degenerate state. A broader view
of history and a juster induction from its facts would, perhaps,
upset this assumption. The savage is the degenerate, not the
primeval man; man in his second childhood, not in his first; and
hence the reason why he has no growth, no inherent progressive
power, and why, as Niebuhr asserts, there is no instance on
record of a savage people having by its own indigenous efforts
passed from the savage to the civilized state. The thing is as
impossible as for the old man, decrepit by age, to renew the
vigor and elasticity of his youth or early manhood. Instead of
studying the dialects of savage tribes to obtain specimens of the
primitive forms of speech, philologists should study them only to
obtain specimens of worn-out or used up forms, or of language in
its dotage. In all the savage dialects that we have any knowledge
of, we detect or seem to detect traces of a culture, a
civilization, of which they who now speak them have lost all
memory and are no longer capable. This seems to us to bear
witness to a fall, a loss. Perhaps, when the American and African
dialects are better known, and are studied with reference to this
view of the savage state, and we have better ascertained the
influence of climate and habits of life on the organs of speech
and therefore on pronunciation, especially of the consonants, we
shall be able to discover indications of an identity of origin
where now we can detect only traces of diversity. As long as
philology has only partially explored the field of observation,
it is idle to pretend that _science_ has established
anything against the scriptural doctrine of the unity of speech.
The fact that philologists have not traced all the various
dialects now spoken or extinct to a common original amounts to
nothing against faith, unless it can be proved that no such
original ever existed. It may have been lost and only the
distinctions retained.
Naturalists point to the various species of plants and animals
distributed over the whole surface of the globe, and ask us if we
mean to say that each of these has also sprung from one original
pair, or male and female, and if we maintain that the
primogenitors of each species of animal were in the garden of
Eden with Adam and Eve, or in the Ark with Noah. If so, how have
they become distributed over the several continents of the earth
and the islands of the ocean? _Argumentum a specie ad speciem,
non valet_, as say the books on logic. And even if it were
proved that in case of plants and animals God duplicates,
triplicates, or quadriplicates the parents by direct creation, or
that he creates anew the pair in each remote locality where the
same species is found, as prominent naturalists maintain or are
inclined to maintain, it would prove nothing in the case of man.
For we cannot reason from animals to man, or from flora to fauna.
Nearly all the arguments adduced from so-called science against
the faith are drawn from supposed analogies of men and animals,
and rest for their validity on the assumption that man is not
only generically, but specifically, an animal, which is simply a
begging the question.
{342}
Species again, it is said, may be developed by way of selection,
as the florist proves in regard to flowers, and the shepherd or
herdsman in regard to sheep and cattle. That new varieties in the
lower orders of creation may be attained by some sort of
development is not denied, but as yet it is not proved that any
new species is ever so obtained. Moreover, facts would seem to
establish that, at least in the case of domestic animals, horses,
cattle, and sheep, the new varieties do not become species and
are not self-perpetuating. Experiments in what is called crossing
the breed have proved that, unless the crossing is frequently
renewed, the variety in a very few generations runs out. There is
a perpetual tendency of each original type to gain the
ascendency, and of the stronger to eliminate the others.
Cattle-breeders now do not rely on crossing, but seek to improve
their stock by selecting the best breed they know, and improving
it by improved care and nourishment. The different varieties of
men may be, perhaps, improved in their physique by selection, as
was attempted in the institutions of Lycurgus; but, as the moral
and intellectual nature predominates in man and is his
characteristic, all conclusions as to him drawn from the lower
orders of creation, even in his physical constitution, are
suspicious and always to be accepted with extreme caution. The
church has defined what no physiologist has disproved, that
_anima est forma corporis_. The soul is the informing or
vital principle of the body, which modifies all its actions, and
enables it to resist, at least to some extent, the chemical and
other natural laws which act on animals, plants, and unorganized
matter. The physiological and medical theories based on
chemistry, which were for a time in vogue and are not yet wholly
abandoned, contain at best only a modicum of truth, and can never
be safely followed, for in the life of man there is at work a
subtiler power than a chemical or any other physical agent. We do
not deny that man is through his body related to the material
world, or that many of the laws of that world, mineral,
vegetable, and animal, are in some degree applicable to him; but,
as far as science has yet proceeded, they are so only with many
limitations and modifications which the physician--we use the
word in its etymological as well as in its conventional
sense--can seldom determine. The _morale_ every physician
knows has an immense power over the _physique_. The higher
the morale, the greater the power of the physical system to
resist physical laws, to endure fatigue, to bear up against and
even to throw off disease. Physical disease is often generated by
moral depression, and not seldom thrown off by moral
exhilaration. What is called strength of will at times seems not
only to subject disease to its control, but to hold death itself
at bay. In armies the officer, with more care, more labor, more
hardship, and less food and sleep, will survive the common
soldier, vastly his superior as to his mere physical
constitution. These facts and innumerable others like them
justify a strong protest against the too common practice of
applying to man without any reservation the laws which we observe
in the lower orders of creation, and arguing from what is true of
them what must be true of him. Tear off the claw of a lobster,
and a new one will be pushed out; cut the polypus in pieces, and
each piece becomes a perfect polypus, at least so we are told,
for we have not ourselves made or seen the experiment. But
nothing of the sort is true of man, nor even of the higher
classes of animals in which organic life is more complex.
{343}
We place little confidence in conclusions drawn from the assumed
analogies between man and animals, and even the development of
species in them by selection or otherwise, if proved, would not
prove to us the possibility of a like development in him. We must
see a monkey by development grow into a man before we can believe
it.
But why, even in the case of animals that can be propagated only
by the union of male and female, we should suppose the necessity
of duplicating the parents of the species is more than we are
able to understand. The individuals of the species could go where
man could go. Suppose we find a species of fish in a North
American lake, and the same species in a European or Asiatic lake
which has no water communication with it, can you say the two
lakes have never been in communication, you who claim that the
earth has existed for millions of ages? Much of what is now land
was once covered with water, and much now covered with water it
is probable was once land inhabited by plants, animals, and men.
Facts even indicate that the part of the earth now under the
Arctic and Antarctic circles once lay nearer to the Equator, if
not under it, and that what are now mountains were once islands
dotting the surface of the ocean. No inductions which exclude
these probabilities or indications are scientific, or can be
accepted as conclusive.
Take, then, all the facts on which the naturalists support their
hypotheses, they establish nothing against faith. The facts
really established either favor faith or are perfectly compatible
with it; and if any are alleged that seem to militate against it,
they are either not proved to be facts, or their true character
is not fully ascertained, and no conclusion from them can be
taken as really scientific. We do not pretend that the natural
sciences, as such, tend to establish the truth of revelation, and
we think some over-zealous apologists of the faith go further in
this respect than they should. The sciences deal with facts and
causes of the secondary order; and it is very certain that one
may determine the quality of an acorn as food for swine without
considering the first cause of the oak that bore it. A man may
ascertain the properties of steam and apply it to impel various
kinds of machinery, without giving any direct argument in favor
of the unity and Adamic origin of the race. The atheist may be a
good geometrician; but, if there were no God, there could be
neither geometry nor an atheist to study it. All we contend is,
that the facts with which science deals are none of them shown to
contradict faith or to warrant any conclusions incompatible with
it.
Hence it may be assumed that, while the sciences remain in their
own order of facts, they neither aid faith nor impugn it, for
faith deals with a higher order of facts, and moves in a superior
plane. The order of facts with which the sciences deal no doubt
depends on the order revealed by faith; and no doubt the
particular sciences should be connected with science or the
explanation and application of the ideal formula or first
principles, what we call philosophy, as this formula in turn is
connected with the faith; but it does not lie within the province
of the particular sciences as such to show this dependence or
this connection, and our _savans_ invariably blunder
whenever they attempt to do it, or to rise from the special to
the general, the particular to the universal, or from the
sciences to faith. Here is where they err.
{344}
What they allege that transcends the particular order of facts
with which the sciences deal is only theory, hypothesis,
conjecture, imagination, or fancy, and has not the slightest
scientific value, and can warrant no conclusions either for or
against faith. There is no logical ascent from the particular to
the universal, unless there has been first a descent from the
universal to the particular. Jacob saw, on the ladder reaching
from heaven to earth, the angels of God descending and ascending,
not ascending and descending. There must be a descent from the
highest to the lowest before there can be an ascent from the
lowest to the highest. God becomes man that man may become God.
The sciences all deal with particulars and cannot of themselves
rise above particulars, and from them universal science is not
obtainable.
He who starts from revelation, which includes the principles of
universal science, can, no doubt, find all nature harmonizing
with faith, and all the sciences bearing witness to its truth,
for he has the key to their real and higher sense; but he who
starts with the particular only can never rise above the
particular, and hence he finds in the particulars, or the nature
to which he is restricted, no immaterial and immortal soul, and
no God, creator, and upholder of the universe. His
generalizations are only classifications of facts, with no
intuition of their relation to an order above themselves; his
universal is the particular, and he sees in the plane of his
vision no steps by which to ascend to science, far less to faith.
Saint-Simon and Auguste Comte both understood well the necessity
of subordinating all the sciences to a general principle or law,
and of integrating them in a universal science; but starting with
the special sciences themselves, they could never attain to a
universal science, or a science that accepted, generalized, and
explained them all, and hence each ended in atheism, or, what is
the same thing, the divinization of humanity. The positivists
really recognize only particulars, and only particulars in the
material order, the only order the sciences, distinguished from
philosophy and revelation, do or can deal with. Alexander von
Humboldt had, probably, no superior in the sciences, and he has
given their _résumé_ in his _Cosmos_; but, if we
recollect aright, the word God does not once appear in that work,
and yet, except when he ventures to theorize beyond the order of
facts on which the sciences immediately rest, there is little in
that work that an orthodox Christian need deny. Herbert Spencer,
really a man of ability, who disclaims being a follower of
Auguste Comte or a positivist, excludes from the _knowable_,
principles and causes, all except sensible phenomena; and
although wrong in view of a higher philosophy than can be
obtained by induction from the sensible or particular facts, yet
he is not wrong in contending that the sciences cannot of
themselves rise above the particular and the phenomenal.
Hence we do not agree with those Christian apologists who tell us
that the tendency of the sciences is to corroborate the doctrines
of revelation. They no more tend of themselves to corroborate
revelation than they do to impair it. They who press them into
the cause of infidelity, and hence conclude that science explodes
faith, mistake their reach, for we can no more conclude from them
against faith than we can in favor of faith. The fact is, the
sciences are not science, and lie quite below the sphere of both
science and faith. When arrayed against either, their authority
is null.
{345}
Hence we conclude, _á priori_, against them when they
presume to impugn the principles of science as expressed in the
ideal formula, or against faith which is, considered in itself
objectively, no less certain than the formula itself; and we have
shown, _à posteriori_, by descending to the particulars,
that the sciences present no facts that impugn revelation or
contradict the teachings of faith. The conclusions of the
_savans_ against the Christian dogmas are no logical
deductions or inductions from any facts or particulars in their
possession, and therefore, however they may carry away sciolists,
or the half-learned, or little minds, greedy of novelties, they
are really of no scientific account.
All that faith demands of the sciences as such is their silence.
She does not demand their support, she only demands that they
keep in their own order, that the cobbler should stick to his
last, _ne sutor ultra crepidam_. Faith herself is in the
supernatural order, and proceeds from the same source as nature
herself; it presupposes science indeed, and elevates and confirms
it, but no more depends upon it than the creator depends on the
creature. The highest science needs faith to complete it, and in
all probability never could have been attained to without
revelation; but neither science nor the sciences, however they
may need revelation, could ever, without revelation, have risen
to the conception of a divine and supernatural revelation. It is
idle, then, to suppose that without revelation we could find by
the sciences the demonstration or evidence of revelation. Lalande
was right when he said he had never seen God at the end of his
telescope, and his assertion should weigh with all natural
theologians, so-called, who attempt to prove the existence of God
by way of induction from the facts which naturalists observe and
analyze; but he was wrong and grossly illogical when he concluded
from that fact, with the fool of the Bible, there is no God, as
wrong as those chemists are who conclude against the real
presence in holy eucharist, because by their profane analysis of
the consecrated host they find in it the properties of bread. The
most searching chemical analysis cannot go beyond the visible or
sensible properties of the subject analyzed, and the sensible
properties of the bread and wine nobody pretends are changed in
transubstantiation. None of the revealed dogmas are either
provable or disprovable by any empirical science, for they all
lie in the supernatural order, above the reach of natural
science, and while they control all the empirical sciences they
can be controlled by none.
But when we have revelation and with it, consciously or
unconsciously, the ideal formula, which gives us the principles
of all science and of all things, and descend from the higher to
the lower, the case is essentially different. We then find all
the sciences so far as based on facts, and all the observable
facts or phenomena of nature, moral, intellectual, or physical,
both illustrating and confirming the truths of revelation and the
mysteries of faith. We then approach nature from the point of
view of the Creator, read nature by the divine light of
revelation, and study it from above, not from below; we then
follow the real order of things, proceed from principles to
facts, from the cause to the effect, from the universal to the
particular, and are, after having thus descended from heaven to
earth, able to reascend from earth to heaven. In this way we can
see all nature joining in one to show forth the being and glory
of God, and to hymn his praise.
{346}
This method of studying nature from high to low by the light of
first principles and of divine revelation enables us to press all
the sciences into the service of faith, to unite them in a common
principle, and do what the Saint-Simonians and positivists cannot
do, integrate them in a general or universal science, bring the
whole intellectual life of man, as we showed in our article on
Rome or Reason, into unison with faith and the real life and
order of things, leaving to rend our bosoms only that moral
struggle symbolized by Rome and the World, of which we have
heretofore treated at length.
But this can never be done by induction from the facts observed
and analyzed by the several empirical or inductive sciences. We
think we have shown that the pretension, that these sciences have
set aside any of the doctrines of Christianity, or impaired the
faith, except in feeble and uninstructed minds, is unfounded; we
think we have also shown that they not only have not, but cannot
do it, because they lie in a region too low to establish anything
against revelation. Yet as the sciences are insufficient, while
restricted to their proper sphere, to satisfy the demand of
reason for apodictic principles, for unity and universality,
there is a perpetual tendency in the men devoted exclusively to
their culture to draw from them conclusions which are
unwarranted, illogical, and antagonistic both to philosophy and
to faith. Against this tendency, perhaps never more strongly
manifested than at this moment, there is in natural science alone
no sufficient safeguard, and consequently we need the
supernatural light of revelation to protect both faith and
science itself. With the loss of the light of revelation we lose,
in fact, the ideal formula, or the light of philosophy; and with
the light of philosophy, we lose both science and the sciences,
and retain only dry facts which signify nothing, or baseless
theories and wild conjectures, which, when substituted for real
science, are far worse than nothing.
--------
My Meadowbrook Adventure.
"No, no, Tom; that is out of the question. I can't afford to go
away just now. I am getting into a fine practice; the courts open
in ten days; and besides, I am in the midst of an essay on the
Law of Contracts which I promised for the next number of a
certain law magazine. Your prescription is a very pleasant one;
but really I can't take it. You must give me a good dose of
medicine instead."
"I tell you what it is, Franklin, I don't let my patients dictate
to me in that style. You have been fool enough to throw yourself
into a nervous fever by working in this nasty den all summer,
instead of taking a vacation-run to the country as you ought to
have done; and now, if you don't follow my directions, I swear I
won't cure you! Go off to some quiet farm-house for a week or
two, and, if your essay on contracts weighs upon your mind, take
the stupid stuff with you. I'll risk your working much at it
after you get within scent of the fields."
{347}
I could not stand out very long against the bluff orders of my
friend and physician Tom Bowlder. I knew, too, that he was right.
I had overtasked myself. I had been dangerously ill; and, eager
as I was to get on with my work, I could not help feeling that
rest and change were absolutely necessary for me. So I packed my
portmanteau, not forgetting my precious essay and a liberal
supply of writing-paper, and the next morning saw me on the way
to Meadowbrook.
It was a quiet, sleepy little village, nestling at the foot of a
beautifully wooded ridge, and looking out from its shelter,
across a slope of green fields, to a little stream which ran
purling over the stones a quarter of a mile distant. Majestic old
elm-trees shaded the grassy roads and swung their branches over
the roofs of the trim little cottages. There was only one house
in the place which pretended to be anything better than a
cottage, and that was a rather stately villa, a good hundred
years old at least, which stood a little way out of the village,
surrounded with trees, and shut in from the public gaze by an
enormous hawthorn hedge which ran around the extensive grounds.
Meadowbrook House, or "the house," as it was generally called by
the villagers, was the property of an old maiden lady named
Forsythe, the daughter of a retired merchant who long years ago
had chosen this quiet spot as a retreat for his old age. Mr.
Forsythe was a Catholic, and one of his first actions after
removing to Meadowbrook was to build the pretty stone church in
the main street of the village, and to pledge a certain sum
annually from his ample income for the support of the priest.
When, after a long life of usefulness, he died and was buried by
the side of his wife, leaving all his property to his daughter,
who had already long passed the period of youth, the generosity
of Miss Forsythe continued to supply what the poor little
Catholic congregation was unable to give, and the excellent
spinster was still the mainstay of the church. Poor Father James,
an old man now of nearly seventy, would have fared ill but for
her assistance.
So much I learned in an after-supper chat with my landlady on the
night of my arrival. I cannot say that I was much engrossed at
the time by the good woman's garrulous narrative, but
after-events were to give me a deep interest in Meadowbrook House
and in everything connected with it. I had taken lodgings in the
village inn, a neat, quiet, respectable establishment, where
there were few guests except the villagers who used to drop in of
an evening to enjoy a little gossip and a pipe, and with whom,
after a days' ramble, I used often to sit and smoke my cigar. I
led an idle but most delicious life during my ten day's holiday.
I ranged through the woods, with my gun on my shoulder, bringing
home now and then a bird or so, but caring in reality more for
the walk than the shooting. I whipped the brook for trout. I
searched the fields for botanical specimens. I wandered about
with a volume of Tennyson or Buchanan in my pocket, stopping at
times to lie down and read under the trees. I did almost
everything, in fact, except work at my essay, which remained in
the portfolio where I had originally packed it.
One sunny afternoon I was dozing on my back in the shade of an
apple orchard, when a strain of music was borne to my ears,
beginning like the distant hum of bees, and gradually swelling on
the air with slow and majestic cadences. I had never heard such
music in Meadowbrook before.
{348}
Curious to know whence it came, I followed the sound, and was not
long in discovering that some practised hand was touching the
wheezy little organ in the village church. Not the same hand
which was accustomed painfully to struggle with the keys there on
Sunday, and wring from them broken and doleful sounds to the
distress of all nervous listeners. The person who was playing now
had the touch of a master; and as the plaintive phrases of the
_Agnus Dei_ from Mozart's First Mass broke upon the solitude
of the church, the rickety organ seemed infused with a new
spirit. I could not have believed that so much pathos and such
exquisite delicacy of tone could be drawn from the wretched
instrument whose laborious whistling and puffing had set my teeth
on edge the previous Sunday. I sat down in a pew under the
gallery, and listened. It was not until twilight approached that
the playing ceased. I heard the organ closed; the player was
silent for a few moments; "He is saying a prayer," thought I; and
then a soft step began to descend the stairs. Thinking it
possible the performer might feel annoyed at perceiving a
stranger in the church, I sat quietly in my place, confident that
the growing darkness and the shelter of one of the pillars would
screen me from observation. I could see very well, however,
though I could not be seen, and my surprise was great when a
slender female figure issued from the gallery staircase, and came
within the light of the open street door. She was young--not more
than eighteen, I should think--with a face of rare beauty, a
pretty form, a light and graceful carriage, and the unmistakable
air of a gentlewoman. Small, regular features, light brown eyes,
cheeks like a peach, blooming with health, a profusion of dark
hair, and an expression of remarkable simplicity and sweetness
made up a picture of loveliness such as I had never seen before.
She wore a fascinating little round hat, and when I first caught
sight of her was just drawing on her gloves, and I could see that
her hands were small and shapely. She bent her knee as she passed
before the altar, and when she went out into the street the
church seemed suddenly to have grown darker. My first impulse was
to follow her; but I stopped, feeling that it would be an
intrusion, and trusting that she would return the next day, if
she supposed herself to be unobserved. So I kept still until she
had been gone several minutes, and when I left the church she was
nowhere to be seen.
I determined to ask my landlady about the fair musician, and that
evening, when worthy Mrs. Brown brought me my supper, I detained
her a few minutes in conversation--an amusement to which she was
in noway adverse.
"It's been an elegant day, hasn't it, now, Mr. Franklin?" said
the old woman, as she placed on the table the smoking rasher of
ham and the pile of buttered toast; "and it's plain to see what a
world of good this tramping about the country is doing you. I
wouldn't say you were over-strong yet; but, Lord bless me! when
you first came here, you were little better than a ghost. Well,
well, sir, and I hope you won't find our little village too dull
for you!"
"Dull! Mrs. Brown. Not a bit of it. I wish I could stay here a
year. By the way, who is it plays the organ so beautifully in
Meadowbrook church? I heard the music, and stopped awhile to
listen."
"Plays the organ, sir? Well, you know there's Mr. Thrasher, the
schoolmaster; he's the organist on Sundays, and very like you
heard him practising--though why he should be out of school
to-day, and this not a holiday--"
{349}
"Mr. Thrasher, Mrs. Brown, thumps on the organ as if he was
thumping his pupils, and his singers scream as if they felt the
blows. This was not Mr. Thrasher. It was a young lady!"
"Well, sir, I never knowed of no young lady playing the organ
except it was Betty Cox, the butcher's daughter. They do say she
has a wonderful talent for music, and Mr. Thrasher, he has been
giving her lessons this last month, and I wouldn't wonder if it
was her!"
Now, it had been my privilege to hear Miss Betty Cox finger the
keys one day after Mass, and a more doleful performance I never
had listened to. Even if I had not seen the performer, I should
have been sure it was not Miss Betty; but, quite apart from her
musical proficiency, I felt a little bit indignant that the
beautiful girl who had made such an impression upon me should be
mistaken for a Betty Cox. No, she was not one of the village
damsels; that was clear. And unfortunately it was equally clear
that Mrs. Brown knew no more about her than I did myself.
I fell asleep that night humming the _Agnus Dei_, and
dreamed of angels with round hats and brown kid gloves, playing
on rickety organs, and hurling legions of musty school-masters
out of the clouds.
The next day I took my book to the church-yard, and chose a shady
spot where I could hear the first notes of the organ. I waited a
long while, reading little, for I could not fix my attention on
the page. At last she came, as I had hoped. For more than an hour
I listened to the exquisite tones which seemed to flow from her
agile fingers. Then she went away without perceiving me.
I need hardly say that I made many another visit to the church,
for the pursuit of the fair organist had now become a genuine
passion with me. Sometimes I waited all the afternoon without
seeing or hearing her. Then I used to go to my room and be moody
and miserable all the evening. A rainy day would throw me into
despair, and I watched the clouds with the eagerness of a
schoolboy on a holiday. My readers will not need to be told that
I was falling desperately in love. Once or twice I met her
walking, and had an opportunity to notice more particularly the
singular beauty of her form and countenance, and the refined and
quiet air which pervaded her whole person. Once I met her by
accident at the crossing of a brook. I gave her my hand to help
her over, and she took it with the modest frankness of a true
lady, saying, "Thank you, sir," in a voice which seemed to me as
sweet as her face. Yes, I was certainly in love.
I might easily have found out all about her by asking a few
questions in the village, where the shopkeepers, at all events,
would hardly be as ill informed as my landlady; but since my
conversation with Mrs. Brown I had become, I know not why,
unwilling to speak of her. I had grown to look upon her as _my
secret_, which I was disposed to guard pretty jealously. A bit
of mystery, be it ever so little and unnecessary, is one of the
most charming things in the world to a young lover, and I have
always thought that Sheridan displayed great knowledge of human
nature when he made Lydia Languish refuse to be married without
an elopement. At some time in our lives almost all of us give way
to more or less of the same sort of nonsense.
{350}
There came a sudden end at last to my mooning and dreaming, and
it came in a way with which even Lydia Languish herself could not
have quarrelled. I had been off one day on a long ramble among
the hills, and, missing my way, did not get back to Meadowbrook
until close upon evening. As I came near the village, I was made
aware of some extraordinary commotion in the place. Men and women
were hurrying through the streets, and voices were shouting in
excited tones. I ran after the crowd, and as I turned into the
main street a glance in the direction of the church revealed the
cause of the disturbance. Flames were bursting through the
gallery windows, and a dense smoke poured through the open door.
Nearly the whole population of Meadowbrook had gathered around
the scene of disaster. The men, and some of the women with them,
had formed lines leading to one or two of the nearest wells, and
were passing buckets with all the speed they could; but it was
too evident with but little prospect of subduing the
conflagration. I have already mentioned that the building was of
stone, so there was little fear of the walls falling; but the
woodwork of the interior was old, and burned almost like tinder.
The organ-gallery was, of course, of wood, and inside the tower,
which stood at the front of the edifice, there was a wooden
staircase, forming the only means of access to the gallery. It
was in the tower, I saw at once, that the flames were burning
most fiercely. The rear of the church was as yet untouched. I
need hardly tell what my first thought was when I saw the cruel
glare that lighted up the approaching twilight. A sickening
sensation crept over me. If the fair musician was in the gallery
when the fire broke out, her escape seemed effectually cut off. I
ran forward but there was little need to ask questions. The
distressed expression on every face, the eager eyes fixed upon
the windows of the gallery, the frantic but vain efforts of one
or two of the boldest of the crowd to penetrate the doorway, out
of which the smoke was rolling in great black clouds, told me
that my worst fears were true.
"Ah! sir," said one of the men "it's a dreadful thing to see a
pretty young creature like that burned to death before our very
eyes. But we can't get to her!"
A cold perspiration broke out upon my forehead, and for a moment
I reeled like a drunkard. "Good heavens!" I cried; "have you no
ladders?"
"Yes, we have two; but look at the tower, sir. There's no window
except in the belfry, and both the ladders together would not
reach that."
"Take the ladders into the church by the back way," I cried, "and
get up the front of the gallery! Here," I added, pulling out my
purse, "this for the first man who reaches her."
"We wouldn't want your money, sir, if we could get at the young
lady," answered one or two voices together; "but there's little
use in trying. Three men have gone into the church already."
They were still speaking when there was a stir among the crowd at
the side of the building, and the three men reappeared. Their
clothes were scorched, and even their hair was slightly singed.
"Can't do it," said one; "the gallery front is burning like a
furnace. We got the ladders up, but we could not climb them and
hardly got them away again."
"Did you see anything of her?"
"No, and didn't hear a sound. If she has not been choked already
by the smoke, she must have gone up
into the tower."
{351}
It was a slight hope, yet there was something in it after all.
Behind the organ there was, as I knew, a door opening into a sort
of lumber-room in the tower, from which a rude flight of steps,
terminating in a ladder, led up to the bell. It was possible that
when she found the gallery staircase in flames, (I afterward
learned that it was here the fire broke out; it was supposed to
have been caused by a coal dropped on the stairs by a tinker who
had been repairing the roof that afternoon)--it was just
possible, I say, that she might have retreated up these steps in
the hope of being rescued through the belfry window. For a moment
or two after the failure to reach her through the interior, there
was a pause of awful suspense. Whatever was to be done, however,
must be done at once. The flames were making rapid headway, and
in ten minutes nothing would be left of the tower but the bare
stone shell. Already it was doubtful if any one could survive
even in the upper portion of it. The men were still throwing
bucketfuls of water into the burning porch with frantic speed;
but this, of course, did little good, for the fire was spreading
high above their reach. Others were running helplessly about with
coils of rope. Suddenly a thought seized me. Just in front of the
church, but on the opposite side of the road, stood an enormous
elm-tree. Some of its upper branches reached within fifty feet of
the top of the tower. Was it not possible to bridge across that
chasm?
"Is there any opening," I cried, "in the tower roof?"
"No, sir; none at all."
"Give me an axe and some rope."
Two or three axes were thrust at me. I took one, and tied it
round my waist with a long coil of rope. Then I chose out another
coil, and, throwing it over one of the lower limbs of the
elm-tree, clambered with some difficulty into the branches. It
would have been very hard climbing without the rope; but as I
could throw it from limb to limb where I could not reach, and as
I was a sufficiently expert gymnast to pull myself up by it, a
few seconds saw me on one of the upper branches which had caught
my eye from below. There was a battlement around the top of the
tower, and I thought if I could secure one end of the rope to one
of the projections of this battlement, I might contrive, by tying
the other to the tree, to work my way across. I made a large
slip-noose, gathered up the line like a lasso, and cast it with
all my strength. The first attempt failed. The crowd below saw my
object now, and gave a tremendous cheer. I tried again, and this
time the noose caught upon the battlement. I drew up the rope as
tight as I could, tied it fast to the tree, and, clasping it with
my legs and hands, began the most dangerous and difficult part of
my enterprise. There was a breathless silence below as I pulled
myself across the awful chasm. I could hear the roar and
crackling of the flames, and the hot air and acrid smoke were
driven into my face until I thought I should have fainted and
fallen to the ground. At last I reached the battlement. With much
trouble I clambered upon the roof, and while the excited
villagers were screaming themselves hoarse and hurrahing like
madmen--I hardly heard their cries at the time, but, with other
incidents of that memorable afternoon, they came to me
afterward--I plied my axe so vigorously that in a few minutes I
had stripped off a section of the roofing, and made an opening
two or three feet square. It was too dark now to distinguish
anything in the interior, but I knew that the platform on which
the bell rested must be some twelve or fifteen feet below me.
{352}
Fastening the second coil of rope to the battlement, I let myself
down through the hole until I felt the solid planking under my
feet. There was a suffocating odor of fire, but the air was still
pure enough to be breathed without serious inconvenience, groped
about in the dark until I found the ladder leading below, and,
trembling with apprehension, hurried down as fast as I was able.
I shouted, but there was no answer. I reached the landing-stage
where the ladder stopped and the rough steps, already mentioned,
began, and at this moment some barrier which had kept the flames
confined below seemed to give way, and a flood of light streamed
up the staircase. I hurried on with the energy of desperation.
When I reached the lumber-room, the door-way leading into the
gallery was wrapped in fire. Through it I could see the old organ
blazing, the planks dropping off one by one, and the metal pipes
melting under the intense heat. The lower staircase was nearly
consumed, and the floor of the room itself had caught in several
places. The dreadful glow reflected upon the rough stone walls
and rugged beams showed me in a moment what I had come to seek.
There, in a remote corner which the fire had not yet reached, was
a female form stretched senseless on the floor. A round hat was
lying beside her, and her rich brown hair fell in graceful waves
over her neck. Her white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen
back, were stretched out before her, and her fingers clasped a
rosary, as if her last conscious act had been a prayer. I seized
her by the waist, and, with a strength at which I even now
wonder, rushed with my burden toward the steps which I had just
descended. She was still living. I could feel the beating of her
heart and the heaving of her breast, and my joy at this discovery
gave me fresh energy. How I got her up the steps I never clearly
knew; but in a short space of time I had reached the top of the
ladder and burst open the single window which looked out from the
bell-chamber. The cool air revived her almost instantly. I held
her up for a moment by the window, and, as she opened her eyes
with a bewildered stare, I tried to say a word to calm her. She
gazed at me an instant and then burst into tears, and her head
fell forward on my shoulder.
"Fear nothing, dear lady," said I, "you are safe now. Collect
your strength as much as you can. I am going to let you down
through this window."
"And yourself!" she asked, staggering to her feet.
"Oh! make yourself easy about me. I shall follow you by the same
way. You have only to keep calm, and there is little real
danger."
The rope by which I had descended from the roof was still hanging
there. I whipped out my knife, and cut it off as high as I could,
there was still enough left to reach within fifteen feet of the
ground. I tied it around her waist, wrapping my coat about it, so
that it might chafe her as little as possible, gave it two turns
around the windlass of the bell to strengthen my hold, and then
shouted to the crowd below to put up their longest ladder under
the window. A cheer told me that I was understood, and, before
the preparations for the descent were quite finished, I saw a
ladder raised against the wall, and two or three stout fellows
standing ready to receive my burden.
{353}
"Now," said I, "you have only to be careful to keep yourself
clear of the stones with your feet; grasp the rope by this knot
to diminish the strain on your waist, and trust me for the rest."
The window was so near the floor that there was little difficulty
in her getting out. I braced my feet firmly against the windlass,
and lowered away carefully, but as fast as I dared, for the
increased roaring of the flames below warned me that I had not a
second to lose. The openings I had made in the roof and window
had, of course, created a strong draught in the tower, and the
fire was now burning in it like a furnace. Her feet touched the
topmost round of the ladder just as I had got within a yard of
the end of the rope. A pair of brawny arms received her, and at
that moment the floor of the lumber room and gallery fell in with
an awful crash; there was a lull for an instant; then a dense
mass of smoke, flame, and cinders burst forth, as if belched from
a volcano, and in less than a minute the _outside_ as well
as the interior of the tower was wrapped in flame. Not soon
enough, however, to touch what I had fought so hard to save. I
thank God I had the presence of mind, when I heard the crash, to
know what was coming; and, that no precious moments might be lost
in unfastening the rope from her waist, I threw the other end out
the window the instant I saw her foothold was secure, and the men
hurried her down the ladder just in time. I heard her utter a cry
of horror as I sacrificed my own means of escape, and, looking
out, I saw her carried senseless away. Terrible as my danger was,
I could not help noticing the awful grandeur of the scene.
Twilight had given way to night, but the red glare illuminated
the surrounding objects, and threw a flickering, unearthly light
upon the upturned faces of the crowd. I saw women running to and
fro, wringing their hands in despair, and men looking up at the
window where I stood, with an expression of mingled fright and
pity. But, if I had had a mile of rope, it would have been of
little use to me now. The burning timbers had fallen outside the
door of the tower, and I could not have let myself down without
falling into the midst of them. I thought of the bell-rope; if I
could get back to the roof with that, I might let myself down at
the side. It would not be long enough to reach near the ground,
but, if I escaped with a broken leg, that would be better anyhow
than being burnt to death. I seized the rope where it was
attached to the bell, and began to pull it up through the hole in
the floor; a few feet of it only came away in my hand; the rest
had been consumed. The smoke by this time was pouring through
every crack, and the heat of the small chamber in which I stood
was so intense that I knew that, too, must soon fall in. The roof
was about twelve feet above me. My last hope was to reach it, and
return by the same frightful bridge by which I had worked my way
over. I shuddered to think of trusting myself again upon that
dizzy crossing, with my hands already torn and bleeding, my brain
reeling, and my eyes half-blinded. I sprang, however, upon the
windlass, and made one desperate leap for the hole in the roof. I
just grasped the rafters, and as I did so the planks upon which I
had been standing gave way, and the bell and its platform sank
into the ruins. I never can forget the horror of that moment
when, as I made my leap, I felt the timbers crack and fall under
my foot into the blazing abyss. For the present, however, I was
safe. I had got a firm hold, and with much exertion, nerved by
the strength of desperation, I succeeded in drawing myself up and
getting upon the roof. The rope-bridge was still there.
{354}
I staggered toward it, and as I showed myself over the
battlements a hearty cheer went up from the crowd, who had given
me up for lost when the belfry fell in. I heard, yet hardly
heeded them. In the act of climbing over the parapet, my eye fell
upon the fragment of the second rope which I had cut away.
Scarcely reflecting upon what I did, yet with a sort of
providential instinct, I loosened it from the wall, tied one end
around my body, and passed the other around the rope which had to
support me across the dreadful chasm, making it fast with a noose
which would slip easily as I pulled myself along. Thus the whole
weight of my body would not have to be borne by my disabled
hands. This precaution, I believe, was all that saved me. I made
the crossing with great pain, dizzy from excitement and
over-exertion, and suffering intensely from the smoke and flames
which the wind was now driving upon me. Ten or twenty yards of
the distance were yet to be passed, when I was dimly conscious of
a sudden swaying of the crowd, a suppressed groan from many
voices at once, then a quick slackening of the rope, a thundering
crash as of falling walls, and a quick rush of air that took away
my breath. Mechanically I tightened my grasp. Without seeing, I
knew what had happened. The tower had fallen in. It has often
been mentioned how in a moment of deadly peril the memories of
years will rush across the mind with the speed of lightning. Now,
in the instant while I was falling through the air, I had time to
notice the excitement of the people, to comprehend what had taken
place, to breathe a short prayer, and to calculate my chances of
being dashed to pieces against either the trunk of the tree or
some of the lower branches. But the same good Lord who had saved
me before was again on my side. The rope swung free of
obstructions; I was jerked once or twice back and forth; I lost
my hold; there was a sharp pain as if some one had struck me a
tremendous blow, and I knew no more.
When I came to my senses again, it was with a feeling of
bewilderment inexpressibly painful. I recognized nothing about
me; I remembered nothing that had happened. I was lying in bed in
a large, cheerful room, so bright and pretty that it was comfort
even to look at it. The sun was struggling through the closed
blinds, two or three logs of wood blazed in the capacious
fire-place, and two luxurious, great, chintz-covered armchairs
stood before the hearth. The walls were hung with a neat flowered
paper, and the mantel-shelf was decorated with curious old china
vases and various knick-knacks. Everything was the perfection of
cleanliness and order, yet nothing looked prim. The coverlid on
the bed was of warm, harmonious tints; the linen was, beautifully
soft and white; there was a table in the middle of the room,
covered with a bright cloth, and bearing a number of books and a
dish of luscious-looking fruit; and on a little stand by the
bedside was a bouquet of rare hot-house flowers. Here was a
pleasant scene to open one's eyes upon; but where was I? I threw
myself back upon the pillow, and gradually the events I have
narrated in the preceding pages shaped themselves in my memory. I
felt very weak, but I was not long in satisfying myself that I
had broken no bones. I looked at my wounded hands. They were
covered with scars, but the wounds were healed. I knew then that
I must have been lying there a pretty long time. I was still
wondering, when the door opened softly, and a tidy-looking
elderly woman, whose dress indicated that she was some sort of an
upper servant, came into the room.
{355}
She uttered an exclamation of pleasure when she caught my eye,
and came up to the bedside.
"Well, sir," said she, "it does my heart good to see you looking
so much better. You've had a hard time of it, that's the truth;
but we'll soon have you up, now."
"You're very kind," I answered; "anybody might get well in this
room; but please tell me where I am."
"O sir! you're at Meadowbrook House. Miss Forsythe had you
fetched here right after the fire." "How long ago was that?"
"About two weeks." "So long! I must have been very sick. You are
very good."
I thought she seemed a little surprised at the fervor of my
gratitude; but I took no notice of it, and was going on to ask
her further questions when she very peremptorily shut me up.
"Now, that will do," said she; "don't say another word. You must
keep quiet for a while; if you talk, I'll go away and not come
near you again."
"Just one thing more. Who brought those flowers?"
"Well, if you must know, Miss Forsythe herself. She brings them
every day. I suppose she'd scold if she knew I told you. But now,
keep quiet till the doctor comes, and, if he is willing, I'll
chat with you as much as you please."
So saying, the good-natured nurse to ensure my silence, left the
room. But, indeed, I felt little desire to talk any more just
then. I had asked about the flowers with a vague hope that they
might have been culled by the hand which I had learned to prize
so dear, and I am ashamed to say that, when the name of the
excellent old lady, whose hospitality I was receiving was
mentioned, I turned my head with a sigh of disappointment. I fell
to worrying about the fair organist; wondering whether she had
suffered any harm from the perilous occurrences of that memorable
night; whether I should ever meet her again, and _how_ we
should meet; how I could approach her without seeming to presume
upon the service I had rendered; and, finally, why Miss Forsythe
should have lavished so much care and kindness on a total
stranger. I was in the midst of such reveries when my nurse
returned and ushered in the doctor.
"Well, Franklin, old fellow! Got your wits again, have you?"
exclaimed a cheery and familiar voice. "That's right; now we'll
soon get you on your legs."
The doctor was no other than my old friend Tom Bowlder. He had
heard of my accident, hurried down to Meadowbrook, taken entire
control of me, established a close friendship with the lady of
the mansion, put himself on the best of terms with the
housekeeper, Mrs. Benson, and installed her as nurse, and, thanks
to his skill and tenderness, I had passed safely through a
dangerous crisis. After putting a few professional questions, he
sat down by the bedside, and indulged me with a little
conversation.
"Well, old boy," said he, "I suppose you want to be told first
about yourself." (I did not; but I let him go on.) "You've had an
ugly time of it--brain fever and that sort of thing, you
know--and it's a wonder you weren't killed outright. But you are
all right now, and you can have the satisfaction of knowing that
you saved one of the prettiest girls that ever breathed, and I do
believe one of the best."
{356}
"She is not hurt, then?"
"Not a bit."
"And you have seen her? Is she still in Meadowbrook?"
"Seen her! Why, of course I have. How could I help it? I see her
every day."
In spite of my previous perplexity how I should conduct myself if
I ever met her again, I was now so eager for the meeting that,
weak as I was, I wanted to get up at once. But to this, of
course, Doctor Tom would not listen.
"Yes; but, Tom, you mustn't keep me here for ever. I want to--to
see"--I stammered and broke down--"to see Miss Forsythe, you
know, and thank her for taking care of me."
"All in good time, Franklin. I don't mean to keep you in bed much
longer; and the moment you are able to leave the room, I promise
you shall see her, and make as many acknowledgments as you want
to. For the rest of the afternoon, however, you must keep quiet.
There, now, you have talked enough for one day. Good-by." And so
saying, Tom left me to myself.
Mrs. Benson soon came back, bringing a tray covered with a
snow-white napkin, a bowl of gruel, and a glass of wine. Tom had
evidently given her instructions; for I could not draw her into
conversation, and, as soon as she had seen me comfortably fixed,
she went away again.
The next morning, Tom paid me an early visit, and doled out a few
more scraps of information. I learned that Miss Forsythe had
caused all my luggage to be brought from the inn, and that, as
long as I could be persuaded to remain in Meadowbrook, I was to
make her house my home. "You need not look surprised," added
Bowlder. "I satisfied her that you were a very respectable
person; and, indeed, I believe the old lady knows some of your
family."
"Well, see here, Tom; when I was out of my head, did I talk
much?"
"Talk! I should think you did! Chattered like a magpie; raved
about round hats and little brown gloves, talked a good deal of
lovers' nonsense, and sometimes hummed a few bars of music--Miss
Forsythe said it was a bit out of one of Mozart's Masses. One day
you grabbed a hold of me, and asked if I knew you had been
listening under the gallery, and 'if she knew about your loving
her.' Miss Forsythe blushed like a rose, and went out of the
room."
"Did she?" said I, blushing now in my turn. "I don't see what
difference that ought to make to her."
Tom opened his eyes at this remark in a very curious way.
"Well," said he, "_I_ thought it might make a good deal of
difference; but I suppose you two know best. Now I must be off.
Old Doctor Jalap, who physics the villagers, has fallen sick
himself, and I have to take care of him and his patients, too. I
mean to let you get up tomorrow, though I would not advise you to
go into the streets till you have got all your old strength, and
some to spare. The people down here have got the preposterous
idea that you're a sort of a hero, and whenever you show
yourself, they'll shake you to death with congratulations."
When Tom had gone, I thought a great deal over his remark about
Miss Forsythe, but I could not comprehend it. The old lady had
certainly been very kind to me; but, even if she did know my
family, it was unreasonable to suppose that she should take a
very warm interest in my love affairs. And what did Tom mean by
saying that "we two knew best?"
{357}
The more I reflected, the more I got puzzled. Possibly, said I,
Miss Forsythe knows this young lady. At any rate, I'll lose no
time in seeing her. I can't lie here, muddling my brains, any
longer. So I got up, found my clothes, dressed, and made my way
down-stairs. Mrs. Benson met me in the hall, and, of course,
began to scold; but she had to admit that I seemed stronger,
after all, than anybody suspected me to be, and, now that the
mischief was done, I might as well see Miss Forsythe. "You'll
find her in the parlor, sir; she's just come in from the garden."
There was no one in the parlor when I entered it, but at the
further end of the room was an open door leading to a
conservatory, and there I caught a glimpse of somebody moving
among the flowers. I went forward, and saw a lady, whose back was
toward me, in the act of plucking a flower to add to a bunch in
her hand. She did not hear me until I spoke:
"Miss Forsythe, I don't know how to thank you properly for--"
I stopped in amazement, for, as she turned, I beheld not the good
old spinster, but that sweet, innocent young face which had so
long haunted me. She started at my voice. A deep blush suffused
her features. She hesitated a moment; she cast down her eyes; and
then, with a frankness which was even more charming than her
maiden modesty, she sprang forward to meet me, and placed both
her little hands in mine.
I have no purpose of repeating all the foolish things we said in
the next half hour. _This_ was the Miss Forsythe who had
watched over my sick-room, and had run away when I raved about
her in my delirium. It never occurred to me, when Tom Bowlder
made his last puzzling remarks, that there could be any other
Miss Forsythe than the mistress of Meadowbrook House. My Miss
Forsythe was the niece of that good lady, and, when I first met
her, had just arrived in Meadowbrook on a visit for the first
time in her life. The aunt came into the room, after a while, and
I then had an opportunity of making my interrupted
acknowledgments in the right quarter, and beginning a friendship
with her which I look upon as one of the blessings of my life.
Tom came back, too, before long, and, though he pretended, at
first, to scold me for breaking out of bounds before I had been
regularly discharged by my physician, he must have seen, by the
sparkle in my eyes and the elasticity which happiness imparted to
my whole frame, that my rashness had been of a vast deal of
service to me.
"Doctor," said the old lady, "I think you and I must let him
alone. Mr. Franklin seems to have changed his physician, and I
dare say Mary, there, will do him more good now than all the
medicines in the world."
"Upon my word, Miss Forsythe, I believe you're right; and, if
Miss Mary will take care not to lead her patient through any more
fiery furnaces, I'll trust the case to her hands."
I have only to add to my story that the essay on the Law of
Contracts was never finished, business of a very engrossing
nature (including a contract of a peculiarly interesting kind)
absorbing all my spare moments during the next few months. By the
liberality of the elder Miss Forsythe the little church was soon
restored, and the asthmatic organ which had played such a
memorable part in my life was replaced by a new and excellent
instrument.
{358}
The flames, fortunately, had spared the sanctuary and all the
rear portion of the building. As soon as the repairs were
finished, there was a merry wedding at Meadowbrook, and Father
James gave us his blessing as we knelt together in the sacred
place where we had so narrowly escaped together from a horrible
death. The little side-altar, which has since been put up in the
church, was built by my wife and me to commemorate our
deliverance. Once or twice a year we make a visit of a week or so
to dear Aunt Forsythe at Meadowbrook. Mary and I never fail at
such times to say a prayer of thanksgiving in the church. Then we
stray together into the organ gallery, and, while the old
familiar strains flow from her touch, I sit by her side, and
thank God in my heart for blessing me with so sweet a wife.
--------
Joy In Grief.
From The French Of Marie Jenna.
"Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."
Friend! in vain thy bosom hides the sharp and cruel sword that wounds it.
I have understood thy silence, and my prayer hath still been for thee.
Cast away the foolish pride that shuts thy heart against my friendship;
Come, and weep before me.
Well I know that there are days of heavy grief and lonely suffering,
When the soul doth find in solitude a grim and bitter pleasure;
And the thoughtless world beholds its shrouded majesty pass by it
Pale, and wrapped in silence.
Then the friendly hand, uncertain, stops and hesitates before it,
Fearing lest too rudely it may draw aside the veil of mourning:
There are griefs so great and sacred that all human thought and language
Dies upon the threshold.
Now, however, days are past; and it is time I came and sought thee.
Oh! permit a friend to share the heavy burden of thy sorrow.
Put thy hand in mine, thy weary head upon my heart, and rest thee:
I have suffered also.
I will not approach thee with those vain and heartless words of fashion,
Words which grief receives and spurns as mocking echoes of its wailing;
No, I have a word to whisper that will bring a holy comfort:
'Tis a heavenly secret.
{359}
If I might, as from an urn, before thy feet pour out my treasures,
Hope and peace would fill thy soul now groping in despairing darkness.
Light would shine upon thy pathway; sweet repose would mark thy slumbers,
Dreams of happy moments.
There are pure and lofty summits where the soul of man reposes.
'Tis the sword which cleaves our hearts asunder opens up the pathway.
Friend of mine, believe me that the loss of all things counts as nothing
If those heights be mastered.
Silly bees, we flit from flower to flower in this world's pleasure-garden;
Drinking in their rich perfumes and tasting of their honeyed sweetness.
Resting there, and living on its passing charms as if its beauty
Were enough for ever.
There we dream away our life, and precious moments pass unheeded;
Placing all our joys in pleasures fleeting as the summer sunshine,
Joys that vanish when the evening casts its shadows o'er the garden
Gone before the moonlight.
'Tis when robbed of human love; when seated desolate and lonely
On the wide and arid desert, with no kindly eye to greet us;
When the howling tempest rages, and the frightful darkness thickens,
Comfort has a meaning.
Then the brow defeat has humbled, and the heart grown sick with sorrow,
Find an arm and hand divine to lean upon and bear its burden:
And the spirit wrung with anguish, crushed by cruel disappointment,
Sings a hymn unspoken.
When before the lost one's footsteps opens an abyss of horror,
Then appears a bridge of safety stretching o'er the gulf's dark passage:
There, where danger threatens most, and death menaces, God is standing
Open-armed to meet him.
When the fitful joys of human passion are consumed within us,
Other joys begin their reign of which the soul as yet knew nothing.
Ah! what matter, when a brilliant star appears in heaven above us,
If the lamp burn dimly?
O thou mystery of suffering, deep abyss for human wonder!
Since that day when on a shameful cross love gained its greatest triumph,
We begin to sound thy awful depths, and catch at least faint glimpses
Of thy hidden meaning!
Come, for there the lesson may be learned which only He, the Master, teaches
From his throne of truth and wisdom. At the feet of Jesus seated,
Words will fall upon our ears that human lips have never spoken
Words of heaven's language.
{360}
Sword of sorrow, minister of peace, I bless thee for thy wounding!
Pleasing is the pain of sacrifice, and sweet the tears of martyrs
Shed for too much joy when from the eyes all earthly sights are fading
In the light of heaven.
Of those melodies divine, those flames of love and joy celestial,
Of those floods of rapture springing from the lonely plains of sorrow,
Ye, poor, thoughtless souls, know nothing, nor have ever dreamed their presence,
Ye who ne'er have suffered.
Man of sorrows! he who never trod the road of desolation,
He who hath not borne a cross and followed thee to crucifixion,
He who hath not passed through death unto the day of resurrection--
He hath never known thee.
Blessed are the mourners! From the mouth of Truth these words have fallen.
Blessed! Yes, it must be true indeed, my God, when thou hast spoken.
Welcome, then, be suffering, welcome! Happy they above all measure
Who in thee find comfort!
--------
Translated from the French of L. Vitet.
The Present Condition Of Christianity In France.
That the men for whom the Christian faith is but an ordinary
belief, a purely human work, and therefore mortal and perishable,
should consider that their object is to be best attained by
separating it from the living portion of our society and keeping
it sequestered, so to speak, within the circle of retrogressive
ideas; that such should be sarcastic at the expense of liberal
Catholicism, and, looking upon its plans as chimerical, should
triumph on learning of its defeats, nothing can be more natural:
in so doing, they but carry out their policy and sustain their
cause. But that true Christians and sincere believers should form
an alliance with them or follow the same rut; that they should
strive to attain the same end by opposing harmony and
reconciliation with the spirit of the age, jesting at
peace-makers, and objecting to their endeavors, not only on the
plea of the impracticability of the schemes, but on the ground
that the attempts made are culpable, impious, and sacrilegious;
this is worse than an error, worse than blindness, and
constitutes for the future of Christian beliefs a grave and
alarming symptom.
There would be little cause for anxiety if a small portion of the
faithful, a few chagrined beings, a few morose old men were the
only obstinate adherents to these views, for time would be the
best remedy in such a case; but do not be deceived, the masses
are inclined to the adoption of similar opinions.
{361}
Conciliatory ideas are as yet only within the reach of a certain
_élite_. The group in whose midst they were born upward of
thirty years since is scarcely more numerous now than then, and
is, perhaps, less favorably thought of and less sustained by the
public. Yet how many reasons are there for its more general
recognition! Is not the party under a better guidance than in
earlier days? Whom can it terrify by its temerity? In politics it
only aspires to the possession of the most harmless liberty; in
religion its tendencies are ultramontane only to the extent
prescribed by faith. What, then, does it lack? Is its cause
obscure, badly defined, ill-defended? Never were its traits given
more brilliant prominence. God has bestowed upon it defenders of
wondrous might. When an idea is fathered by the indefatigable
energy and overwhelming eloquence of the Bishop of Orleans, by
such masters of speech as M. de Montalembert and Father
Lacordaire, by writers such as M. Albert de Broglie and Father
Gratry; when young and valiant champions, such as Charles
Lenormant, Frédéric Ozanam, and Henri Perreyve have died in its
service; if it attract not; if it make not great and speedy
conquests; if it secure not at once the approval of the
competent, and obtain from the people naught but sterile
applause, there can be no misunderstanding, its time is not come,
and men's minds are not prepared for its reception. But does it
follow that opinion has espoused the opposing cause, and that
hostility and warfare against modern laws and ideas are generally
favored? that all other Christians accept unreservedly the
doctrines of certain violently retrogressive journals that do
religion the injury of being regarded as its confidants? No; the
masses, by their own instinct, escape the contagion of
extremists' opinions; but, without breaking off entirely from
modern ideas, the great majority of the faithful hold them to be
dangerous and avoid their contact. Between civil and religious
society there is a marked coldness and restraint; there is a want
of confidence and sympathy; the least that can be said is, that
they live in two separate camps.
This should not be. We cannot calculate upon a new uprising or
upon a complete awakening of Christian belief, unless sincere
concord between the church and society be reestablished. The
present disagreement, if prolonged, would seem to indicate a
decline of Christianity; it might be said that religion was
losing, for the first time, the knowledge of the needs of the
epoch, as well as that power of rejuvenation that for eighteen
centuries has endowed it with such unexampled longevity. That the
prediction that preceded its birth may be realized, that it may
live as long as this earth, upon which nothing lives and endures
without change or modification, must it not submit to the common
law, and, while remaining fundamentally the same, be transformed
and renewed, superficially at least? To sentence it to
immovability lest some change take place in its elements; to
petrify it that its purity may be greater, is to proclaim its
ruin and announce its death. A cessation of life and a life of
lethargy are about the same.
How comes it, then, that, despite so many causes of alarm, in the
depth of our soul we are calm, and our fears are mingled with so
much hope? Do faith without reasoning and pure instinct comfort
us? No; it is Christianity itself, and Christianity of today,
that reassures us by its acts.
{362}
Notwithstanding the disagreement with the age that hinders its
progress, notwithstanding the wounds from which it suffers, the
coldness with which it is treated, the hearts that are closed to
it, whithersoever it penetrates it is still so brimming with life
and light, so lavish of compassion and love, it still causes one
to shed freely such soothing tears, and gives birth to so many
deeds of self-devotion, that it is most evident that its vigor is
unsubdued. The tree about to die does not put forth such boughs
and fruits. The sap flows, the roots spread; an eternal youth
betrays itself by unmistakable signs. Seek not these consoling
symptoms elsewhere but by the domestic fireside, or under the
shadow of the altar, in the retirement of the house of God. Ask
not for an official and public explanation; neither institutions,
nor laws, no monuments, nor outward indices would assert it. In
this respect, the contrast between the days we live in and the
centuries gone by is most striking. Eighty years since, while
Christians, isolated and apart from each other, estranged
themselves more and more from God, whilst the belief in Voltaire
reigned at the bottom of all hearts, society remained outwardly
Christian, religion presided over all the acts of every-day life,
and hallowed them by its presence and its blessings; everything
was done in its name, and its sovereign authority was proclaimed
everywhere. Now, it is only at distant intervals and in certain
ceremonies in which, out of mere force of habit and for purposes
of adornment, it is made to figure, that some shadow of its
former _prestige_ is allowed it; for the remainder of the
time no allusion is made to it, it is set aside as a superfluity
and avoided as a hinderance to action. Judging by this, you would
think, perhaps, that it has fallen into oblivion, that it is
forsaken, lifeless, and unhonored. But it is only dead in
appearance: look more closely, uplift the veil, and you will
behold a wholly different condition of Christianity. While the
outer world escapes its dominion, the world of men's consciences
is being regained. That which institutions refuse to yield to it,
souls commence to accord. How numerous the rebellious or
perplexed spirits that gradually bow to it and bravely summon its
aid! How many tired hearts are indebted to it for rest! Do you
not see whole families, hitherto all but ignorant of the
blessings of faith, almost transformed by a new baptism? It is
most generally to the influence of children that these
metamorphoses are due. The Christian education which through
their medium obtains access to the fireside instills itself into
the minds of their parents. The mother learns the truths that are
explained to her daughters, and becomes attached to them in
understanding them more thoroughly and acting in accordance with
their precepts, the better to inculcate them; even the father
feels the necessity of not interfering with the belief of his
sons by the contradiction of his own example, and, having become
a Christian from a sense of duty, remains a Christian out of
affection.
Thus, without noise or _éclat_, by a latent process whose
results alone are discernible, faith diffuses and propagates
itself. Certain it must be that its ranks are swelling, and that
the rising generations, in furnishing their respective
contingents, more than fill the vacancies caused by death, for
almost all churches in large cities are becoming too small for
the assembled worshippers. Without speaking of the holydays, of
the solemn occasions, the spectacular character of which attracts
perhaps as many idlers as they do believers, and confining
ourselves to the consideration of the gatherings at ordinary
services, can you deny that year after year the attendances are
larger and that the attention paid is more zealous?
{363}
Do you not observe, also, how many men mingle with the women? At
the commencement of this century the appearance of a man in
church was an event. Now it is not even a subject of
astonishment; and certainly we note no mediocre triumph of faith
over human respect when we record the return of men to the asylum
of prayer. Many other novel incidents of similar purport seem no
less extraordinary, such as students in our schools and soldiers
in our camps publicly asserting their faith; practical Christians
having a majority in the councils of large cities and in
faculties of physicians, this latter instance being a most
exceptional occurrence. If there were aught to be gained nowadays
by passing for a Christian, if men were living in the age of the
Restoration and had some chance of bringing themselves into
notice, and being of good service to their family by proclaiming
their piety, we might not take into account either this increase
of apparent fervor, or the crowded houses of worship, or the
numerous communions. Such, however, is not the case; and is it
not now a better policy, if one wish to obtain advancement, to
become a Free-Mason, in preference to committing one's self by
figuring in some conference of a St. Vincent de Paul's Society?
That there are still hypocrites and false devotees, we all are
agreed. Such there always will be; but hypocrisy and feigned
piety are not fashionable vices. In our time, to enter a church
one must really experience a desire to pray. We challenge the
most sceptical, giving them the privilege of broadly criticising
and pruning as they please, not to recognize as genuine the
progress, limited no doubt, but, nevertheless, incontrovertible,
of modern Christianity. Besides, there can be applied a test that
will dispel all doubts on the subject: of the three divine
virtues, the most difficult of imitation is that which depletes
our purse and compels us to be generous. Inquire of the clergy,
the treasurers of the poor, what charity is at present; ask if it
slumber or decay; or rather, if day after day it gain not new
powers of existence in proportion as, in certain classes of
society, Christian sentiments are awakening. Ask of the clergy if
these tokens of _largesse_ are only entrusted to it for
reasons of vanity, and if the most modest are not those who give
most liberally, an evident sign that the source whence the gifts
come is a Christian one. No doubt, men can bestow much in charity
without believing--the former act is easier of performance than
the latter; but true charity is, as it were, inseparable from the
two virtues whose sister it is: he who gives liberally, hopes and
believes.
Be ye, then, reassured, for Christian faith still endures. It
lives, labors, and wins over souls; it has not forgotten its old
secrets, and can once again become youthful and associate itself
with the destinies of the world. All that is needed is to give it
time. If there be hesitation on its part to accept modern ideas,
it is not owing to lack or indolence of spirit. The fault is
first to be ascribed to the age itself, whose explanations are so
obscure and whose aspirations are so unintelligibly expressed.
"The principles of 1789" are most elastic words. What sense can
be given them? How can they be applied? Does the century intend
to belong to liberty and its severe duties, to the caprices of
demagogues, or would it be fired by the military spirit? The
second day of December, that period of inaction in our
apprenticeship to free institutions, complicated events and added
to the perplexity and uncertainty of religious minds.
{364}
What were the intentions of the new empire? Was it to follow the
example set by its predecessor, and was the world to behold for
the second time the papacy closely guarded by _gens
d'armes_? Was it not rather the traditions of Charlemagne it
proposed to conform with, and was it not to prove a veritable
Eldorado for Christian beliefs? This latter intention had been so
definitely announced, that most men were deceived by the promise.
But the horizon is now becoming clearer; there is neither hope
nor gratitude to burden the faithful and render them incredulous
as to the blessings of liberty. Awhile longer and there will be
light. If, as we must believe, the true destiny of the age, made
apparent to all, be conciliated with the great principles
constituting Christianity; if it mark new progress in the advance
of humanity, fear not. Christianity will not rebel, but will
promote the movement. If it still live, and otherwise but
nominally--and we have had proof that life was not wanting--it
will not lack intelligence.
Know you the true cause of alarm, the true peril? It is that
Christianity does not progress alone. It certainly marches on and
labors; its advance is apparent; and more apparent, perhaps, are
the conquests, the ardor, and the faith of those who struggle. By
a strange contradiction, visible in the case of the two opposing
forces, when one should gain what the other loses, the strength
of neither is affected. On both sides the numbers increase and
the armies proceed onward. Which shall win the victory? whose
gains are the most genuine? Despite this seeming equality, we do
not entertain the slightest doubt but that the Christians, if
they will, are the masters of the future. But how are they to
secure their triumph? Concerning that we must speak candidly.
Ere we come to this, however, let us, with M. Guizot, enter the
anti-christian camp, estimate the forces of the enemy, and
examine the formidable host we are called upon to defeat.
The distinctive trait nowadays of the war waged against
Christianity is the number and the diversity of the opposing
doctrines. Formerly its adversaries confined themselves to
seeking to destroy it: now they are more ambitious; they attempt
to provide for it a substitute. Hence the multitude of systems,
each of which, in more or less vague or contradictory terms, is
intended to elucidate the great natural problems that humanity,
since its birth, has evolved, and that Christianity has explained
with such simplicity, completeness, and clearness. These systems
do not claim to be religious; they merely flatter themselves that
they will become satisfactory guides for man; that they will read
to him the enigma of this world, and supply all the wants of his
heart and mind. As they exact neither sanction, practice, nor
responsibility, as they are indulgent in the matter of human
weaknesses, their popularity can be easily understood. They have
believers, adepts, and, we may say, devotees of their own. One of
the characteristics of modern incredulity is that it denies and
affirms simultaneously. Nothing is rarer in these times than a
true unbeliever, placing credence in literally nothing, combating
the faith of others, and wholly devoid of faith himself. The
unbelievers of the age all believe something: besides the
antipathy they have sworn to entertain for Christianity--an
antipathy constituting a common faith--each has a belief of his
own; some acknowledge pantheism, others rationalism, positivism,
materialism, or the countless ramifications of these principal
doctrines, each of which has its faithful adherents.
{365}
We do not mean to advance that all antichristians have espoused
the doctrines of philosophy, that each has a sect, a banner, or a
_cred_o of his own. We shall even be convinced very shortly
that the most dangerous opponents are those who do not dabble in
philosophy, and who stand up against the progress of holy truths
by indifference and indolence; but the simultaneous birth of all
these antichristian systems is nevertheless a strange fact, and
one deserving of attention. Taken apart, they can pass by
unheeded their fundamental principles are neither novel nor
consistent! When seen together, however, theirs is a battle array
of a rather imposing magnitude. We understand, therefore, all the
more readily, that M. Guizot, wishing to estimate the strength of
the antichristian forces, should have taken these systems one by
one, and submitted each to a careful examination. We would,
however, misconstrue, we apprehend, his most obvious intention,
if we were to look upon his sketches as regular refutations and
_ex professo_ treatises. He has only proposed to give the
measurement of their different systems by comparison with the
measuring-rod of common sense. To enter into more thorough
discussions would have been unnecessary; better work was left
undone, and M. Guizot's preface has clearly expressed his views
on that point. It matters little, after all, how these systems
are criticised; the result is the same, whether one examine them
superficially, master their secrets, or fathom their scientific
mysteries. There can be little difference of opinion in regard to
their value. It is to their advantage if they be only glanced at.
The more searching the investigation, the more conclusive the
proof as to the frailty of their formations and deficiencies,
pettiness, impotence, and vanity. We repeat what we said, that we
have little to dread on this score. A few minds may be won over,
but the contagion, in this country, cannot spread. The darkness
of pantheism, the dreams of idealism, the dryness of positivism,
or the coarseness of materialism will never seduce the mass of
French minds. The alarm is greater than the real danger; yet,
when gathered together, these systems, however discordant among
themselves, however much opposed to each other, constitute, from
the very fact that all are equally hostile to Christianity, a
power which must be taken into account. They form a
_fasces_; theirs is a coalition, a league that belongs only
to our age.
Is it to be supposed that we assert that Christianity has ever
lacked enemies, and enemies acting in concert in their attacks?
Without looking far back into its history, was not the
concentration of all the wits of the age clustered under the
leadership of Voltaire for the purpose of freeing the world from
religious superstition, an anti-christian league, if ever there
was one? Perhaps even the movement of the eighteenth century
seemed, at first, more violently antichristian than that
undertaken in our days. Its determination was more evident; it
proceeded direct to the objective point. Its weapons were light,
but they were ever in use, and there was no truce to the warfare.
It was a sharp fire of irony, a shower of sarcasm; nothing could
withstand it, no one could retort; the dread of ridicule silenced
the boldest; the panic was followed by a general rout, and terror
was engendered by laughter. And what sad results! what a
disaster!
{366}
The altars were overthrown, religion was annihilated, the clergy
scattered, hunted down, or put to death, a whole nation left
without temples, without pastors, without any perceptible
connecting link with heaven! Was not this enough? What more was
desired?
There can certainly be extant no wish to do better; but it is
intended that the work shall endure, that the invalid shall be
finally disposed of, and that any chance of cure or resurrection
shall be done away with. Even as after 1848 the fiery demagogues,
who had thought an excellent opportunity had arrived to demolish
society, found consolation for their failure by proclaiming aloud
that, should a similar series of events ever occur, they would
know better how to act, and would not again be unsuccessful in
the accomplishment of their purpose, so the destroyers of
religion take great care not to imitate the example of their
fathers, whose work, they say, was only half done. Mockery and
irony are worn-out weapons that wound but do not kill; they are
useful in commencing a war, but other and more destructive
engines are needed to end it. Besides, within the past sixty
years the character and habits of the public have undergone a
decided change. The community has become, by lessons taught it at
its own expense, of a more reflective and sober turn of mind; it
is less easy to provoke its laughter, and it does not always
consider a jest an argument. Moreover, deriding all things
excites its suspicion, and, in lieu of being won over, it often
comes near being shocked. Its new mood must be complied with, the
public's foibles must be consulted, and its present foible is,
that it shall be treated as a man, and not as a child.
Science is the great agency! Science is the only guide, the only
authority whose aid modern minds willingly accept. This can be
readily comprehended; each day science works so many miracles,
lavishes upon humanity such genuine gifts, opens to mankind so
vast a future, and confirms in so incontestable a manner its
right of sovereignty over this world, that men, in return, must
bow to its decrees, and do it all honor without blushing at the
homage rendered it. But, in the hands of those who would keep
mankind separate from any other belief, who would prevent the
recognition of any higher authority and of the invisible might of
the Creator, how terrible a weapon is a faith in science!
Therefore it is that nowadays to rank honorably with the
adversaries of Christian belief, to play an important part, to
act upon the minds and disturb consciences, it is not sufficient
merely to possess some talent and a graceful and caustic style.
It is necessary to be erudite, or, at least, to be held as such,
the latter alternative being less difficult to achieve, less
rare, and for that very reason, much more dangerous. For, if
Christianity had to deal with truly learned and truly great men
only, she and science would never be in absolute opposition to
each other. The so-called contradictions, the irreconcilable
facts 'disappear, when the disputants attain a certain height, as
soon as words being no longer taken in their literal sense, their
spirit is understood, and when analysis is brought to bear upon
the starting-point of the misunderstanding. Science, when applied
to such ends, is not only inoffensive to Christianity and the
Scriptures, but comes to their aid and proffers testimony in
their favor, sometimes giving to certain facts of fabulous
appearance an almost historical character.
{367}
Thus it came that Cuvier confirmed by a most rigorous process of
inductive reasoning based upon irrefutable facts, some Biblical
narratives which believers only had, until then, accepted out of
motives of pure obedience, and which indifferent persons viewed
with suspicion, and the great doctors of the eighteenth century
laughed to scorn. Evil fortune, however, wills it, that for every
one of these conciliatory, because clairvoyant minds, for a
Cuvier, a Kepler, a Leibnitz, and a Newton, there are thousands
of men who see the outward semblance only, who stumble over
inconsistencies, and who, often without ill-will, make use of
their small share of knowledge in accomplishing the ruin of the
holy truths. Indeed, they enjoy the credit of the masses as much
as, and perhaps more than, the real masters; the public is
continually brought into contact with them; they are numerous,
ubiquitous, and have associates in all professions; the race of
half-learned men is the foundation of humanity, without taking
into account the more skilful persons who, seeking to win success
at any cost, and even at the risk of scandal, borrow from science
the varnish required to give popularity to their productions.
These stratagems constitute a new fashion of checkmating
Christianity, a method rejuvenating the traditions of Voltaire.
Those whose intentions are worthiest are deceived by it; the lure
thrown out is that which they need, a sensible lure; their reason
alone is appealed to, and they fancy that they are surrendering
to proven evidence. What would you have them do? They are not
entertained with mere stories and epigrams, they are not made the
objects of jests or hoaxes; the facts submitted to them are
palpable. So much the worse for Christian beliefs if these facts
annihilate them! Can the laws of science be denounced as
forgeries? Is not science truth?
Such are modern tactics; neither mockery nor impatience, and
great apparent impartiality; it is no longer a skirmish, a sudden
attack, but a siege in accordance with all the rules of war; the
citadel is surrounded, the enemy advances, with the authority and
under the protection of science. This is not all. The experience
of the past century has suggested other precautionary measures,
other strategic movements. It is now recognized that our poor
human nature has not made sufficient progress, not even in
France, to feel happy and proud because of a belief in absolutely
nothing. This is a weakness for which time will work a cure, but
one which must be taken into due consideration. For instance, can
it be brought about that most women's hearts will not yield to
the necessity of praying and believing? Does not man himself,
when bowed down by great affliction, feel that a woman's heart is
being born and awakening within him? When death separates him
from those he loves, when he survives and suffers, can it be that
he will not seek, with eyes upturned to heaven, a little strength
in hope? These inclinations and instincts may seem strange and
absurd, if you will; but they are indestructible, and to think of
doing away with them is a sheer loss of time. This is known in
our age, and the skilful profit by their knowledge. To make havoc
for a second time, to tear down the altars, and persecute the
priests, would be to enact the parts and do the work of dupes!
Such a course would prepare an inevitable reaction, and a certain
resurrection of all it was proposed to destroy. There are none
but a few madmen, a few lost children who would resort to such
superannuated measures.
{368}
Instead of attacking openly the need for belief, better to
conquer it by flattery and the tender of fascinating compromises.
Why these onslaughts on Christianity? Why overtly batter its
walls? To please the libertines? Is it not quite certain that
they will side with the antichristians? It is urgent to please
the simple-hearted Christians only.
Instead of exhibiting the slightest after-thought of opposition
to Christianity, better to dwell upon its beauties, to draw an
admirable portrait of its Founder, to recognize him as the model
of all the virtues, as the type of all perfection, to speak of
him in impassioned and eloquent tones, and in exchange for these
gentle concessions to ask--what? A trifling sacrifice, a modest
_erratum_ to the text of the Evangels, a simple change of
the value of a word, or rather the politic and reasonable
yielding up of a valueless title, a worn-out parchment, a purely
nominal letter of nobility, the so-called divinity of that
admirable man? Why cling to that fiction? Renounce it, and we
shall all be agreed. Reason will have nothing more to say on the
subject. With yourselves we will do homage to that wonderful
mortal, and, if you will, call him divine without attaching too
much importance to the condescension. We will overlook the
epithet if you concede us the dogma.
Thus, with skill and a certain commingling of philosophic
scepticism, mystic reveries, and a feigned zeal for Christian
ideas, men hope nowadays to undermine Christianity. The plan of
action is by no means novel. In that very year during which
Constantine, by his omnipotence, seemed to have ensured the peace
and security of the church, in that very year one single man,
with a few words, threw the church into far greater perils than
were indicated by the lictors and executioners of its fiercest
persecutors. He, too, pretended he only waged war against Jesus
Christ out of love for his doctrine, and despoiled him of his
divinity to guarantee his triumph, propagate his blessings, and,
while rendering faith less difficult to acquire, to satisfy
reason. The compromise was the same as that which is now put
forward. And such is the power of these enervating doctrines
that, even in the days when faith was still young and full of
life, the world fell a victim to the deception. Scarcely half a
century had gone by since the death of Arius and the contagion
had extended throughout the Orient, spread over a part of the
west, and reached, beyond the limits of the Roman empire of old,
all the recently converted barbarian nations. Look back to that
hour of crisis when the destiny of the world was at stake; seek
to guess what was to happen. After a consultation of human laws,
after a calculation of probabilities, did not Christianity appear
doomed? Its adversary had won for himself Constantine's favor,
the ardent adhesion of the emperor's son, the support of all the
forces of the empire, all the powers that still governed the
world. To preserve faith, to save from shipwreck the divinity of
Jesus Christ, a miracle, a new revelation, another preaching of
St. Paul were needed. The miracle was performed; what a man had
done a man undid; Athanasius conquered Arius. But Christianity
had, nevertheless, seemed about to perish, and modern Arianism
can well flatter itself that it will now have better fortune, and
that an Athanasius, a Basil, a Gregory, or a Jerome will not ever
be at hand to crush its arguments and conquer the world for the
benefit of truth. Its threats, its sinister predictions are not,
then, mere boasts; the danger is genuine; modern heresy has
auxiliary aids that double its might.
{369}
It no longer stands in the arena, face to face with orthodoxy,
and uses purely theological weapons; the struggle is general;
everybody participates in it; all weapons are effective. A
formidable coalition attacks faith most persistently; the natural
sciences when half understood, the metaphysical sciences
conducted with pride, historic criticism skilfully romanticized,
are forces that unite for the benefit of the new Arianism. Can it
not be readily seen that the league is far more powerful and
inflicts more serious wounds than the ironical frivolities
brought into play in the last century? The progress made is not
only evidenced in the tactics and armament; the ground of the
struggle itself has changed, to the enemy's advantage. From a
Christian stand-point, it may be said that Christianity is now
dismantled. Of all the places of shelter, of all the positions
which belonged to Christianity a hundred years ago, in the state,
in the institutions and customs, of all the means of credit,
influence, and legitimate resistance won for it by a right of
ages, and of which its adversaries, while deriding its belief,
had no thought of robbing it, nothing remains. The levelling
power of the times has passed over them. The attack must now be
withstood in an open field. If under such circumstances and in
presence of such perils Christians opened not their eyes, if an
instinct of self-preservation did not induce them to come to an
understanding upon the essential points of their faith, if they
sought to oppose so many joint efforts while divided and
disagreeing, we say, without hyperbole, that we would have to bow
our heads and consider this world at an end, and civilization,
despite its apparent triumphs and proud hopes, stricken to the
heart and menaced with a prompt decline. But have we reached that
point? No, a hundred times no, if our will be against it, and if
we understand the magnitude of the danger, its real novelty, and
the novelty and youth needed to conquer it.
And at the outset let there be no misunderstanding between
Christians. Do not believe that Catholicism is alone involved,
and the sole excitant of anger and object of the warfare. It is
Christianity itself, Christian faith in its entirety, and in
every shape, that it is intended to annihilate. Any Protestant
sect that accepts the Evangels, without reserve or restrictions,
is at least as open to suspicion as pure Catholicism. Tolerance
and amnesty are withheld, save from that Christianity which
believes not in Jesus Christ, and in which certain pastors, from
evangelical pulpits, now profess a belief. Enlightened and
sincere Protestants entertain no longer any doubts on that point.
They have progressed since the sixteenth century: without being
less zealous or less ardent in their belief, they no longer
proclaim that Antichrist and the Catholic Church are one and the
same thing. In our age the Antichrist is the common foe; if you
would resist its onslaughts, close up the ranks; this is no time
for discord among brethren. The Protestants who are friendly to
the Evangels, however numerous they may be in certain states of
Europe, know what they lack as regards cohesion and unity; they
feel that that powerful church so persistently attacked nowadays,
will ever be the true rampart. While all the blows dealt fall
upon her, they breathe freely, for she protects them; if her
walls were overthrown, they would be left defenceless.
{370}
Hence arises among the more farseeing that solicitude which is
felt for all Christian interests without distinction, and that
defensive alliance which seems to be suggested in the minds of
those whose convictions as to the essence of things are
identical. Unfortunately, this wholly modern blessing, one of the
few conquests which, in the moral order of affairs, might do
honor to our age, is not yet very widely disseminated. Even in
the opinion of the persons who are horror-stricken at the
antichristian coalition, the idea of helping each other, of
forming an alliance, of postponing intestine strife and lending a
helping hand to each other, wakes but little headway. Habit,
prejudices, and a sectarian spirit are so powerful! If some men
cast off their yoke, if a chosen few who see events from a higher
stand-point take delight in putting into practice these tolerant
ideas, do the masses follow an their footsteps? and do the chosen
few themselves always set generous examples only? If it were only
among Catholics that the tendency to exclusion, the aversion to
schism carried to a forgetfulness of the actual interests of
faith, were observable, many persons would confess that they were
less surprised than grieved; for excuse can ever be found for the
Catholic, in whose defence it can be argued that, if he went too
far in that direction, it was because he may have believed that,
by holding aloof and avoiding the contact of error, he exhibited
his obedience and rendered himself more acceptable unto God! But
for the Protestant, what apology can be offered? He who asserts
so boldly his right to believe what he thinks cannot take offence
because his neighbor does likewise. The same intolerance that, in
the one case saddens us without causing astonishment, shocks us
in the other. Can you understand how it is that an educated, an
erudite Protestant, good-hearted, endowed with sound sense,
glorying in generous principles, and carrying to very energy his
love and respect for right, as soon as it is suggested that he
concede to Catholics that which he believes to be just and true
for all humanity, the privilege to worship with the liberty and
the surroundings their mode of worship requires, cries out in
dismay, appeals to brute force, admits unhesitatingly that it
decides all similar questions, and sanctions and renders
legitimate in advance all sentences which maybe passed? Though
his views are sensible on all other points, on this subject they
are devoid of reason, and the man speaks of the Catholic Church
in the nineteenth century as an inquisitor of the sixteenth would
have spoken of heresy! What a strange spectacle, and how
humiliating a lesson! Does there exist a more overwhelming proof
of the poverty of our intellect?
Yet the part to be taken by a modern Protestant, who would serve
Christianity and combat its true enemies, is a glorious one! All
things unite to give him influence; everything is in readiness to
bestow upon his words an increase, as it were, of authority. He
would ignore and forget all petty passions and jealousy. He would
seek to bring about the triumph of the divine word, to
demonstrate its eternal truth, its transmission through
centuries. Why attempt to wrest from the Catholic Church the
rights to which she lays claim? Why beset her with invidious
questions and excite captious quarrels? Instead of giving
vitality to these endless suits, would it not be better to seek
to ascertain on what points an agreement subsists, what dogmas
have escaped all controversy and survived all strife? He would
become attached to these same dogmas; in his eyes they would be
the heart, the basis of a Christianity of peace and concord,
which no true Christian can avoid defending, since necessarily he
must profess allegiance to its doctrines.
{371}
Because there was alarm for the existence of the Reformation
three centuries ago, because the Reformation was the spur which,
to save faith, was to rouse the church from slumber, does it
follow that now, the times having changed, actions should be the
same? Must it be that, to preserve in the present that same
Christian faith, a Christian, because he chances to be a
Protestant, must espouse his fathers' hates, fight only against
the men and ideas with which they strove, and remain idle when
beholding the outbreak of the conflagration which threatens
Christianity, for the sole reason that Catholicism appears to be
especially imperilled by the flames? Let him repudiate that
absurd inheritance, let him break with such routine views. Not
only must he abstain from attacking, even indirectly, the
Catholic Church, and feel no bitterness toward her, for the
simple reason that he undertakes a campaign in cooperation with
her, and because we must not fire upon one's allies; he owes her
still more, more than respect, more than mere courtesies; he must
do her full justice. His duty be it to give prominence with
frankness and loyalty to the great features, the beauties, the
splendor of the traditions from which he stands apart. Strictures
and reservations will be mingled with his praises; better still,
for his testimony will be all the more valuable. Whether he
recall the services rendered or refute vigorously all calumny, by
telling the unalloyed truth, even if it be attenuated, he will do
more for Catholicism than a professional panegyrist.
This is not all: to keep the false philosopher spirit at bay, no
position could be better than that which he holds. He has not to
struggle against the antipathy engendered by a supposed obedience
to the principle of authority; and when he confesses unreservedly
his belief in supernatural facts, his words are fraught with far
more importance than if he who uttered them were not trammelled
in the matter of free investigation. How different, too, the case
when to this superiority are added personal advantages, when the
Protestant is a man of powerful mind, accustomed to deal with the
most weighty matters, and retaining, in the autumn of life,
besides the treasures garnered by experience and learning, the
fecund ardor of youth. This explains the characteristic trait of
M. Guizot's _Meditations_; it is not a religious work like
so many others. The best priests, the most eloquent preachers,
the profoundest theologians are afflicted with a disability for
which there is no remedy; they are professional defenders of
religion; the truths they affirm seem to constitute their
patrimony, and, while pleading the holiest of suits, they seem to
argue in their own behalf; while a historian, a philosopher, a
statesman, and, above all, a free and independent mind, who,
after ripe examination and prolonged reflection, and not without
a struggle and an effort, has become a Christian, and who proves
in broad daylight that neither his intellect nor his reasoning
powers have suffered in the least, and that the thinker and
Christian live within him in perfect concord, by his testimony
gives courage to many men, dispels many doubts, and inspires the
faltering with firmness; his example is the best of sermons and
the most reliable mode of propagating faith.
{372}
Be assured, nevertheless, that remarks of disapproval will be
heard amid the kindly greetings. There will be opposition
manifested from the very first, and principally by the reformed
worshippers. The broad views and extreme tolerance of the author
will not be acceptable to all. The writer will be told, You
forsake us; you are a Catholic in spirit and intention, why not
be wholly a Catholic? A poor quarrel, indeed, a singular fashion
of returning thanks for the most faithful devotedness and the
most signal services! In the matter of ingratitude, the sectarian
spirit stands in the foremost rank. There is, therefore, no cause
for surprise that the Protestants of Paris, when occasionally
gathered about the ballot-box, should not always care to express
to M. Guizot, by a unanimous vote, their just and respectful
pride at numbering him among their forces. But then, let us not
forget that, if in the opinion of a few Protestants these
_Meditations_ are a trifle too Catholic, certain Catholics
would have them still less Protestant. We do not assert that the
Catholics, even the most exclusive, are not at heart filled with
esteem and gratitude for a work of such evident usefulness to the
cause of Christianity; the esteem and gratitude exhibited are,
however, wrested from them. They praise aloud the intentions and
courage of the author; as for the work itself, they do not
restrict themselves to prudently leaving in obscurity the points
in discussion, but involuntarily allow inopportune objections to
arise. We venture to state that in doing this they do not
appreciate the circumstances surrounding us, and the greatness of
the need of alliance and concord forced upon Christianity by the
formidable war waged against it. That in ordinary times, when the
only struggle in progress concerns the form and not the
foundation of things, believers should resolve only to accept and
extol the productions resonant with the pure and faithful echo of
their faith, nothing can be better; in such times each citizen of
the Christian republic may be permitted to be watchful of the
interests of his province rather than of those of his country;
but, when an invasion is imminent, other emergencies are to be
looked to: the common safety is the first law. Then is the time
to welcome recruits, whoever they are, provided their
reinforcement will be productive of good results. Do not deceive
yourselves; the Christian community, even if united and agreed on
all points, will only just be equal to the task: for its members
must not only repel the assailants a merely defensive attitude
would be equivalent to a partial defeat but must advance and
invade, and subjugate souls. The world is to be reconquered, and
a more giddy, frivolous, and somniferous world, perhaps, than the
world of nineteen centuries ago. Again, we say that we have not
to be alarmed at the antichristian war. Its horde of systems, its
dreams and chimeras, its wily contrivances and philosophic
disorder do not frighten us. The spectacle is a sad one, but it
is not a state of slumber. Upon feverish activity you can bring
to bear a healthful action; your very adversaries favor your
cause and deaden the weight of the blows they would deal you.
What timidity underlies their audacity! How they retreat before
the most direct and inevitable consequences of their doctrines!
How they complain of misrepresentation when shown a mirror
reflecting the deformity of their doctrines! Let them continue to
speak and write, they but call forth overwhelming replies; let
them alter history and the Scriptures, for they but alter their
own authority and credentials: they fall into the pit themselves
have digged.
{373}
All things that agitate and startle men's minds, and awaken even
in irritating them, aid the triumph of truth; indifference,
torpor, the numbness of souls only are profitable to error, and
constitute the true malady of the age. Let us not seek to conceal
it, its ravages are too plainly discernible. While impiety,
properly speaking, despite its apparent progress and the brazen
boasts of its cynicism, makes but few proselytes in our midst,
indifference increases, extends, and becomes acclimatized. It is
a contagion; whosoever is affected leads a mere earthly life, and
is engrossed by nothing save mundane cares, business, and
pleasure; the great problems of our destiny, the wondrous
mysteries constituting our torment and our honor, exist not for
him; he only recognizes and cultivates his coarse and frivolous
instincts; the divine portion of his being is in a state of utter
lethargy. Here and there, among the indifferent, you meet a few
agitated hearts and perplexed spirits. Perplexity is to
indifference as twilight to darkness, an uncertain light that
struggles with the gloom, sometimes conquering and sometimes
conquered. Nothing can be less decisive than a victory won over
such a spirit. The escape of perplexed minds is effected as
quickly as was accomplished their capture. Never mind; would to
God that even such a condition of souls were the greater evil! It
is toward indifference, that is to say, toward nothingness and
death, that all things incline our footsteps.
Inquiry was made, a short time since, as to the present condition
of Christianity in France. Number those who occupy the two
hostile camps in which a remnant of life still asserts itself, in
one camp for the purpose of attacking, in the other for the
purpose of defending, Christian faith; then, beyond the limits of
the two, behold, what remains? There, are gathered crowds
unnumbered, inert, inanimate, forming, as it were, a great
desert, a Dead Sea uninhabited by any living thing. There lies
the world to be reconquered; such are the men who are to be
reclaimed. How act upon them? how move their hearts? how gain
mastery over them? In these questions lies the secret of the
future.
Seek, then, and try to ascertain the most reliable means of
acting upon these thoughtless mortals. Is the work to be
accomplished by practices of high piety and by productions
intended for the edification of skilled believers? Think you that
at once you will change them into thoroughly faithful Christians?
that you will instantly inspire them with a holy fervor? Only to
speak the language of pure devoutness, to keep in unison with the
utterances of the vestry-room, is to waste time. Climb the
heights, display the brilliancy of those universal truths in
whose presence every being gifted with reason and accessible to
reflection feels compelled to bend the knee. It is by exhibiting
in all their grandeur, in all their primitive beauty, the bases
of our faith, that souls can be attracted to seek them for
shelter. The work to which we allude excels in this respect. M.
Guizot's _Meditations_ throw light upon the mysterious
summits which, in the eyes of the torpid, appear overhung by
thick and impenetrable fogs. They give these men a desire to
examine them more closely. In a word, though the work may not
satisfy simultaneously, in each communion, all who are possessed
of a definite belief, it is endowed with a more precious virtue
upon the excellence of which we can dwell the more
conscientiously, as having viewed its effects: it moves the
indifferent.
{374}
More than this, however, must be done. However powerful in style
and thought a book may be, it can only, in the present crisis,
clear the road. To make greater headway, to effect a more
decisive advance, to act upon the masses and rouse them from
their slumber, other agencies than books are necessary, and
deeds, examples, striking evidence, and incontestable proofs of
abnegation, devotedness, charity, and sacrifices are required.
These are the sermons that awaken souls; these the weapons that
triumph over the world, however careless, frivolous, and hardened
it may be. In days by-gone, they conquered the men who wore the
Roman toga and the rough habits of the barbarians; in this
century, they are still the only means of conquest.--What do we
ask? What are we thinking of? Preaching by deeds! The apostleship
of the early ages! Real apostles, heroic confessors, if needed,
martyrs! In our times! Is it possible?--Why not? What
contradiction and surprise but can be looked for nowadays? Is it
not the destiny of the age to carry everything to extremes, to be
zealous for evil and even for good, to be swayed in turn or
simultaneously by all currents, and to subscribe to the most
irreconcilable principles? Just because the world appears to have
fallen almost to the lowest degree of depression, just because it
sinks more deeply from day to day, there is a chance that a
sublime and immediate reaction may occur. Was imperial Rome less
corrupt, less effeminate, less docile while the avengers and
restorers of human dignity, the future masters of the world, were
at work beneath her foundations? Be reassured, even in these days
of doubt and egotism, a true and great resurrection of
Christianity in France is not a Utopian vision. Not only is such
a miracle possible, but we may declare it necessary.
Either we must suppose that we are nearing the last phase of the
development of humanity; that the now commencing decadence will
be the last; that, unlike so many declines that have preceded it,
this latest decline will have no place of stoppage, no new birth;
that an unbroken slope is leading irresistibly to the ruin and
debasement of our race, or we must without delay find means of
restituting to the masses religious faith. What has democracy
gained by triumphing and being about to become the sovereign
mistress of the whole world, if it cannot maintain and hold sway
over its conquest simply because it cannot rule and govern
itself? Democracy, without the brake of religion, without other
protection than that afforded by independent morality, is a
swollen torrent, anarchy, despotism, and a return to barbarism.
But when the brake is old and shattered, how replace it? No one
can create a religious faith, it were folly to attempt it. Such
chimerically created things could never be aught but impotent
parodies. But why seek so far that which is near at hand? The new
faith whose advent is awaited, and hoped, and called for with
such eagerness is here; we possess it; it is Christianity itself,
ever novel if we but know how to comprehend its eternal light,
and if we know ourselves how to be novel. It is not the object of
the belief that is to be remodelled, but the routine of
believers. Christianity, in itself, is as youthful as at its
birth; that which is superannuated is that which does not belong
to it, that earthly rust with which it has been incrusted by its
interpreters, its ministers, and its servants in all ages. Of
this it must be rid; its original appearance and power must be
restored. By what process? By using for its reestablishment the
means which were formerly employed with success to lay its
foundation.
{375}
The determination is a violent one, yet there must be no half
measures; an attempt in any other direction would be illusory and
vain. To proceed halfway, to spare abuses, flatter habit, and
improve the surface of things only, would be to make Christianity
one of those edifices which are kept standing by props and by
cementing the cracks in the walls: it would be as well to let it
totter and fall to the ground at once. To give it back true
power, true stability, that it may defy the shocks of a long
series of years, there is but one course to adopt: to begin the
work anew.
Let the church, then, be courageous; let her begin again, even as
she commenced, and with the same modesty and holiness; let her be
chaste, austere, laborious, learned, intelligent, and free;
without taste for honors, without care for wealth; lavish of her
pains, her blood, and her tears; as independent toward the mighty
as she is indulgent and tender for the weak. Let her advance,
thus armed, step by step, approaching souls, and souls only, and
the world will again be hers. There is no miscalculation to be
feared, the same causes will have identical effects; but hasten,
lose not an hour, the moment is a solemn one. Let the cry, "The
church is beginning anew," be not a vain word, and let not its
results be tardy. Think not of honoring God by raising to the
heavens proud cupolas, and making for him a dwelling in palaces
glittering with gold and marble; it is around the manger, in the
grotto of Bethlehem, that the pastors should be convoked. Let all
true Christians, all sons of the church, know and proclaim it: on
them everything depends, through them all things are possible,
upon them all things rest; in their hands lies not only the fate
of their beloved and venerated belief, but the future of the
civilized world.
--------
Ritualism And Its True Meaning.
We have had the pleasure of reading an article on the subject of
ritualism by the Rev. Dr. Dix, rector of Trinity church in this
city. This article, which appeared in the July number of the
_Galaxy_, suggested to our minds some very interesting and
practical reflections. It is understood that the respected doctor
who holds so important a position in his own church is one of the
principal supporters of the movement in regard to which he
writes. Although he does not yet introduce into Trinity church
and its chapels the external observances of the ritualists which
he commends, still it is his desire to do so at the first
practicable moment. The weight of his character and influence is
given to the restoration of those rites and ceremonies which were
dropped at the Protestant Reformation through the undue force of
Calvinism and what he calls religious radicalism. Whether he will
succeed is a question which the ministers and influential laymen
of his own church can better answer than we can. In examining his
article carefully, we think there is a slight want of candor on
one or two points, and some misunderstanding upon others.
{376}
For example, he disclaims the popular use of the word
"ritualism," and says, "It has lost its respectability, and has
become a slang expression. The unlucky word is bandied about till
it must have lost all perception of its own identity. Hence, we
respectfully decline the attempt to say what the word 'ritualism'
means, as now lost and merged in the category of cant and slang."
Now, as far as we are able to judge, we really believe that the
majority of people call things by their right names, and that the
public can have no end to gain by any other course. It may be
that the Episcopalians are not forbearing enough toward those of
their brethren who would innovate upon their established forms of
worship; but they cannot be found fault with if they are
surprised and offended at changes which are so radical. If they
use harsh language in the controversy, they are not to be
excused, for no good ever arises from acrimony, or the
forgetfulness of the decencies of life. Yet can any honest man
say that he does not know what they mean to attack, or that he
cannot explain what "ritualism" is? The definition which the
reverend doctor gives is hardly adequate, because it includes all
mankind, since, according to his terms, there is no one who is
not a ritualist. There is no necessity of proving that all
religions have had their rites and ceremonies, for there is no
one who will deny so well received a fact. We must take the word
in its popular acceptation; and it simply refers to those who are
now endeavoring to introduce great changes in the worship of the
Protestant Episcopal Church, who are using vestments never known
in their communion for at least three centuries, and who, in
doctrine and outward observance, are approaching as nearly as
possible the time-hallowed ceremonial of the Catholic Church.
Whether they are in the right or in the wrong is another
question; the name by which they are called may be appropriate or
not, but it has a plain signification. Every one can understand
it, and we do not see in it anything abusive or uncharitable.
After objecting to the term "ritualist," Dr. Dix proceeds to
defend at some length the course of those who bear this name, and
his view is easily summed up, and we hear it now for about the
thousandth time in our life:
"The Christian dispensation is bounded, on the one side, by the
magnificent ritualism of Israel, and, on the other, by the
analogous and not less glowing ritualism of heaven. For fifteen
hundred years (after Christ) there was no ritualistic
controversy deserving the name. In general features, divine
worship was the same throughout the world. But errors and
abuses crept into the church, and these became symbolized in
novel rites and practices, by which ritual became, in some
respects, defiled and corrupted. Then came the Reformation in
the sixteenth century. That movement did not affect the Eastern
portions of Christendom; in Greece and Russia the old
traditions may be traced, although under a load of useless
ceremonies, back to the commencement of the Christian era. ...
Looking about the world, we see, in the Eastern part of
Christendom, an ancient ritual in use, very ornate, very
symbolical, and full of reminiscences of the old church of
Israel; the mitre, the iconastasis, the veil, the lamps, the
incense, are direct heirlooms from that venerable past. In the
West, the Roman Catholic Christians exhibit in their ritual a
system essentially modified by later ideas, and expressing the
dogmas which by degrees have accumulated around their once pure
creed."
Here the reverend doctor seems to labor under a strange
misunderstanding, and evidently has taken no pains to examine for
himself the oriental liturgies. There is no substantial
difference whatever between the liturgies of the East and those
of the West. All contain the same essential parts, and are
probably of apostolic origin.
{377}
Whatever corruption belongs to the Roman rite, in the Protestant
sense of the term, belongs likewise to the Eastern rites. As for
the ceremonies now in use in regard to the sacraments and popular
devotions, there may be some difference, but it is in favor of
the West, even from the Protestant point of view. The Eastern
churches pay as much honor to the Blessed Mother of God and to
the saints as we do, and in their expressions are fully as
fervent. The attempt, therefore, to make a distinction between
the East and West, as if the oriental churches were more in
sympathy with the reformed doctrines than the Catholic Church, is
singularly futile, because not supported by the least shadow of
fact. Besides, as we shall see in this article, the ritualists
draw all their own rites and ceremonies from us, and recommend
for the use of their own church the very words of the Roman
Missal. If in their view we had become so corrupt, why have they
taken for themselves the ritual which the doctor says is
essentially modified by later ideas? We are convinced that the
assertions we have quoted will never stand the test of
examination or of honest common sense.
Again, Dr. Dix says that there was a perceptible variance of
opinion between the English reformers and the Lutheran and
Calvinistic communities. To use his own words: "The movement of
the Reformation in England was in the most cautiously
conservative channel. What they aimed at was, to retain all that
was truly Catholic, and to reject only what was distinctively
Roman." We do not believe that these assertions can be made good
by the most ingenious interpretation of history. The English
leaders of the reform were certainly in close connection with the
continental teachers, and drew their inspiration from them. That
in England more of the exterior of the ancient church was
retained was, we think, owing to the pertinacity of the court,
more than to the conservative views of Cranmer and his
co-laborers. Henry VIII. was inexorable on many points during his
singularly _exemplary_ life. Edward VI. was pliant enough,
but the church and parliament were not sufficiently advanced to
follow all lengths in the wake of Luther and Calvin; and the
truth, is that the English Church had nothing to do with the
Reformation but to bear it, and by it to lose all its liberties.
It is a patent fact that the voice of convocation, the only one
which could speak for the ecclesiastical body, was hushed by
Henry VIII., and that the reform was carried on by the king and
his parliament. If the first prayer-book of Edward VI. was so
perfect, why did not the "cautiously conservative" movement stop
with "that most perfect specimen of a _reformed_ Catholic
liturgy"? why are the poor Calvinists to be blamed for following
their own consciences, and for asking for a revision of the
liturgy? That they were successful is a proof, at least, that
they had great influence in the English Church, and that the
Reformation was not so cautiously conservative.
As for the Protestant Episcopal Church, the doctor tells us that
it is in an inchoate state, where all its component elements are
in fusion. "Only eighty-two years have elapsed since the first
American bishop was consecrated; these years have been
_formative_; usages and customs have been undergoing
continual changes, and men have been feeling their way, under
circumstances in which, since the time of Constantine, no
national _branch_ of the Catholic Church has been placed."
Is this really the case? Have Episcopalians no settled forms of
worship, and no fixed creed?
{378}
We always were led to suppose that that conservative body of
Christians were decidedly fixed in their hostility of heart to
Romanism, and what may be called extreme Protestantism. Is it not
so? Is the Book of Common Prayer no established rule for the
order of divine worship? Are the Thirty-nine Articles, to which
every minister effectually subscribes, no rule of faith whatever?
Are all Episcopalians feeling their way to something settled in
faith and worship? If such is the case, we have been strangely
misinformed, and have singularly misinterpreted the decisions of
bishops and conventions. The Episcopalian clergy and laity can
settle this matter better than we can, and therefore we leave its
solution to them. But, to Catholic eyes, these "formative years"
seem only like the constant changes which are ever passing over
all Protestant bodies, and which inhere in every merely human
organization. And we must say that, as far as we know, though the
faith of Episcopalians may differ very much, their external
worship is plainly enough fixed by rubrics and canons whose
meaning can hardly be misunderstood. We pay the highest tribute
of respect to Rev. Dr. Dix and his friends, and we give thanks to
God for the light and grace he has given them; but truth obliges
us to say that their whole movement (if it be sincere, as we are
bound to believe) is away from their own church with its rites
and ceremonies, and toward the old faith and the old home of
Christians. May the divine mercy perfect that which has been
begun, and which gives such promise of conversion to the truth.
We deeply sympathize with the ritualists, and pray for them
continually, that they may not falter on the path they have begun
to tread, that they may persevere amid all discouragements and
temptations until they reach their Father's house, where the
light of faith shines without a shadow.
Having made these preliminary remarks, we proceed to the object
of this short essay, and shall endeavor to make manifest what
ritualism is and what is its true meaning. We believe it to be a
most important movement, which by God's grace will lead many
souls to the full possession of the truth. We consider it as
simply an honest and sincere attempt to introduce into the
English Church and the Protestant Episcopal Church, the most
essential doctrines of the Catholic religion, and to restore the
worship which passed away at the Reformation with the rejection
of the ancient faith. It does not seem to us that any candid
person can long be a ritualist without becoming Catholic. Our
purpose is, then, to make this evident to the public by the
simple presentation of facts. It will be very interesting both to
Catholics and Protestants to know the real doctrine and practices
of the upholders of one of the most striking movements of our
day. We will, for the sake of order and clearness, speak in
detail of the sacrifice of the Mass and the blessed Eucharist, of
auricular confession, of other sacramental observances, and of
religious communities. Before proceeding to these subjects,
however, we reproduce and affirm the five points of Rev. Dr. Dix,
which we shall have in view as fixed principles:
"First. There must be ritual of some kind where there is
religion.
"Second. There is the clearest argument from Holy Scripture and
ecclesiastical history in favor of a beautiful and impressive
ritualism, as a powerful agency on men for their good.
"Third. Such ritualism must be a teacher; it must symbolize
something, and express as forcibly as possible what it
symbolizes; a ritualism without a meaning, and representing no
truth which the intellect can grasp, is but a piece of trifling
and a sham.
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"Fourth. Ritual must teach truth, pure and unadulterated truth;
God's truth, which he has revealed to man.
"Fifth. People should try to discuss the subject with calmness.
They should not look at it in a party light; they had better
keep clear of the agitators, whose aim it is to excite vague
fears, and affright the uninstructed with awful disclosures of
conspiracy against the simplicity of their faith and the purity
of their worship; and especially should they remember that
there is superstition in defect as well as in excess."
1. Ritualists are believers in the sacrifice of the Mass and the
real presence of our Lord in the holy Eucharist. The Communion
service, instead, therefore, of being simply an affecting
memorial of Christ's death, is transformed into a true and proper
sacrifice, in which he is really present under the forms of bread
and wine, and is offered for the living and the dead. The
adaptation of the old forms of the prayer-book to a view so
Catholic as this requires many alterations in rubrics and in the
introduction of new matter. We shall quote from a book called the
_Notitia Liturgica_, which is the received order of service,
and contains, according to its title, "brief directions for the
administration of the sacraments, and the celebration of the
divine service according to the present use of the Church of
England." The introductory note explains that the book was drawn
up "in order to provide the clergy, sacristans, and others with a
small pocket-manual, by which such accuracy, care, and reverence
may be attained by those ministering at, or serving the altar, as
has been so constantly recommended by such eminent standard
divines of our national church, as the _Venerable Bede_,
Archbishop Peckham, Bishop Wainflete, _Cardinal Pole_,
Bishop Cosin, and Archbishop Laud." The _Directorium
Anglicanum_ contains more ample directions; but the present
work, being briefer, is more suited for our purpose at this
moment. It commences with the remark that, "in the
interpretations of the Book of Common Prayer, the following
cardinal maxim should never be lost sight of, namely, that what
was not legally and formally abandoned at the Reformation by
express law is now in full force, and should be carefully,
judiciously, and firmly restored. This key unlocks many
difficulties which would be otherwise both theoretically and
practically insurmountable." Then follow the directions for the
building and dressing of the altar, and for a "Low and High
Celebration." We cannot do better than give them at length:
"The greatest care should be invariably bestowed upon the altar
of the church. It should be well raised, of proper proportions,
and of costly materials. In size it should never be less than
seven feet long, and three feet and a half in height. It should
always be raised on a substantial and solid platform of at
least three steps. Behind it there should be a reredos of wood
or stone, either carved or decorated, or else a hanging of
cloth, velvet, satin, damask, or embroidery. Green is the best
color for a hanging--unless the church is dedicated in honor of
Our Lady, when blue may be used--which can be changed on high
festivals for white. The carpet upon the sanctuary floor should
invariably be green, as it is a good contrast to the altar
vestments. The altar vestments should fit accurately, and not
be allowed to hang loosely. On a shelf or ledge behind the
altar--sometimes called a retable, and sometimes, but
inaccurately, a super-altar--should be placed a metal cross or
crucifix; or a painting of the crucifixion should be fixed over
the centre of the altar, against the east wall. At least two
large and handsome candlesticks for the Eucharistic celebration
should be placed one on either side of the cross. Other branch
candlesticks for tapers may be affixed to the east wall on each
side of the altar, and standards for the same may be added on
festivals. Flower vases may be also used for the adornment of
the retable of the altar, and pots of flowers and shrubs for
the sanctuary floor, which should be carefully but closely
grouped against the north and south ends of the altar.
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"The following order should be observed both in the use of the
vestments of the clergy and of the altar:
"_White_.--From the evening of Christmas Eve to the
Octave of Epiphany inclusive, (except on the two feasts of
St. Stephen and the Holy Innocents;) at the celebration on
Maunday Thursday, and on Easter Eve, from the evening of
Easter Eve to the Vigil of Pentecost, on Trinity Sunday, on
_Corpus Christi Day_ and its Octave, on the feasts of
the Purification, Conversion of St. Paul, Annunciation, St.
John Baptist, St. Michael, All Saints, on all feasts of Our
Lady, and of Saints and Virgins, not Martyrs, at weddings,
and on the Anniversary Feast of the dedication of the church.
"_Red_. Vigil of Pentecost to the next Saturday, Holy
Innocents, (if on a Sunday,) and all other feasts.
"_Violet_. From Septuagesima Sunday to Easter Eve, from
Advent to Christmas Eve, Ember week in September, all vigils
that are fasted, Holy Innocents, (unless on Sunday.)
"_Black_. Good Friday and funerals.
"_Green_. All ferial days.
"PLAIN DIRECTIONS FOR A LOW CELEBRATION.
(BY A PRIEST WITH ONE SERVER.)
_Vestments for the Celebrant_--Cassock, amice, alb, and
girdle, with maniple, stole, and chasuble, of the color of
the day.
_Vestments for the Server_--Cassock and surplice.
"The altar candles being lighted, and the cruets of wine and
water being on their stand upon the credence, as well as the
altar breads, basin, and towel, the priest, bearing the sacred
vessels, duly arranged and covered, preceded by the server,
proceeds from the sacristy to the altar.
"Having bowed to the cross, and then spread the corporal and
placed the chalice on the centre of the altar, he steps back to
the foot of the altar, and begins by saying privately: '+ In
the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen.'
"He then recites Psalm xliii., (which should be learned by
heart.)
"Then, going up to the altar, according to the Rubric, he says
the 'Our Father' and collect at the 'north side' or gospel
corner; after which, turning to the people, and standing in the
middle of the altar, he recites the Ten Commandments, the
server making the appointed responses.
"Then he turns to the gospel corner, as the Rubric directs, and
says the prayer for the Queen, and the collect for the day.
"Then the server moves the book-rest to the epistle corner,
where the priest reads the epistle; and then the server
replaces it, as before, at the gospel corner, where the priest
reads the gospel, at the commencement of which all present
cross themselves on the forehead, mouth, and breast.
"Custom sanctions the responses, _'Glory be to Thee, O
Lord,'_ and _'Praise be to Thee, O Christ,'_ before and
after the Gospel: both of which are said by the server.
"The creed is said by the priest _junctis manibus_ in the
middle of the altar facing the cross. The server, therefore,
should move the book toward the priest. From the words _'and
was incarnate'_ to _'was made man,'_ the celebrant bows
profoundly; and at the words _'life everlasting'_ makes
the sign of the cross on his breast.
"The offertory sentence is read in the same position. The alms
(if any) are presented standing. At the offering of the bread,
the priest should use privately the following prayer from the
Salisbury Missal:
"_'Suscipe, Sancta Trinitas, hanc oblationem quam ego
indignus offero in honore tuo et Beatae Mariae, et omnium
sanctorum tuorum, pro peccatis et offensionibus meis; pro
salute vivorum et requie omnium fidelium defunctorum. In
nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.'_
"And at the offering of the chalice:
"_Offerimus tibi, Domine, calicem salutaris, tuam
deprecantes clementiam, ut in conspectu divina majestatis
tuae, pro nostra et totius mundi salute, cum odore suavitatis
ascendat. Amen._'
"Here the server should bring from the credence-ewer, water,
and towel for the priest to wash his hands. During this
symbolical ceremony, the celebrant will say Psalm xxvi., which
may be learnt by heart.
"At the _'Ye that do truly,'_ which should also be learnt
by heart, and said without the service-book, the priest turns
to the people, still standing in the midst of the altar.
"The server, or 'minister,' as the Rubric terms him, says the
confession in the name of the people, the priest standing
facing eastward. At its conclusion, he turns round _junctis
manibus_, and gives the absolution, which should also be
said without the book, making the sign of the cross with his
right hand at the words, _'pardon and deliver you,'_ etc.
"The _'Comfortable Words'_ are said in the same position.
"The preface, _'Lift up your hearts,'_ with its response,
is said with hands extended and eyes uplifted. At the words,
_'Let us give thanks,'_ etc., the priest joins his hands,
and at _'It is very meet, right,'_ etc., he turns to the
altar, bending down at the words, _'Holy, holy, holy.'_
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"The celebrant kneels in the midst of the altar at the prayer
of humble access, _'We do not presume.'_
"In the prayer of consecration, the priest reverently
genuflects after the consecration of the bread, to worship
Jesus Christ, truly present under a sacramental veil, and again
after the consecration of the chalice.
"Here the following extract from the ancient Sarum Canon, to be
said privately, may, according to the suggestion of Bishop
Wilson, be profitably introduced:
"_'Unde et me mores, Domine nos servi tui, sed et plebs tua
sancta, ejusdem Christi Filii tui Domini Dei nostri tam
beatae Passionis, necnon et ab inferis Resurrectionis, sed et
in caelos gloriosae Ascensionis, offerimus praeclarae
Majestati tuae de tuis donis ac datis Hostiam + puram,
Hostiam sanctam + Hostiam, + immaculatam: Panem sanctum +
vitae aeternae, et + caliccem salutis perpetuae._
_"'Supra qua propitio ac sereno vultu respicere digneris:
et accepta habere, siculi accepta habere dignatus es munera
pueri tui justi Abel, et sacrificium patriarchs nostri
Abrahae: et quod tibi obtulit summus sacerdos tuus
Melchisedech, sanctum sacrificium, immaculatam Hostiam._
_"'Supplices te rogamus omnipotens Deus; jube hac perferri
per manus sancti angeli tui in sublime altre tuum, in
conspectu Divinae Majestatis Tua: et quotquot ex hac altaris
participatione, sacrosanctum Filii tui, + Corpus et +
Sanguinem sumpserimus: omni + benedictione coelesti et gratia
repleamur. Per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen._
_"'Memento etiam, Domine animarum famulorum famularumque
tuarum (N. et N.) qui nos praecesserunt cum signo fidei, et
dormiunt in somno pacis. Ipsis Domine et omnibus in Christo
quiescentibus, locum refrigerii, lucis et pacis, ut
indulgeas, deprecamur. Per eundem Christum Dominum nostrum.
Amen._
_"'Nobis quoque peccatoribus famulis tuis de multitudine
miserationum tuarum sperantibus, partem aliquam et societatem
donare digneris cum tuis sanctis apostolis et martyribus; cum
Joanne, Stephano, Matthia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Alexandro,
Marcellino, Petro, Felicitate, Perpetua, Agatha. Lucia,
Agnete, Caecilia, Anastasia, et cum omnibus sanctis tuis:
intra quorum nos consortium, non estimator meriti, sed
veniae, quaesumus, largitor admitte. Per Christum Dominum
nostrum._
_"'Per quem hac omnia Domine, semper bona creas, +
sanctificas, + vivaficas, + benedicis, et praestas nobis. Per
+ ipsum et cum + ipso in + ipso est tibi Deo Patri +
Omnipotenti, in unitate Spiritus Sancti omnis honor et
gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.'_
[Transcriber's note: Some of these words are illegible and
are guesses. The plus sign (+) indicates the sign of the
cross is to be made.]
"The priest communicates himself standing. Genuflecting before
receiving our Lord's Body, he may say:
_"'Ave in aeternum sanctissima Caro Christi; mihi ante
omnia et super omnia summa dulcede. Corpus Domini nostri Jesu
Christi sit mihi peccatori via et vita + In nomine Patris, et
Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.'_
"Genuflecting before receiving Christ's Most Precious Blood:
_"'Ave in aeternum Caelestis Potus, mihi ante omnis et
super omnia summa dulcedo. Corpus et Sanguis Domini nostri
Jesu Christi prosint mihi peccatori ad remedium sempiternum
in vitam aeternam. Amen. + In nomine Patris,' etc._
"After all have communicated, the contents of the paten may be
carefully placed into the chalice, the paten placed on the
chalice, and the veil put over it.
"The _'Our Father'_ and the following prayer are said with
hands extended, in the centre of the altar, facing eastward, as
also the intonation of the _'Gloria in Excelsis.'_ At the
words, _'we worship thee,'_ the celebrant will bow
profoundly; at the words, _'To the glory of God the
Father,'_ he signs himself with the sign of the cross.
"In giving the benediction, in which the sign of the cross
should always be made with the right hand, care should be taken
by the priest not to turn his back upon the blessed sacrament.
The server will here kneel in the centre of the lower step.
"Immediately after this--before the priest uses any private
devotions whatsoever and before the people attempt to go away--
the consecrated species should be reverently consumed; and the
ablutions (1) of wine, (2) of wine and water mixed, and (3) of
water alone should be given to the priest by the server.
"The greatest possible care should be taken that no single
particle remains on the paten; and it is always better that the
priest himself should consume all that remains of both kinds.
The officials of the church and members of the choir should be
expressly taught never to rise from their knees until the
ablutions have been taken and the priest is about to leave the
altar.
"After the cleansing of the vessels, the corporal, purificator,
chalice-cover, etc., should be carefully put in their places;
and then, bowing to the cross, the priest should return to the
sacristy, preceded by the server, and say, according to the
Sarum rite, St. John's Gospel, cap. i. 1-14.
"The priest, having taken off his vestments, says his
thanksgiving.
PLAIN DIRECTIONS FOR A HIGH CELEBRATION.
(BY A PRIEST WITH DEACON AND SUB-DEACON.)
_Vestments for the Celebrant_--Cassock, amice, alb, and
girdle, with maniple, stole, and chasuble of the color of the
day.
_Vestments for the Deacon_--Cassock, amice, alb, and
girdle, with maniple, stole, and dalmatic of the color of the
day.
_Vestments for the Sub-Deacon_--Cassock, amice, alb, and
girdle, with maniple and tunicle of the color of the day.
_Vestments for the Acolytes_ Cassocks, (black on ordinary
days, but purple or scarlet on great festivals,) with either
short surplices, girded albs, or rochets.
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"The directions which have already been given in the case of a
'Low Celebration' are equally appropriate here, as far as
regards the actual ceremonies of the Eucharist. Several
additional points, however, need to be particularly insisted
on:
"(_a_) The normal position of the deacon will be on the
right hand side of the priest, standing on the first step from
the footpace; and that of the sub-deacon on his left hand,
standing on the second step.
"(_b_) Both deacon and sub-deacon stand when the celebrant
stands, genuflect when he genuflects, and kneel when he kneels.
"(_c_) At the epistle, the deacon and subdeacon change
places, the latter chanting the epistle on his own, the second
step from the footpace, from a good-sized book, held by one of
the acolytes on the epistle side, so that the sub-deacon may
face the east.
"(_d_) At the gospel, the deacon chants the gospel from
his step, near the gospel corner of the altar--the book of the
Gospels being held by the sub-deacon, so that the deacon may
face the north.
"(_e_) After the gospel, the celebrant, in the midst of
the altar--with the deacon behind him on his own step, and the
sub-deacon on his step, again behind the deacon--intones the
first sentence of the Nicene Creed. When the choir take up the
words, 'the Father Almighty,' the deacon and sub-deacon go up
to the altar footpace, respectively to the right and left of
the priest.
"(_f_) During the sermon, the priest, deacon, and
sub-deacon occupy the sedilia, or seats placed for them on the
south side of the sanctuary, facing the north.
"(_g_) At the offertory they return to the altar, and the
sub-deacon brings the sacred vessels from the credence. The
deacon, taking the corporal out of the burse, spreads the
corporal, and arranges the sacred vessels. The chalice should
be placed immediately behind the paten, in the centre of the
corporal and of the altar.
"(_h_) The plate or box with the altar breads should be
handed to the deacon by the sub-deacon, who will receive it
from one of the acolytes, in order that the priest may be
supplied with the elements required. The same will be observed
as regards the cruets of wine and water, and also for the
ceremony of washing the priest's fingers. The priest-celebrant
should not leave his place at the altar, but should be
carefully served by his assistant clergy and the acolytes.
"(_i_) The confession may be said in monotone, or with
suitable inflections, by either the deacon or sub-deacon.
During the preface and sanctus, the deacon and sub-deacon stand
behind the priest, respectively a little to his right and left.
"(_k_) At the consecration, the deacon and sub-deacon,
standing respectively at his right and left, will reverently
genuflect when the priest genuflects, and bend themselves low
during the communion of the celebrant.
"(_l_) At the _Gloria in Excelsis_, the celebrant--in
the midst of the altar, with the deacon behind him on his own
step, and the sub-deacon on his step, again behind the
deacon--intones the first sentence. When the choir take up the
words, 'And in earth peace,' the deacon and sub-deacon ascend
to the altar footpace, respectively to the right and left of
the priest.
"(_m_) After the _Gloria in Excelsis_, one, two, or
three of the collects at the end of the communion service may
be said--according to the number of the actual collects of the
day--as a post-communion.
"(_n_) In giving the 'pax' and blessing, the celebrant
should turn toward the people, being careful not to stand
before the blessed sacrament, and, stretching out his arms
during the first part of it--from the opening words to 'His Son
Jesus Christ our Lord'--will kiss the pax which is presented
to him by the deacon; and then, placing his left hand open on
his breast, will raise his right hand and bless the people with
the sacred sign of the cross.
"(_o_) The deacon and sub-deacon will immediately serve
wine and water for the ablutions, and having rearranged the
sacred vessels and their coverings, will place them on the
credence, together with the pax and the service-book.
Such is the external rite recommended and practised as far as
possible by the ritualists in what they do not hesitate to call
the celebration of Mass. That it is conformed, as far as can be,
to the Liturgy of the Catholic Church will be evident at first
sight to any one acquainted with the Missal. The ceremonies and
many of the integral parts are adopted without change from the
Western rite, and not from the Eastern, which Dr. Dix thinks more
pure. The vestments may be of the Greek pattern, but this is not
a material matter.
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The priest, having placed the chalice on the altar, steps back to
the foot of the altar, and begins, according to the Catholic
order, by making the sign of the cross, and saying the Psalm,
"Judica me Deus." The epistle and gospel are read precisely as we
read them; then the creed is said, "junctis manibus," in the
middle of the altar, facing the cross. It is also said with the
same reverences as our service prescribes, and ends with the sign
of the cross. The offering of the bread is made in a Latin form,
said to be taken from the Salisbury Missal. The oblation is made
in the honor of the Holy Trinity and the Blessed Mary, for the
salvation of the living and the rest of the faithful departed. At
the offering of the chalice, the priest is directed to say the
identical prayer used in our Liturgy. Then follows the washing of
the hands, with the recitation of Psalm xxv., "Lavabo manus
meas," as in the Catholic rite; and the extracts in Latin from
our Missal are directed to be "written out, printed, or
illuminated, and then framed and placed against the super-altar
as altar cards." At the consecration, the priest reverently
genuflects to worship Jesus Christ truly present, after which he
is recommended to use privately the exact words of our canon in
Latin. It seems that they coincide with the Sarum Canon, and that
some years ago Bishop Wilson had the good thought to suggest
their use. The remainder of the service will speak for itself;
and we think any Episcopalian will find himself strangely puzzled
should he undertake to follow with the rubrics of his Book of
Common Prayer. He would, it seems to us, be as much at home in a
Catholic church. The directions for a "high celebration" are all
taken from our rubrics for a solemn Mass, with deacon and
sub-deacon, and are conformed to them as much as possible. The
saddest reflection which strikes us, is the thought that those
who go through with such real and meaning ceremonies have no
priestly character, and therefore no power to consecrate Christ's
Body and Blood. Such is not only the verdict of the Catholic
Church in regard to Anglican orders, but the opinion of every
Eastern church which has retained the traditions of the apostolic
succession. It is a fearful responsibility for any man to take,
to make himself a priest on his own private judgment; for, after
all, if the Catholic Church is good for rites and doctrines, she
is good for everything.
So far the external observance of the ritualists is in favor of
the sacrifice of the Mass, and the real presence of our Lord in
the blessed Eucharist. We shall find that they do not hesitate to
teach the doctrine which their ritual symbolizes, according to
the principles of Dr. Dix. which exact that "ritual must teach
truth, pure and unadulterated truth." We have before us several
books which are recommended, and, as far as we have been able to
learn, in constant use. The books for devotion before hearing
Mass and receiving Holy Communion, such as _The Altar Book, The
Little Sacrament Book, The Supper of the Lord,_ contain the
plainest expressions of belief in the real and true corporeal
presence of Jesus Christ in the sacrament. We could quote many
pages, but we shall only give a few passages from _The
Churchman's Guide to Faith and Piety_, a work which is quite
comprehensive, and is published with directions for all
devotions, both in and out of the church. It bears a dedication,
by permission, to the Rt. Rev. H. Potter, D.D., LL.D., D.C.L.,
the Bishop of New York, thus receiving the sanction of the
highest Episcopalian authority.
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The "Instruction on the Holy Eucharist" contains very plainly the
doctrine of the Mass: "In this sacrament he (Jesus Christ) has
bequeathed to us his Body and Blood under the _forms_ of
bread and wine, not only to be received by us for the food and
nourishment of our souls, but as a means whereby the same
oblation of himself which he offers before the Father in heaven
might be offered also by his ministers on earth. They thus
commemorate his one atoning sacrifice by a perpetual memorial,
representing his death and passion before the Father. ... In this
sacrifice Christ himself is the real offerer, though he acts
through his priests, whom he appointed as his representatives
when he commanded his apostles, saying, 'Do this in remembrance
of me.' ... When, therefore, the priests of his church, in his
name and according to his commands, rehearse the words of
institution in the prayer of consecration, God the Holy Ghost
comes down upon the creatures of bread and wine, and _they
become_ the Body and Blood of Christ. The priest offers,
therefore, on God's altar a sacrifice commemorative of that
perfect and sufficient sacrifice once offered on the cross, and
at the same time Jesus Christ presents it before the Father,
pleading his wounds, and the merits of his passion for the pardon
and salvation of his people." During the communion many beautiful
devotions are given, all of which speak fervently of Christ's
real presence, and the Catholic hymn, "Ave Verum Corpus," is
translated for use at that great moment:
"Hail! Christ's body, true and real, of the Virgin Mary born,
Truly suffering, truly offered on the hill of scorn. Hail! for
man's salvation pierced, gaping wounds and riven side, Whence
outflowed with love unstinting, Blood and Water, mingled tide;
Now upon that body feed we, now of that sweet fountain drink,
Lest, when death relentless seize us, 'neath the Judge's search
we sink."
The beautiful hymn of St. Thomas, "Adoro Te devotè," is added:
"Devoutly I adore thee, Deity unseen, Why thy glory hidest
'neath these shadows mean? Taste and touch and vision in thee
are deceived, But the hearing only, well may be believed."
The prayer "Anima Christi" is then recommended to be said with
the inmost affections and desires of the soul. The manner of
receiving is also worthy of notice: "Kneel reverently at the
altar, with the body upright and the head slightly bowed." Say to
yourself, 'Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under
my roof.' Make thy left hand a throne for the right, which is on
the eve of receiving the King, and, having hollowed thy palm,
receive the Body of Christ, and convey it carefully to thy
mouth." The book called _The Supper of the Lord_ gives the
like directions: "When the priest gives you the sacrament,
receive it in the open palm of the right hand, and so raise it
reverently, lest any portion should fall to the ground; for St.
Cyril observes, 'Whosoever loses any part of it had better lose
part of himself.'" It is not necessary to quote any further
passages, although the same doctrine is contained in the entire
book. On page 86, vol. ii., there is the remark, "that the bread
and wine are unchanged in their substance;" but we are inclined
to think that this comes from inadvertence, prejudice, or bad
philosophy. Two substances cannot coexist in the same space; and
therefore, if the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of
Christ, they cannot still be simple bread and wine. And if the
presence of Christ is only in them without changing them, it is a
sin to adore them, since they are only creatures still.
{385}
To lose any part of them would, then, be no crime, as
Episcopalians have always believed. The language of the hymns
heretofore quoted would be strangely out of place. Lutherans have
tried their theories of consubstantiation, and eminent
Protestants have defended a kind of impanation; but all these
matters may safely be left to the criterions of good common
sense. We feel satisfied that any one who desires to hold
consistently the doctrine of a real presence of Jesus Christ in
the blessed Eucharist must approach the Catholic dogma, and admit
a _substantial_ change in the bread and wine.
2. Auricular confession is taught and practised by the
ritualists. We say, auricular confession, because the term has
been used by Protestants, though it may be considered expletive,
since a confession heard by no one is hardly a confession in any
proper sense. The books of devotion put forth by the ritualists,
both in this country and in England, give the most plain and
explicit directions for confession. The ministers who follow
their views are always ready to hear their penitents, and, on
account of the spiritual relation they hold to their children,
call themselves, and love to be called, by the title of "Father,"
as is customary in the Catholic Church. The Chapter IV. of _The
Churchman's Guide_, vol. ii., is entitled "Of
_Sacramental_ Confession." It gives the prayers and
questions for self-examination such as may be found in our
manuals. The form of confession is thus recommended:
"As soon as the priest is ready, begin your confession after
this manner: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of
the Holy Ghost, Amen. I confess to God the Father Almighty, to
His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord, and to God the
Holy Ghost, before the whole company of heaven, and to you, my
father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and
deed, by my fault, my own fault, my own grievous fault. Then
confess the sins you have noted down as the result of your
self-examination, taking them in the order of the commandments,
or beginning with your besetting sins, and then proceeding to
the lesser sins. Do so simply, sincerely, earnestly,
unreservedly, in as plain a manner as possible, remembering
that no sin which you have discovered should be held back, that
any conscious omission will render the confession nothing
worth, and the absolution null and void. In accusing yourself,
be very careful not to mention another, unless it is necessary
to the completeness of your confession. Answer any questions
that the confessor may feel it necessary to ask truthfully and
unhesitatingly. When you have completed your confession, say as
follows: For these and all my other sins which I cannot at
present remember, I humbly beg pardon of Almighty God, and of
you, my spiritual father, penance, counsel, and absolution.
Wherefore I pray God the Father Almighty, His only-begotten
Son, Jesus Christ, and God the Holy Ghost to pity me and have
mercy upon me, and you, my father, to pray for me. The priest
will then remark upon the confession as he deems most fitting,
giving such ghostly counsel as to dispose the soul for the
receiving of the great gift. Listen to him with all reverence
and care, receiving the advice which he gives you as the
message of God to your soul, and determine punctually and
exactly to fulfil the penance which he may assign to you. After
such exhortation, the priest will pray with you and for you,
and then lay his hands upon your head, and pronounce the words
of absolution. Doubt not, but earnestly believe that, according
to God's sure promise, the sins that are so loosed upon earth
are loosed in heaven. After confession, spend, if possible, a
quarter of an hour in church, or in private, using one or more
of the following acts of devotion."
Then follow some beautiful and fervent prayers and thanksgivings.
Catholics will see very little difference between this form and
that to which they have been accustomed from their childhood. We
have no means of judging how extensive is the practice of
confession among Episcopalians in New-York, but we earnestly hope
it will increase and become general.
{386}
Although there is no priestly character, no jurisdiction, and no
absolution, still the habit of confessing leads to
self-examination and strictness of life, and will in God's good
time open the heart to the light of the true faith. We are not
aware that confessionals have been erected in any Episcopal
church in this country, and do not know whether confessions are
heard in the church or at the houses of the ministers. English
ritualists are far beyond their American brethren, and therefore
we presume that everything will follow in due time.
3. The ritualists are also approaching to the doctrine of the
church in regard to the sacraments, and certainly admit more than
two sacraments. A sacrament is, according to our catechism, "an
outward sign of inward grace, or a sacred and mysterious sign by
which grace is communicated to our souls." We need not speak of
baptism, in which regeneration is fully admitted, nor allude to
the holy Eucharist, already sufficiently spoken of, but will
simply mention penance, confirmation, and matrimony, which the
Episcopal Church denies to be sacraments. What we have quoted in
regard to "sacramental confession" will show that, to all intents
and purposes, they believe in penance very much as we do.
Confirmation is regarded as a rite having an external sign, and
conveying the gift of the Holy Ghost. Special preparation for so
great a gift is deemed necessary, and confession is recommended.
"White is the color of the vestments of both clergy and altar at
confirmation. At confession, the stole should be violet."
The _Notitia Liturgica_ gives the following directions for
holy matrimony: "The service for holy matrimony consists of three
parts, namely, the address to the congregation, the betrothal,
(both of which are to take place in the nave or body of the
church) and the more _sacramental_ part, imploring the
graces needful for the married state, which is said at the altar.
The ring is evidently ordered to be laid on the service-book for
the purpose of being blessed. The following is a common form of
benediction. (It is the Catholic form.) 'Sanctify, + O Lord, this
ring which we bless + in thy name, that she who shall wear it,
keeping inviolable fidelity to her spouse, may ever remain in
peace and love; and live according to Thy law, through Christ,
our Lord, Amen.' In pronouncing the first benediction, the priest
should lay his hands upon the heads of the man and woman.
_White_ is the color for the vestments of both clergy and
altar at the celebration of holy matrimony. The priest should
wear cassock, surplice, and stole; and the assistants, clerks, or
ministers, cassock and surplices. If the holy communion be
celebrated, of course the clergyman will retire to the vestry to
assume the proper vestments. Only the bride and bridegroom and
their immediate friends should communicate." There can be very
little doubt that in all this there is the open profession of
belief in an inward sanctifying grace attached to the external
rite.
In regard to holy orders, we have no direct evidence before us,
because we have only seen books of devotion for the people; but
we are quite persuaded that the ritualists believe in the
sacramental character of ordination, and that a special grace
attends the imposition of the bishop's hands when ministers and
priests are solemnly set apart to their office. As for the
sacrament of extreme unction, we are not aware that it is
practised in England or among the Episcopalians in this country.
But from all the advances they have made during the last few
years, we have reason to think that it will ere long be
introduced.
{387}
It was in use in the early days of the Reformation, and is very
plainly taught in Holy Scripture. (St. James v. 14.)
4. The vast progress in Catholic ideas which has been made has
also led to the establishment of religious communities. In
England, there are, we are informed, quite a number of sisters,
who live by rule and devote themselves to the works of charity.
The Rev. Dr. Neale devoted his life and all his zeal to this most
important movement. We have seen some beautiful sermons which
were preached by him to the sisterhood of St. Margaret's, in East
Grinsted. In them will be found not only the belief of the
principal Catholic verities, but the most fervent descriptions of
the religious life, and the plainest directions for maintaining
its strictness. The movement has gone so far in England that it
can afford to defy public prejudice. In the United States there
has been a corresponding movement among Episcopalians, though
somewhat behind the footsteps of their brethren in the mother
country. The Rev. Dr. Muhlenberg was among the first in our city
to establish a community of sisters; but we believe that his idea
embraced more the relief of the sick and poor than the
consecration to God of those who should devote themselves to this
charity. Latterly, however, there has been established here a
sisterhood on more Catholic principles, under the auspices of
Rev. Dr. Dix, which contains now nine members, not counting
postulants, who bear the title of "Sisters of St. Mary." This
community was instituted three or four years ago, and placed
under rules similar to those of the Catholic convents. Postulants
to the community have a trial of six months, when they are
_received_ by the pastor. One year and a half from this
time, that is, after two years of probation, they are set apart
to their work by the bishop. The public will recollect the
account, which appeared in the journals, of a consecration of
sisters by Rt. Rev. Dr. Potter in one of the Episcopal churches.
At this service, though we believe they take no vows, the sisters
consider themselves set apart _for life_, and bound to the
community, except in special exigencies, when dispensation can be
obtained from the pastor or bishop. They have a religious dress
of black, with a large black cape, a large white collar, and a
white cap. They also wear a cross made of black work, with a
white lily in silver set in it, which is hung around the neck.
They live strictly, rise early, and work laboriously. They
observe several of the canonical hours, and for this purpose use
the book prepared and published by Dr. Dix. They have their hours
of silence, of recreation, and of community observances. They
seldom visit any one, but can go to their homes occasionally, by
special permission. They are expected to go to confession and
communion monthly, unless they obtain the privilege of going
oftener. Rev. Dr. Dix is their spiritual director, although some
are permitted to confess to one of the "fathers" at St. Alban's,
or to any other Episcopal minister.
These sisters have charge of two houses, the "Sheltering Arms,"
at One Hundredth street, on the Bloomingdale road, and the "House
of Mercy," in Eighty-sixth street, near the Hudson river. St.
Barnabas's House, in Mulberry street, near Houston, was at one
time under their care, but, as the managers were not sufficiently
Catholic in their ideas, they were constrained to leave it. On
Sundays and holydays, when there is no service in these private
chapels, they attend the neighboring Episcopal churches.
{388}
Once a month they have an especial service in one of their
houses, when their pastor is present, and the holy communion is
celebrated. After this service the sisters hold a meeting, which
is called a "chapter," in which the affairs of the community are
discussed and arranged. They often attend St. Alban's church,
where the holy communion is celebrated every Sunday, on all the
saints' days, and each day on the octaves of Christmas, Easter,
and Ascension. Here there is a "low celebration" on the week-days
above mentioned, or "Low Mass," as it is sometimes called by
them.
5. In regard to other practical devotions of Catholics, the
ritualists have also made great progress. The "Way of the Cross"
is used and recommended by them. A beautiful form of this
devotion will be found in the book entitled _The Supper of the
Lord, and Holy Communion_. The _Churchman's Guide_
contains some pious litanies, and some devotions to the sacred
wounds of our Lord, which are conceived entirely in the tone of
Catholic piety. The "Lenten Fast" is also recommended to be
strictly observed by abstinence from flesh meat, and even the
rules of our own diocese are quoted with favor. We have seen a
little book, called _The Rosary of the Holy Name of Jesus_,
to which is added the "Rosary of the Passion of our Lord," set
forth for the use of the faithful members of the English Church,
with an introduction by Charles Walker, author of _Three Months
in an English Monastery_. In the introduction, _beads_,
adapted to these rosaries, are approved, but how far they are in
use we have no means of knowing.
The invocation of the saints certainly is not very prominent in
their books of devotion, but they have begun the good work. The
first part of the "Hail, Mary" is used in the rosaries, and this
is, at least, a step in the right direction. We have been
informed that private prayers to the Blessed Virgin and the
saints are in use by some; and, as this invocation is founded on
the simple principle of intercession, it will undoubtedly, ere
long, be generally practised. No objection can be found against
it which does not exist against asking each other's prayers in
this life. The work entitled _Prayers for Children_, by Rev.
F. G. Lee, gives Faber's beautiful hymn to Our Lady, to be said
on feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary:
"Mother of Mercy, day by day
My love for thee grows more and more;
Thy gifts are strewn upon my way,
Like sands upon the great sea-shore.
"Get me the grace to love thee more;
Jesus will give if thou wilt plead;
And, mother, when life's cares are o'er,
Oh! I shall love thee then indeed."
The hymn to the guardian angel is also given from the same
author:
"Yes, when I pray, thou prayest too;
Thy prayer is all for me;
But when I sleep, thou sleepest not,
But watchest patiently."
Prayer for the faithful departed may be found in nearly all the
prayer-books of the ritualists, and the burial service is
animated with that tender devotion which forms such a
characteristic of the Catholic rite. The holy Eucharist is
recommended to be celebrated at funerals, and directions for so
doing are given in the _Notitia Liturgica_. The
_Introit_ is, "Grant them eternal rest, and let light
perpetual shine upon them." The _Dies Ires_ is to be divided
and sung at different parts of the service, before the gospel, at
the offertory, during the communion, and after the blessing.
The _Book of Hours_, by Rev. Dr. Dix, has a prayer for the
faithful departed, and the "low celebration," already quoted, has
the "Memento for the Dead," extracted from our Canon.
{389}
We give the following prayer from _The Supper of the Lord_.
"O God! by whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, grant
to all thy servants who have gone before us with the sign of
faith, and who now slumber in the sleep of peace, a place of
refreshment, light, and peace, through the same Jesus Christ our
Lord." At a funeral the following is recommended: "O Lord, look
graciously, we beseech thee, upon this sacrifice (the holy
Eucharist) which we offer thee for the perfecting of the soul of
thy servant N----, and grant that this medicine which Thou hast
vouchsafed to provide for the healing of all the living may avail
also for the departed, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen."
The sacred sign of the cross, as has been observed, is used
commonly, in the same manner as Catholics use it, both in private
and in public.
The introduction of altar-boys took place some time ago, in this
city, when it was said that it was according to the use of the
English cathedrals and for the purpose of chanting the service.
It appears, however, that they are only a part of an attempt to
revive the "minor orders," as we have them in the Catholic
Church. At the "high celebration" the priest is attended by a
deacon and _sub-deacon_ and by _acolytes_. We do not
know if there be any form of ordaining sub-deacons and acolytes,
but it seems that there is a form for the admission of
_choristers_. How many of the boys serving in the Episcopal
churches here have been received by this form, we have no means
of ascertaining. It will be interesting, however, to Catholics,
to see the progress which has been made, and therefore we give
the whole form.
"A Form For The Admission Of A Chorister.
"¶ _At a convenient time before morning or evening prayer,
all the members of the choir assemble in the vestry, robed in
their proper ecclesiastical habits: and range themselves on
their respective sides, 'Decani' and 'Cantores,' except that
the position of the officiating priest is at the upper end of
the room and facing the choir. The boy to be admitted remains
outside; all present kneeling down, the priest shall say:_
"Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious
favor, and further us with thy continual help; that in all our
works begun, continued, and ended in thee, we may glorify thy
holy name, and finally, by thy mercy, obtain everlasting life;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
"Our Father, etc.
"¶ _Then, as previously instructed, the two senior choristers
go out, and bring in the probationer, who, vested in cassock,
coming in, and guided by them, stands in front of the priest
officiating._
"¶ _Then there shall be read the Lesson._
"I Samuel iii. 1-10; and ii. 18, 19.
"¶ _The Lesson being ended, the priest shall proceed thus,
saying:_
"V. Our help is in the name of the Lord:
R. Who hath made heaven and earth.
V. Blessed be the name of the Lord:
R. Henceforth, world without end.
"¶ _And then, taking the boy by the right hand, the priest
shall admit him, using this form, the boy kneeling:_
"N. I admit thee to sing as a chorister in ------ In the name
of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
"¶ _Then shall he pronounce this admonition, at the same time
presenting him with the Prayer-Book, Psalter, and Hymnal he
will use in the choir:_
"See what thou singest with thy mouth thou believe in thine
heart, and what thou believest in thine heart thou prove by thy
works.
"¶ _Then, putting the surplice on the new chorister, he shall
say:_
"I clothe thee in the white garment of the surplice, and see
that thou so serve God, and sing his praises, that thou mayest
hereafter be admitted into the ranks of those who have washed
their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, and
are before the throne of God, and serve him day and night
continually.
"¶ _Then, laying his hand upon the new chorister's head, the
priest shall pronounce the benediction, the boy still
kneeling:_
{390}
"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee, and make his face to shine
upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace now and for ever.
Amen."
We have thus completed the task proposed to ourselves, and have
shown from the clearest testimonies what the true meaning of
ritualism is. No honest mind will, it seems to us, reject the
assertion which we made, when we defined it as a great and most
important movement from the doctrines and worship of Protestants
toward the ancient and unchangeable faith of the Catholic Church.
In other words, it is a return to the dogmas and ceremonies which
were cast away by the unsparing radicalism of the Reformation. As
such a movement, we look upon it with the greatest interest, and
earnestly pray God to bless it to the conversion of many souls.
And we say to our ritualistic brethren, be firm and fervent in
the profession and practice of what you believe to be true;
shrink not from the consequences of any doctrine you hold, and
follow on by prayer and perseverance until you reach the portals
of that temple which the God-Man erected on earth, wherein there
are no shadows. Catholics are your only friends; and when you
find that you believe almost every truth which we hold, and that
your own church repudiates nearly everything which is to you most
sacred, then come home to your Father's house, and take the Bread
of life for which your souls are famishing. May the infinite
mercy which has done so much for you perfect and accomplish its
gracious work. Here is all that you desire in its full
proportions, the length and breadth of divine love, in that one
mystical body which is the church of God, the fulness of him who
filleth all and in all.
We have only one more remark to make. The view of ritualism which
we have given is, without doubt, the view of every disinterested
mind. The world is oftentimes harsh and sometimes unjust, but in
the end it calls things by their right names. Why, then, try to
stultify the common sense of mankind by talking of the
corruptions of Romanism, when all the time you admit every
substantial part of its creed? Why be so dishonest to yourselves
as to refuse to see that which is quite evident to every one
else? Why talk enigmas and profess devotion to the Eastern
churches, as if there were anything there more palatable to
Protestants than the undisguised creed of Rome? In this country,
the ritualists have endeavored to enlist some of their bishops on
their side. Would to God they could gain them all; but even this
would not remove Calvinism, Lutheranism, and what Dr. Dix calls
Radicalism from the prayer-book. Yet have they gained any? The
approbation of _The Churchman's Guide_, by Right Rev. Dr.
Potter, is the only quasi-Episcopal sanction which they have, and
this is very cautiously given, and no one can say how far it
goes. Several ministers some time ago addressed a letter to Right
Rev. Dr. Hopkins, presiding bishop of the Protestant Episcopal
Church, asking for his opinions on the subject in question. We
fancy the dismay of the advanced ritualists when he gives his
opinion in favor of changes in vestments, the introduction of
incense and other things of this kind, and then, with an
unsparing bitterness, attacks their much cherished doctrines, the
sacrifice of the Mass, and the real presence of our Lord in the
blessed Eucharist.
{391}
While this has been done on one side, a large majority of the
Episcopalian bishops on the other have delivered themselves of an
open protest against the whole movement, condemning it as nothing
less than an attempt to _Romanize_ the Protestant Church of
England. Is it really so, that the voice of the bishops is of no
weight, that it neither declares the sense nor speaks the
authority of the Episcopal Church? What thinks the world of the
high Anglican position at the present day? The world has said
harsh things enough of the Catholic Church, but yet has ever
given us the credit of consistency. If it condemn us, it does not
declare that we are illogical. On the contrary, there is not one
honest writer, disinterested in the question, who does not say
that the Anglican position is wholly untenable, that it is
neither Protestantism nor Catholicity, and that it can never
stand either the test of time or that of reason.
--------
Translated From The Historisch-Politische Blaetter.
Peter Cornelius, The Master Of German Painting.
Peter Cornelius was born on the 24th of September, 1783, in
art-renowned Düsseldorf. Here had been collected for some time,
through the artistic taste of the nobles of the Palatinate, those
paintings and copies of antique sculpture known by the name of
the Düsseldorf Gallery, which was afterward transferred to the
Royal Palace of Munich. In the last century a school of art was
also connected with this gallery.
Aloysius Cornelius, father of Peter, was inspector of the
gallery, and drawing-master in the art school. Thus the boy was
born in an atmosphere of art. It is said that, when little Peter
was attacked by fits of childish ill-humor and uneasiness, his
mother could quiet him by carrying him in her arms into the hall
of antique statuary, where the stern and striking forms of the
heathen divinities calmed his cries and dried his tears. If it be
not historically true, it is nevertheless a poetic fact recorded
in verse by his uncle, Peter Cornelius, a distinguished musician,
still in Munich, that the boy, on one occasion being offered his
choice of a piece of gold and a crayon, took the latter from his
mother's hand, and ran immediately to make figures on the wall.
This is a characteristic anecdote, though it may not be true; for
during his whole life the painter despised money. Mammon had no
charms for him; while his pencil, the instrument of his art, and
the art itself had for him irresistible attractions. Peter grew
up in the pious, stern Catholic family of his parents, and
preserved to the end of his life a simple, childlike belief in
his religion. Little was then known among the families of
Rhineland of opposition to the faith, or of the doubts and
objections of the philosophers against it. Cornelius himself,
later in life, confessed that he had never read a book of
philosophy. Such works were distasteful to him on account of
their abstract and unideal character.
{392}
His school education was short and simple. Peter Cornelius went
only four years to the primary school of his native city, as his
school-fellow, Clement Zimmerman, can still attest. He made
little progress; he never learned to spell correctly. Singular
phenomenon! Cornelius, who thought so profoundly, and wrote so
sublimely, and spoke so eloquently without preparation, like
Napoleon I., could never write without blunders! But perhaps
freedom from school restraint only made the genius of the artist
to take a wider scope. The very fact that he did not spend many
years of his life on the school-bench, filling his mind with
useless items of knowledge, allowed his nature to expand, and
gave him that sound freshness of mind and body, that purity of
imagination, that directness and rectitude of feeling and
character which are the causes of the beautiful creations of his
genius.
Of the mathematics, the favorite science of modern times, he knew
almost nothing. He used to say, in his curt manner, of an
artistic dunce, "The booby knows as much of art as I do of
algebra!" His peculiar talent displayed itself even in the
primary school. When the professor of Scripture history described
the scenes and persons of the Old Testament, they became real to
the eyes of the boy, and on arriving home he was wont to cut
their forms out of black paper with a dexterity that astonished
every one. He was much in the studio of his father, who painted
altar-pieces and portraits; he cleaned the pencils, brought him
the colors, and performed other minor services. Soon he became a
pupil in his father's drawing academy. Here he rapidly acquired
the principles of art, and his father gave him Volpato's
engravings of Raphael's masterpieces as models. Hand and eye of
the young artist were thus early accustomed to the immortal works
of the prince artist of Urbino. At the same time, he visited
frequently the gallery of paintings, where the expressive and
lively colored pictures of Rubens captivated his fancy. Cornelius
copied at a later period several of these. In the year 1805,
before the transfer of the collection to Munich, besides others
he made a copy of "Diana and the Nymphs in the Chase," which was
so well executed that it was very difficult to distinguish it
from the original.
Young Peter now passed to the Academy of Art. The Greek classic
style ruled in it at that time; and a distinguished artist, Peter
Langer, was its director. Here Cornelius prosecuted his studies
with the greatest diligence. He made a special study of the
_antiques_ which were extant in the collection. Still it
appears that even then he had more inclination for the awakening
national Christian and romantic school of Germany than for the
cold imitations of ancient art.
But this very circumstance threatened to give an unlucky turn to
his life. His father, Aloysius Cornelius, died in the year 1809,
leaving a wife, five daughters, and two sons, with little
resources. The good mother despaired of being able to provide for
the support and education of her large family. The director,
Peter Langer, misunderstanding the genius of Peter, then advised
her to apprentice him to a goldsmith, saying that he would earn
his bread more quickly at a trade, for there were too many
painters. Cornelius thus experienced the same misjudgment of his
superiors as Carstens in Copenhagen, and Schwanthaler in Munich.
{393}
But the maternal eye was sharper than that of the learned
director. The mother recognized the decided vocation of her son,
and her maternal affection triumphed. She could not determine
from worldly motives to tear her son away from his high call and
so Cornelius was for ever wedded to his art. How grateful was the
youth of eighteen years for this determination of his mother!
Cornelius himself writes of it in his celebrated report to Count
Raczynski, in which he quotes a saying of his father Aloysius,
that, "if we try to make perfect everything that we do, we may
learn a lesson from things the most trivial." This expression is
like Raphael's: "No one becomes great in art who despises the
smallest detail."
In this year, (1809,) Peter Cornelius was introduced into a new
society, which exercised great influence on his development and
history. He went frequently to the neighboring city of Cologne,
the splendidly artistic and Christian mediaeval city of the
Rhine. Here he became acquainted with the noble Canon Wallraf and
the two brothers Boisserée, who, at this period of Vandalic
ravage and destruction, saved all that was to be saved of ancient
art, and formed those precious collections which render Cologne
and Munich famous. By these means Cornelius obtained a knowledge
of the world of old German works of art hitherto unknown to him.
They appeared to him in all the simplicity, religiosity, and
freshness of the German middle ages, and he found himself drawn
toward them by a kindred feeling. He studied and copied them
zealously, and with greater affection than he had shown toward
the gorgeous masterpieces of Italy. His study of these German
works obtained for him his first appointment of any consequence.
Wallraf, who was called by the mayor of Nyon to consult regarding
the restoration of the interesting church in that town,
recognized in Peter Cornelius, whom he loved, the man for
monumental painting. He was commissioned, therefore, to ornament
the cupola and choir of the church of Nyon with frescoes.
Wallraf, the theologian, who, as practical painter, also
possessed wondrous gifts, determined on the character of this
circle of paintings.
Cornelius executed these pictures in 1806-1808 on a yellow
ground, with water colors. They represented the choirs of angels
in the semi-circle; then Moses and David of the Old Testament,
Peter and Paul of the New Testament, in the cupola; pictures well
expressed, living and characteristic, reminding one more of the
Italian than of the German school. Unfortunately these paintings,
spoiled by dampness, have been retouched by modern artists, so
that they may be considered as entirely lost to view.
Besides the study of the old German masters, Cornelius missed no
occasion of making himself familiar with the
_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of classic antiquity. He read with avidity
Homer and Virgil, and endeavored to make use of the materials of
art supplied from these sources. He contended for the prize at
Weimar with works from ancient mythology, but without success. He
was not fitted to paint the smooth, external attributes of the
ancient forms. Hence came this criticism on his works. Through
the influence of Goethe he received the following note:
"Valuable, good talent, and excellent essays!"
We pass over those episodes in the lives of all men--the first
love of Cornelius for Miss Linder, which was unsuccessful, and
made him vow never to wed any other than the muse of his art--a
vow which he did not keep; his friendship with the eldest son of
the merchant Flemming at Nyon, pledged under a linden-tree, and
lasting until death with a loyalty like that of David and
Jonathan, Orestes and Pylades, Don Carlos and Posa.
{394}
In 1809, we find him in Frankfort, after Napoleon had annexed the
Rhine provinces to France and the paintings at Düsseldorf had
been removed to Munich. In this centre of Germany, Cornelius
having read the _Faust_ of Goethe, and, penetrated with its
spirit, represented the creation of the poet's brain on the
canvas, Goethe wrote him a letter, thanking him and full of
appreciative compliments to his genius. The bookseller, Wenner,
in Frankfort, undertook to publish the painter's sketches; and
thus enabled him to realize a long-cherished desire of going to
Italy, the land of the fine arts.
At this period, in Rome, there was a colony of German artists,
like an oasis of peace in a desert of trouble, who devoted
themselves to the unshackling of art from the chains of mannerism
and French insipidity. Karstens, the Dane, enthusiastically
partial to ancient art, may be considered the leader and pioneer
of this effort. Thorwaldsen, Koch, Schick, Wächter, and Reinhard
followed in his footsteps. Many an artist's noble heart was then
also possessed with the love of the romantic school, and inspired
with its spirit. Frederic Schlegel, Tieck, Novalis, and
Wackenroder aided the movement by proclaiming and teaching that
all Christian art was a symbol of the heavenly; that in it all
was mysterious and ideal, whilst ancient art merely represented
the external and real. They taught that severity, strength, and
modesty were to be sought, for in the works of pre-Raphaelite
masters, who alone were the true models of Christian art. In the
year 1801, the standard of this school was borne by Frederic
Overbeck, of Lübeck, who was joined by the two Schadows, Pforr,
Louis Vogel, and later by Philip Veit, Wach, Charles Vogel of
Vogelstein, I. Schnorr, both Eberhards of Munich, Rambour of
Cologne, and others. The artist world of Rome was then divided
into two groups, one of which absolutely followed the ancients,
and the other revived the Christian and national ideal with the
spirit of the Romantic school.
When Cornelius went to Rome, he was immediately introduced to his
fellow-countrymen; and he became naturally attached to their
school as the illustrator of _Faust_ and Shakespeare. He
formed a friendship for Overbeck which lasted unbroken till
death, through a period of fifty years! Cornelius always
expressed his gratitude to Overbeck, and loved him as a brother.
King Louis I., of Bavaria, with his customary wit, likened the
pair of artists to two of the apostles: Overbeck, the pious and
sentimental, to John; Cornelius, the fervent conqueror of the
world of art, to Paul. Overbeck with several companions had
rented the old monastery of St. Isidore, behind Monte Pincio, and
lived there like a recluse. Cornelius, who boarded near him, was
a frequent visitor. They studied and worked together. They made
drawings of nature and from the antique, sat side by side at the
canvas, and communicated their future plans to each other. They
copied and imitated the old Italian masters Giotto, Masaccio,
Ghirlandajo, Lippo Lippi, Peter Perugino, and Fiesole. They made
excursions to the neighboring mountains, and relieved their
labors by many a pleasant evening or innocent conversation.
{395}
Cornelius, writing about this time of his life to Count
Raczynski, says: "It is impossible for me to tell you in a short
notice all the incidents of my happy sojourn in Rome. But I must
say we wandered over the paths of ages; I speak not only for
myself, but for our association of talent and character, who drew
from everything that was holy, great, and beautiful in Germany or
Italy the inspiration to oppose French tyranny and frivolity."
The noble band had their battles and their sufferings. Their
means of sustenance, on the one hand, were limited. "For," said
Overbeck, "the fire of the enthusiasm of art does not kindle a
fire on the hearth." On the other hand, the Greco-German school
never failed to treat them with contempt and haughtiness. They
received the nickname of "Nazarenes," which has remained attached
to them ever since. The name was given partly because of their
innocent life, and partly because their pictures of saints after
the old Italian models had a mortified and spiritual look, as the
sect of the rigorous Nazarenes are represented among the Jews.
When the war of freedom had again been renewed in Germany, the
artists in Rome were fully possessed with its spirit. Since all
could not take part in it, they sent substitutes to fight for
fatherland. Those who remained in Rome, or were too old to wield
the sword, used pencil and brush in aid of the national cause.
Inflamed by patriotism, Cornelius painted in Rome his celebrated
illustrations of the _Niebelungen_, which had just been
published, and the reading of which did so much toward awakening
German self-consciousness. He painted the great heroes of those
Germans who for so many years had shamefully borne the yoke of
the French; and represented those natural giants of the German
race without fear or reproach, full of power, loyalty, modesty,
simplicity, and honor, all aglow with passion, irresistible in
love and hatred! Cornelius had, in his paintings for the
_Niebelungen_, which was henceforth seldom printed without
them, given personality to the heroes of the poem. His two
queens, Hagen the fierce, Sigfried, and King Günther will live
among Germans as long as the _Niebelungen_ will continue to
be read. Though the faces are harsh, rough, and ungracious, like
the German heroes of that time, they are nevertheless thoroughly
true, sound, and characteristic.
The whole work was dedicated to the new Prussian ambassador in
Rome, the celebrated historian Niebuhr. For, after the fall of
Napoleon, Pius VII. returned in triumph to Rome, March 14th,
1814; the masterpieces of art taken away by the French were being
gradually restored; and the ambassadors of the European courts
took their stations as usual. Niebuhr came to Rome in 1816. No
sooner had he, who had such a love for art and science,
recognized the geniality, freshness, and imaginative power of
Cornelius, his fellow-countryman from Rhineland, than he became
warmly attached to the artist. Niebuhr often visited him and his
companions, called him friend, and divided his wonderful learning
with Cornelius.
So far Cornelius had executed in Rome only a few drawings and oil
paintings. Among the latter may be named the picture of "The
Three Marys at the Sepulchre," "The Flight into Egypt," and "The
Wise and Foolish Virgins." But, in spite of their expressiveness
and excellence, these works show that the artist had not yet
found the special field for the display of his genius. His
powerful imagination was confined in these subjects, and could
only feel at home on the broad, high walls of fresco-painting.
{396}
Through a singular accident, he had soon a chance for his art.
The Prussian consul-general, Solomon Bartholdy, had rented the
old house belonging to the family of the painter Zucheri, near
Trinita di Monti, and wanted to ornament it with frescoes.
Cornelius was asked to undertake the task. Aided by his friends,
he agreed to paint the two rooms with frescoes. They asked no
fees, only scaffolding, mason work, colors, and support. The
noble offer of the poor artists--rich, however, in their love of
art--was accepted; and this was the origin of those renowned
frescoes almost universally known by copies and descriptions of
them. Cornelius, Overbeck, Philip Veit, and W. Schadow were
engaged in the work. On account of the Jewish religion of
Bartholdy, the artists chose the interesting story of Joseph in
Egypt as the subject of their art. Cornelius painted the
explanation of the dreams of Pharao and the meeting of Joseph and
his brethren; Veit painted the temptation of Potiphar's wife and
the seven years of plenty; Schadow, the complaint of Jacob and
Joseph in prison; and Overbeck, the seven years of famine. They
are beautiful, imaginative, expressive, graceful pictures, and
not surpassed in coloring by the later creations of the master.
All Rome, which had seen no frescoes for fifty years and was
taken with the Raphael taste, was astonished at the works of the
young German painter, and even yet the amateur turns with
reverence to this cradle of German monumental painting in Rome,
and the rooms so adorned are still rented by strangers for a high
price.
Thus for the first time had Cornelius found the means of letting
out the flood of his genial thoughts. He had found his vocation
in fresco-painting, to which he remained attached thenceforth to
the end of his life. Soon he received a new commission for his
art. The rich Marquis Massimi, who had seen the frescoes in
Bartholdy's house, wished to have his villa at St. John Lateran's
similarly ornamented by scenes from the great classic poets of
Italy. Overbeck should select his subjects from Tasso, J. Schnorr
from Ariosto, Cornelius out of Dante's _Divine Comedy_, a
poem which, on account of its depth, grandeur, and mysteries, had
been a life-study of our artist. Cornelius undertook the work
with delight. He executed nine illustrations to the Paradise,
which show a profound knowledge of the poet and history; faces of
saints breathing piety and strikingly expressive. Unfortunately
these projects were not executed. Koch obtained the substitution
of his own rather coarse Dante pictures, in the stead of those of
Cornelius; and the latter received two calls from his own German
home.
The Crown-Prince Louis, of Bavaria, who had conceived generous
plans for the spread of art in his own country, came to Rome in
January, 1818. Informed by his attendant physician, Ringseis, who
had seen the _Niebelungen_ pictures of Cornelius in Berlin,
the prince sought out the gifted artist. Louis saw the paintings
at Bartholdy's, and immediately perceived that Cornelius was the
man to make art flourish in Bavaria. The prince gave him two
galleries of the museum of statuary in Munich, to ornament with
frescoes taken from Greek mythology. A cry of joy passed through
the circle of artists; they looked on the Crown-Prince Louis as
the restorer of true art and the creator of a new era. When their
high patron left Rome, they celebrated his departure by a
glorious feast on the evening of April 29th, 1818.
{397}
Cornelius had ornamented the walls of the festival hall with
symbols of the artistic calling of the prince. There were
representations of Hercules cleaning out the Augean stable, and
of Samson putting the Philistines to flight. Rückert, in the name
of art and the artists, made the poetical address to the
crown-prince. He, full of delight and gratitude, offered a toast
to the German artists, and ended it, amidst loud applause, with
the words, "That we may meet again in Germany!"
Cornelius now left everything else aside and devoted himself to
the study of Homer and Hesiod, and continually made sketches from
them. In order to have perfect leisure for this work, he spent
the summer in Ariccia. In the fall, he travelled with Passavanti,
the biographer of Raphael, to Naples, where he made several
copies, among others the bust of a woman after Perugino, which is
supposed to represent the mother of Raphael.
The time for his departure for Munich approached. Niebuhr, who
became embittered against the artists and against everything
Roman, endeavored to get him to remain in Prussia and to live in
Düsseldorf. When Cornelius announced his departure for Munich, in
order to paint the frescoes of the museum, Niebuhr wept in anger,
and said, "Cornelius, why do you do this to me?" He conversed
with him for a long time, and received the artist's promise to
accept a call to Düsseldorf after the erection of the Academy of
Arts in that town. The heart of Cornelius throbbed for Germany.
He often felt homesick, and thought that, when a German artist
forgets his fatherland, he loses more in character than he can
gain in other respects.
Some have doubted the faith and piety of Cornelius. But they are
wrong. Divisions sprang up among the German artists of Rome, and
every day party spirit increased in violence. Whilst many of the
romantic school in Germany looked on Christian truth, the life of
the church and Catholicism, as things merely to influence the
imagination and as helps to poetry, the majority of the Roman
artists called "Nazarenes" were carried away by the grandeur and
beauty of faith, and became fervent members of the Catholic
Church. Several of those born Protestants became converts; as,
for instance, Overbeck, the two Schadows, Veit, Vogel of
Vogelstein, and others. A cry was immediately raised against
them. Niebuhr became enraged, and sent for the works of Luther
against the papacy, in order to counteract the Catholic
tendencies of the artists.
The question now arises, what part Cornelius took in these
quarrels. Some have called him a "free-thinker" and an enemy of
Christianity. They were induced to do so from certain things that
happened about this time. But it is certain that he was a firm
believer in revelation and a fervent Catholic. All his friends
attest the fact that he never failed to go to confession and make
his Easter Communion. He had, indeed, a large heart, was very
tolerant toward those who professed a different religion from his
own. He never aimed at a high degree of perfection or a complete
knowledge of theology. There are many degrees of the Christian
life, as there are in nature. Every baptized person who simply
believes the doctrines of the church and keeps the commandments
is a member of the Catholic Church. But he must take a low place
among her children if he does not aim at perfection, while other
souls avoid the smallest sins, mortify themselves, follow the
evangelical counsels, and perform acts of heroism. Cornelius
belonged to the former class of Catholics.
{398}
He acknowledged himself that he had never attained to a high
degree of perfection, and consoled himself by saying: "In God's
heaven there are many dwellings; there will be one there for a
poor artist."
Cornelius, like mostly all artists, was an idealist in politics
as in his judgment of Christian life. As he saw in the actual
condition of Rome and the church many things which he could not
reconcile with his ideal of the church, he spoke his opinions
candidly and openly, like a true Rhinelander, against every
abuse. He spoke of the necessity of a general council, and told
the pope his views in frequent audiences. His advice was kindly
taken, and the pontiff answered him quietly by saying: "My son,
circumstances are often more powerful than ourselves.' We cannot
cast off all that weighs upon us through life." To accuse
Cornelius of being a Protestant because sometimes he expressed in
art or conversation very peculiar sentiments is ridiculous. On
this plea, Peter Damica, St. Bernard, and many other saints who
have spoken boldly against abuses in the church should be
considered as unorthodox. They say of Cornelius that he was
displeased at the conversion of his Protestant fellow-artists in
Rome. He is reported to have said: "If another becomes Catholic,
I shall turn Protestant." But this is a fiction. The whole
character of Cornelius proves it to be such. He who always
inculcated truth to his pupils, and despised all hollowness and
hypocrisy in life or art, cannot be supposed to have blamed men
for following out to the letter their religious convictions. It
is impossible. We have, besides, a testimony to prove it. When
his friend, Miss Linder, became a convert to Catholicism, in
Munich, in the year 1843, he wrote her a letter which is still
extant. In this he praises her instead of proposing objections to
her. "In Rome the news reached me," he writes, "that you had at
last taken courage to make the decisive step. I am not surprised.
God bless you and keep you free from spiritual pride and
rigorism, (in my eyes almost the only sins.)" He cannot,
therefore, have been offended at the conversion of his Protestant
friends, for we find him continuing his friendship with Overbeck
after the latter's entrance into the church.
Finally, Niebuhr relates an anecdote which has given rise to a
doubt of Cornelius's orthodoxy. There was a supper-party of
artists and learned men, one evening, in the Casarelli Palace, on
the Capitol. When much wine had been drunk by the party, they
went out on the flat roof of the building, and beheld the planet
Jupiter shining with unusual brilliancy. Then Cornelius said to
Thorwaldsen, "Let us drink to the health of old Jupiter." "With
all my heart," answered Thorwaldsen. And they drank the toast.
This incident is adduced as a proof that Cornelius was then a
free-thinker; for he showed by his act a rejection of
Christianity and a belief in paganism. But this toast proves
nothing. It was a mere impulse; a jest of men over-heated by
wine. There is certainly in this anecdote nothing to show a
deliberate protestation against the truth of revelation.
So much for the religious element of Cornelius's character at
that time.
He was now no longer solitary. He had married a Roman lady, the
daughter of a dealer in works of art. She was called the Signora
Carolina, a noble and good maiden, simple and _naive_, like
the Marguerite of _Faust_.
{399}
She bore him a daughter, and with this small family he was about
to leave Rome and return to Germany.
In Munich, Cornelius became the director of a world-renowned
academy, a centre of art, a friend of the king, esteemed and
visited by all classes. But in Berlin he was a mere private
individual, without position, thought little of, without occasion
for the proper display of his artistic powers, working quietly in
his studio. To use his own expression, he was "a solitary sparrow
on the house-top." But this trial was necessary for the spiritual
welfare and true greatness of the master. On the 12th of April,
of the year 1841, Cornelius, with wife and children, had left
Munich, where a farewell dinner was given him. In Dresden, he was
honored by a torchlight procession of artists. On April 23d, he
reached Berlin. All received him with honor and applause. He
visited the celebrated men of the city, Humboldt, Grimm, Rauch,
and Schinkel, who received him into their circle. Testimonials of
esteem from abroad reached him. The Queen of Portugal wrote to
request him to send artists to Portugal to introduce
fresco-painting; and Lord Monson requested him to ornament his
castle with frescoes. Cornelius travelled to England, but the
sudden death of the lord and an ophthalmia of the artist
necessitated his return to Berlin.
Now days of gloom began to dawn for him. The aristocratic society
of the city did not suit him. He preferred his Bavarian beer to
the insipid tea of the Berlin aristocracy. He could not flatter
the affected connoisseurs of art. He was too independent to be a
toady. "He does not approach us!" was the complaint, and men
began to criticise himself and his works harshly.
Cornelius had executed a painting in oil for Count Raczynski in
1843. It was placed on exhibition. It represented the liberation
of the souls in limbo by the Saviour. Though the coloring is
heavy and disagreeable, still the grouping of the patriarchs and
their countenances are highly characteristic and almost
unsurpassable. But the cry was immediately raised by the whole
crowd of art critics, "How can we call these bodiless, unnatural
forms artistic, or those heavy colors painting?" They treated the
artist with contempt and looked on him as a fallen man. A
celebrated portrait-painter of Berlin gave expression to this
sentiment: "If I found in the street a picture executed by
Cornelius, I would not pick it up!" This opinion became general
in Berlin. This was fortunate for the salvation of the master and
for his art. He withdrew from the world, and became more
recollected and devoted more exclusively to his art.
For some time he made little show. However, the king gave him an
order for a work in which he had an opportunity of displaying his
powers of imagination. It was the design of a shield which
William IV. wished to present to the young Prince of Wales as a
godfather's gift. Cornelius finished it in six weeks. It was a
round shield, in the middle of which Christ is represented on the
cross; in the corners appear the four evangelists, and over them
the four cardinal virtues; in the four arms of the cross, baptism
and the Last Supper, and their figures in the Old Testament, the
gushing of the water from the rock, and the rain of manna. Round
about the shield were carved the busts of the twelve apostles. On
its rim were depicted scenes from the passion and triumph of
Christ, from the entry into Jerusalem to the apostolic mission.
{400}
In order to show the connection of the ancient church with the
present, one of the apostles is represented as landing with the
distinguished guests from Prussia in order to administer baptism
to the prince. This little work breathes the spirit of the
artist; it is genial, severe, expressive, full of style; often
quaint and singular, by the induction of modern personages, Queen
Victoria, Wellington, and Humboldt.
King Frederick William IV. determined, at this time, to erect a
church which should vie with that of St. Peter's in Rome and St.
Paul's in London. Stüler made the plan. Cornelius was to ornament
the walls with frescoes. He undertook this task in 1843. He felt
again all his powers revive. Exultingly he wrote to the academy
of Münster, which had given the great artist the diploma of a
doctor in philosophy in recognition of his ability: "A great,
holy field, _campo santo_, has been opened to me, through
the favor of Providence and the grace of my illustrious king and
sovereign, in order to execute upon it what God has put in my
soul. May he enlighten my spirit and penetrate my heart with his
love; open my eyes to the glory of his works, fill me with piety
and truth, and guide every motion of my hand!"
In order to have the requisite quiet and leisure for this
gigantic work, Cornelius made a second trip to Rome, that
paradise of painters and head of Catholicity. From the spring of
the year 1843 to May, 1844, and again from March, 1845 to 1846,
he dwelt in the Eternal City.
After his return from Rome, he labored incessantly at Berlin to
finish his great undertaking. In January, 1845, the first sketch
was ended; in 1846, the glorious, unequalled cartoon of the
horsemen in the apocalypse, which was exhibited in Rome, Berlin,
Ghent, and Vienna, and at the feet of which the whole school of
Belgian artists laid a laurel crown. The government also gave him
a house on the royal square, in which to prosecute his
undertaking. He finished the whole series of decorations in
twenty-five years. He worked with inexpressible pleasure and joy,
although none of those pictures really came to its destined
place. He labored without desire of fame. He painted as the bird
sings on the boughs. As none of his great works or frescoes were
exposed publicly at Berlin, he remained almost unknown to the
people; but he found his sole delight in the love of his art, and
in application to its expression.
In the year 1833, he lost his first wife. He married again, in
Rome, a lady named Gertrude, distinguished for beauty and virtue.
She died in 1859. His daughter Marie also died at the same time,
who had been espoused to the Marquis Marcelli. Thus he drank of a
bitter chalice! When he went to Rome for the last time, on the
14th of April, 1861, although aged, he made a third' marriage in
espousing Theresa of Urbino, whom he had met and admired in the
house of his daughter! This wife attended the last years of his
life, and stood by his death-bed.
The residence of Cornelius in Berlin had made him more and more
attached to the Catholic Church. He wrote in 1851 to a friend in
Munich: "The invisible church is the only one to be found among
German Protestants. I have tried to find a church among them
here, but so far my search has been in vain. In Rome, I am always
a half-heretic, but here I am more Catholic everyday."
{401}
When he made his last voyage to Rome, he passed through Munich on
his return, and paid a visit to his friend Schlotthauer, to whom
he spoke thus: "Friend, I am now entirely of your way of thinking
in religious matters. Berlin has made me entirely Catholic. Only
now do I prize Catholicism sufficiently. If the King of Bavaria
were here, I would seek him and say to him openly: 'Your majesty,
Bavaria is still a Catholic country, and this is the cause of its
strength and greatness. Try to keep it so. This is the best
policy.'" To his friend Ringseis he made a similar statement,
adding that he had travelled to Munich on purpose to inform them
of his thorough conversion.
In another instance, also, the fervor of Cornelius's faith and
charity displayed itself. He presented the committee who were
engaged in erecting a Catholic hospital with a painting of St.
Elizabeth surprised by her husband in the act of nursing a sick
pauper in her own bed. The picture was sold, after having been
lithographed, and realized a large sum for the intended purpose.
He was extremely hostile to the _Life of Jesus_, by Renan,
and considered the attempt to take away the members of divinity
from the head of Christ as highly injurious to Christian art. The
gray-headed prince of painting, on this account, painted the
"Resurrection," choosing for subject the very moment when the
hitherto incredulous Thomas exclaims, "My God and my Lord!" He
exhibited this picture with religious enthusiasm, and pointed it
out to visitors, saying, "That is against Renan!" He wished to
leave behind him a clear profession of his belief in the divinity
of Jesus.
Cornelius spent the last six years of his life in Berlin, in a
kind of hidden life, continually occupied, like Plato, in his old
age, always lively, loquacious, and fond of society, so that he
gathered around him a host of young artists and _savans_.
The tranquillity of his life was only broken at this period by a
few excursions. In the year 1862, he went to Düsseldorf; in 1863,
to Trier on professional business. In 1864, he made his last
visit to Munich, toward which his heart always yearned.
His visit to Munich shortened his life. The fatigues of the
journey, and the visits which he received and was obliged to
make, as well as the ovations tendered him, wore him out. He
became ill, and returned sick to Berlin. A disease of the heart
declared itself; in February, 1867, his case became hopeless. He
called for a priest, and received all the sacraments of the
church twenty-four hours before his death. He took leave of his
beloved wife and friends, seized his crucifix, and breathed his
last, uttering the words: "Pray! pray!" He died on the 6th of
March, at ten A.M., on Ash-Wednesday. Over his remains was hung
his own painting of Pentecost, as over those of Raphael the
picture of the Resurrection. He was buried on the 6th of March,
and all the nobility and talent of Berlin formed a part of his
funeral _cortége_.
Death has taken from us this great master of German painting;
but, to use the language of St. Bernard, it has only taken his
cloak, for his spirit still lives! It lives in the heavenly
Jerusalem. It lives in his works, in the history of art, and in
the breasts of his pupils on earth, who bear aloft the standard
of pure, ideal, religious art. All will bear testimony that
Cornelius is the man who freed modern German painting from
foreign mannerism, opened the way for generous monumental
frescoes, which embraced with equal cordiality the three worlds
of the classic German, national, and Christian manifestations;
who portrayed the deepest thoughts in the most noble forms, and
whose works are unrivalled in colossal proportions, richness of
expression, and striking characterization, architectural
proportions and dramatic life, by any masterpieces of antiquity;
while, in the piety and sweetness of the countenances portrayed
and the harmonious coloring of the whole, they exceed anything in
modern art.
{402}
The news of his death brought sadness everywhere. In Munich,
Mozart's solemn Requiem was sung for his soul. Professor Carriere
pronounced a panegyric on him in the evening. A few days after,
Professor Sepp pronounced another eulogium on him, calling him
the Shakespeare of painting, whilst Overbeck he called the
Calderon of the art.
In Stuttgart, when the news of his death was heard, the halls of
the church, where a requiem was sung for his soul, were hung with
copies of his own paintings. Lübke spoke on the occasion, and
drew a parallel between Cornelius and Phidias and Michael Angelo.
In Dresden, Hettner made the funeral discourse. Finally, in Rome,
the Eternal City, from which Cornelius had gone forth to conquer
a new world of art, and to which he had returned in order to draw
inspiration from its associations and have a perfect intuition of
the ideal, a solemn requiem was sung for him in the German
national church of the "Anima," at which King Louis I., of
Bavaria, who had opened the path of immortality to the artist,
Overbeck, who had loved him for fifty-six years, and all the
artists of Rome, assisted. A few days before, King Louis had
written a letter to the widow of Cornelius, who lived in Berlin.
In it occurred these words: "Be assured of my profound sympathy
in your great loss; but not alone your loss, but our common loss.
The sun of heaven became dark when he who was the sun of art was
extinguished. But the sun will shine again in the heavens, but we
shall hardly ever see another Cornelius!"
The whole world on both sides of the Alps have united in
rendering homage to the genius of Cornelius, and laying crowns on
his sepulchre at Berlin. But the last monument to his glory would
be the ornamentation of the cathedral in that city with his
wonderful compositions. That such an event should happen there
was given to Cornelius the word of a king.
We who admired and loved the artist and his genius only pray that
he may enjoy now an eternal, happy rest in the bosom of the
Author of beauty, from whom he always drew the inspiration of his
art.
--------
{403}
What shall we do with the Indians?
The Commissioners whom our Government recently sent out to the
Plains to negotiate treaties with the hostile Indians, have
patched up a truce with some of the most dangerous of the tribes,
and the people are congratulating themselves that the warfare is
over. We might have been on good terms with the savages any time
this last half-century, if we had been honestly so minded and had
known how to govern ourselves and the red man too. Yet the record
of our intercourse with the aborigines has been nothing but a
history of long wars and short truces. Years of the most terrible
hostilities have been followed by a few months of precarious
quiet, and the Western pioneer has been almost invariably
obliged, like his New-England ancestors, to till his acres with
one hand on the plough and the other on his gun. He has never
known a month of security. He has never left his log cabin in the
morning without reasonable fear that he would find it in flames
when he returned at night. He has learned to look upon the Indian
as a noxious beast, whom no promises could bind, no good
treatment could mollify; as a pest which every honest man was
justified in conscience, if he was not bound in duty, to do his
utmost to exterminate. A war of races between the red and the
white has long been a cardinal doctrine in the creed of the
prairie settler, and his chief social principle has been, War to
the knife with the Indian, and no quarter.
Here is a dreadful state of things for a Christian people to
contemplate; and the fault of it, to speak plain English, is all
our own. Managed as we manage them, Indian affairs can be nothing
else than a perpetual affliction. Treated as we treat them, the
aborigines of the West cannot help being our cruel and implacable
foes. The devil himself could hardly invent a wrong which we have
not done to the primitive owners of our territory. They once
stood in awe of us as superior beings; we have committed every
conceivable baseness that could belittle us in their estimation.
They had noble traits of character; we have done all we could to
obliterate them. They had the common faults of uncivilized
pagans; we have intensified them. They are proud; we insult them.
They are revengeful; we aggravate them. They are covetous; we rob
them. They have a natural tendency toward drunkenness; we keep
them supplied with liquor. They are cruel; we tempt them to
murder. The "noble savage" of the novel and the stage, we grant,
is a fiction; but he is not more unreal than the irredeemable
brute who is popularly depicted as the terror of the frontiersman
and the western emigrant. The Indians, after all, are not so very
different from other human beings. Like all mankind, they have
great virtues and great faults; and if a fair balance could be
struck, we are by no means certain that their credits would not
exceed our own. There is many a vice which they never would have
known if they had not learned it from us; but we can think of no
species of crime which the Indians have taught to white men. It
is an insane piece of wickedness to treat any race of human
beings as vermin, whom it is a mercy to the rest of mankind to
sweep out of existence.
{404}
God never made tribes of men to be slaughtered. All creatures
with human souls are capable of moral and mental improvement;
capable of a greater or less degree of civilization; capable of
being brought under the rule of law, and being made useful to the
rest of the world. If we have failed sensibly to improve the
condition of the Indians, or to teach them anything more of
civilization than some of its worst vices, the fault is our own.
We have to deal with two classes of Indians in the West, and our
system with both is as bad as any system can be. As settlements
have encroached upon the prairies and forests where the savages
roamed in pursuit of game, we have, as a rule, gone through the
form of buying the territory from the tribes which claimed it.
These tribes have then been removed further westward, or have
been assigned certain lands called reservations. The
consideration for which the lands are bought is not a sum of
money, paid to the savages in hand, but a fixed annuity, given to
them in form of merchandise, clothing, blankets, implements of
the chase and of husbandry, trinkets, and other goods chiefly
prized by the red men; and to oversee the forwarding and
distribution of these articles, as well as to look after the
general interests of the tribes, to protect them from oppression
on the part of the whites, and to check crimes and outrages, we
send out into the Indian country a number of officers called
Indian Agents and Superintendents. On the reservations, where
some effort has been made to teach the savages the habits of
civilized life, there are schools, farms, and workshops. The
wandering tribes of the far West, however, subsist wholly by the
chase, and preserve all their primitive wildness. The Indian
Agent in their territory has little to do but distribute their
annuities, and when they commit any outrage upon the settlers try
to have them punished. Now, there is nothing very objectionable
in our way of dealing with these two classes of Indians,
_provided_ the agents and superintendents are honest and
competent men; but experience has proved that, as a rule, they
are neither, though, of course, there are honorable exceptions.
One unprincipled adventurer in power over these fierce tribes can
raise a tumult which years of warfare cannot subdue. One
swindling agent can upset a treaty which has cost the government
hundred of lives and millions of dollars. How often has not this
been done! It is notorious that most of the men who receive
appointments in the Indian country are persons of no character,
who demand an opportunity of enriching themselves at the red
man's expense, as a reward for political services rendered to the
party in power. It is probably a rare thing for any tribe of
Indians to receive the whole amount of the annuity to which they
are entitled, and for which the government pays. They are
swindled first in the price which government pays for the goods,
and then they are swindled again by the agents, who deliver just
as many of the articles as they please, and no more, or by the
teamsters who "lose" packages on the road. Worse still are the
traders who sell the poor savages whisky and gunpowder, and
collect their "debts" from the distributors of annuities. How
many of these debts do our readers suppose are just? And when
there is a corrupt understanding between the trader and the
agent, what chance has the poor Indian for justice?
{405}
It is in this atrocious manner that the original owners of our
soil have bartered away their birthright for a mess of pottage--
sold their rich acres for a glass of rum. It is in this way that
the treaties with the tribes are continually broken. The Indians
gave up their lands for a certain annual consideration. The
consideration is not paid them in full, and often is hardly paid
at all. How are they to know whether we are all swindlers alike,
or are only in the habit of appointing swindlers to positions of
trust and responsibility?
These, however, are not the only wrongs of which the Indian has
to complain. The testimony of missionaries and other trusty
witnesses, is unanimous in saying that the frontier settlers as a
general rule are perfectly unscrupulous and lawless in all their
dealings with the tribes. Contact with the whites always means
demoralization, drunkenness, and domestic infamy for the Indian.
His property is appropriated, his cabin is invaded, his house is
defiled, and if he resists he is murdered, and the murderer never
is punished. He has no rights which the white man is bound to
respect. He is nothing but a brute, to be hunted as men hunt the
buffalo, or killed off like the wolves, with a price set upon his
scalp. No wonder we have war; it is a wonder we ever have peace.
The commissioners who were recently sent out to the plains by the
national government to investigate the troubles and try to devise
a way out of them, are understood to favor the removal of all the
Indian tribes to reservations where they will be out of the way
of the great routes of travel across the continent, and where
white men will have no excuse to interfere with them. That is to
say, their plan consists merely of an enlargement of the
superintendent system. Cut off from a great part of their
hunting-grounds, the savages will become more than ever dependent
upon the liberality of the United States government, and more
than ever in the power of the agents and traders through whose
hands the national _largeness_ must pass. Moreover, it is
evident that the boundaries of the reservations cannot be
permanently fixed. As the white settlements expand, the Indian
territories must contract. Nobody can for a moment suppose that
the proprietary rights of the Indians will long be respected when
the Yankee emigrant wants their lands. What will happen when the
boundaries are broken through? Unless the Indians have learned by
that time to support themselves by labor and to conform to a
civilized mode of life, they will infallibly be crushed out of
existence. There will be another horrible war which will have no
end until the red men are virtually exterminated. Now, the
serious duty of preparing these rude tribes for the changed
conditions of life which must soon come upon them, and fitting
them for a gradual and peaceable absorption into the rest of the
community--which is their only hope of existence--must fall, if
the plan of the commissioners be adopted, upon the Indian agents
and superintendents. The power of these men for good or for
mischief will be enormously increased. Hence, unless some
effective measures be taken to fill these important offices with
men of a better class than have hitherto secured them, our
present evils will be correspondingly increased. The government
swindler will come back to the savages with seven other devils
more wicked than himself, and the last state of those poor
wretches will be worse than the first.
{406}
Is there any reason to expect improvement? We see not the
slightest so long as these offices are distributed on the same
principle as other government appointments, and rated among the
political spoils that belong to the party in power. An Indian
agent ought to be a man of superior abilities; but men of
superior abilities will not banish themselves to the desert
except for one of two reasons: either they must be animated by
disinterested charity, or they must expect to make a good deal of
money out of the office over and above their trifling salaries.
Charity is not one of the characteristics of political hacks. As
for the other motive, we know pretty well how often it operates.
To find capable persons to undertake this work; men of
incorruptible integrity, of lofty purpose, and of _moral
force;_ men whom the Indians will respect and obey, and who
will be likely to persevere in their arduous task, we must go
outside the partisan ranks. Where shall we find them and how
shall we recognize them?
There are such men, who have been at work in this very enterprise
ever since the discovery of America, and there are numerous
communities of Indians whom they have almost entirely reclaimed
from savage life and made quiet and useful members of society. If
they have not done more, it is because they have never been free
from interference. The unruly settler has invariably broken in
upon their work and brought into the communities which they were
laboriously civilizing the fatal disturbances of drunkenness and
license. If the missionaries could be left alone, they would soon
not only Christianize the savages but reduce them to order.
Scattered all over the West there are thriving little settlements
where the dusky hunter has turned his spear into a ploughshare,
and under the directions of the priest has learned more or less
of industry and peaceful arts, and forgotten the fierce impulses
which once made him a terror to the plains. In these quiet
villages the school-house and the chapel are crowded with zealous
learners, the fields and gardens bloom with the evidences of
thrift. So long as the white man keeps away, there is quiet and
prosperity. The great mission of St. Mary's, among the
Pottawattomies in Eastern Kansas, is a notable example of what
the missionaries can do toward civilizing the poor wretches whom
we have so long been trying to tame with gunpowder. And the
testimony of travellers, army officers, and government
functionaries generally is unanimous as to the complete success
of the Catholic priests in dealing with the great problem which
perplexes our national legislature.
Why then should we not leave to these missionaries the task in
which they have made such satisfactory progress? If we let them
alone, their progress will be tenfold more rapid than it has ever
been yet. Their conquests will soon be numbered not by villages
but by nations. The mission of St. Mary's will be repeated in
every corner of the West; and if the government can only devise
some means of keeping away from these nurseries of Christianity
the corrupting influence of white thieves, drunkards, and
adventurers, the Indians in the course of a single generation
will be ready for absorption into the rest of the population,
will be fit to live side by side with us, to till the land as we
do, and earn their bread by honest labor, and then all the
trouble will be over. If this policy could be adopted, the
reservation plan of the peace commissioners would be a very good
one.
{407}
White men should be strictly forbidden to trespass upon the
territory thus set apart, and the military might be employed to
enforce the prohibition. Let the whole machinery of agencies,
etc., be utterly abolished, as useless and demoralizing. Then let
the money now spent in the purchase of beads and similar toys,
which the Indians themselves are learning to despise, be devoted
to the establishment, stocking, and support of schools, farms,
and industrial establishments, under the charge of any authorized
missionaries of good standing who are willing to serve _without
pay_. Of course, we anticipate little success from any
missionaries except Catholic priests; but we cannot expect a
non-Catholic government to restrict its confidence to them, and
we ask no more than to have the field thrown open to volunteers
of all denominations on equal terms. We know well enough, if this
be done, that the great majority of the laborers will be those of
our own household. The purchase of annuity goods should be made
in accordance with the recommendations of the superiors of the
missions; but their distribution, lest there should be even a
suspicion of unfair dealing, might be arranged through the
nearest military commanders. We would not have clergymen mixed up
with government money matters, and army officers would probably
manage them honestly. Visitors should be appointed periodically
by Congress to inspect and report upon the condition of the
missions, and those which were not properly ordered should be put
into other hands.
Under this arrangement the missionaries would ask nothing from
the government but a free field and no interference. They would
receive none of the public money. They would ask for no power
except what the Indians chose to confer upon them. The domestic
government of the tribes could be managed just as that of all
other American settlements is managed, by the settlers
themselves. The missionary would be merely their guide and
teacher. He would desire no power over them beyond what he has
already. The Catholic priest never fails to secure an ascendency
over the savage mind by the legitimate influence of his personal
character and of the message which he comes to preach. Of course
it would be many years before the whole field could be occupied;
but if the United States government would invite the cooperation
of all religious denominations in the great work of civilization,
we are persuaded that scores of zealous priests would offer
themselves for the labor, that the Jesuits and other great
missionary orders would be prodigal of their subjects, and that a
generous and earnest spirit would be aroused among the Catholic
people and would lead to the collection of an ample fund for the
support of the enterprise.
We are not sanguine that the government will adopt this plan.
There are too many opposing influences; it is too hard to do
right; and it is so easy to oppress an inferior people when you
can make money by doing it, and get public applause at the same
time. But we see no other hope for the Indian except in the
protection of the missionary, and no prospect of peace on the
frontier until in our dealings with the aborigines we take as our
motto, Justice and Benevolence.
--------
{408}
Translated From The German.
Bellini's Romance.
I was a guest at a pleasant country festival at Eisenberg, a few
hours' ride from Dresden, at the close of September, 1835. The
post-boy brought me a letter that caused me to order my horse
saddled immediately. It was a brief note from my friend J. P.
Pixis, informing me that _La Sonnambula_ was to be performed
that evening; my favorite songstress, Francilla ------, in the
part of Amina. I was more than half in love with that
enchantress, and trembled with delight at the prospect of seeing
her, while I took a hasty leave of my rural entertainers.
I arrived in time, but would not call upon Francilla till after
the opera; not until the next morning, for I wished to see her
alone. I was early at the door of her lodgings in Castle street.
When she came into the drawing-room and advanced to greet me, I
was startled to see her pale, with eyes red with weeping. I gazed
anxiously on her face, pressing the hand she held out to me in
silence, for my emotion was too great for speech. She asked
quietly if I had witnessed the last evening's representation. I
assured her I had, and endeavored to express my rapturous
appreciation of her singing. But my praises were dashed with
gloom as I saw her so sadly altered. "It is no wonder I am
dejected," she replied to my questioning looks. "We have all
cause to mourn."
"What has happened?"
"Alas!" she faltered, weeping afresh, "Bellini is dead!"
I had not heard the fatal news. Bellini! the glorious composer of
the noble work that had so delighted me a few hours before! So
admirable an artist--so young--so much honored and beloved! I
could have wept with Francilla.
After a few moments' silence, she wiped her eyes, then rose, and
took a volume from the table. It was her album, for which I had
sent her a drawing--a sketch of her fair self as Romeo, at the
moment when Juliet calls on his name in the tomb, while he thinks
it the voice of an angel from the skies.
We turned over the leaves of the album, lingering as we came to
the different autographs. Francilla's soft, languishing eyes
kindled with haughty fire as we noted the bold, rude characters
traced by the hand of Judith Pasta; and when we came to the
signature of Countess Rossi, her expressive features were lighted
with a tender smile.
One letter was written by her Uncle Pixis in Prague. She stopped
to give me an account of his family. Turning the leaves and
talking rapidly, she paused of a sudden, and I saw two names
recorded opposite each other--those of Vincenzo Bellini and Maria
Malibran. Bellini had written a passage from the
_Capuletti_.
Francilla signed for me to give her my pencil--it was one she had
given me--and drew a large cross under Bellini's signature. Her
look was intensely significant. Her silence was strangely
prolonged. At last I asked, merely to say something: "Why is it,
Francilla, that, in the last act of the _Capuletti_, you use
Vaccai's music instead of Bellini's? Bellini's composition, as a
whole, is superior, and the close far more touching.
{409}
I never could understand why a celebrated vocalist like yourself
should prefer the tamer close of Vaccai."
Francilla looked earnestly in my face, but did not answer for
some time. At length, fixing her eyes on the cross she had
pencilled, she said, in a tone of deepest solemnity: "I will tell
you a story, my friend, and you will see then how much our poor
friend suffered. Neither Maria nor I could sing his last act; you
shall know why."
"Madame Malibran, too?" I exclaimed.
She interrupted me with a gesture enjoining silence. "You know,"
she said, "though of fair complexion and blue eyes, Bellini was
born at the foot of Etna. You have yourself described him to me
as effeminate and a little foppish; but he was a genuine son of
Sicily, and he glowed with the warmth of the south,
notwithstanding his gentleness and weakness. That was a wonderful
nature of his! It was not, like Sicily's volcano, spread over
luxuriant meadows, through woods and snow-fields, across a lava
waste to the brink of the fiery abyss; nor was it like the Hecla
of your own land, where eternal fire burns under eternal ice. He
reminded me of an English garden tastefully laid out, with smooth
walks and quiet streams, delicate flowers and quaint shrubbery,
fountains and fluted shafts; beneath which glowed an abyss of
fire! That was Bellini; under his sentimental culture burned a
quenchless flame--the love of art, fed by another love--for
Malibran!"
"You amaze me, Francilla," I exclaimed. "His passion for art was
one for Maria, too. How could he help it? Was it not she who
inspired his wondrous creations with their irresistible charm?
Was she not his soul of all other performers in the operas? 'What
will Malibran say to it?' was Bellini's question concerning
everything he composed. She was his queen of art, his muse, his
ideal! Life without her was gloom. How can Malibran survive him?
Your own imagination, Francilla," I said, "weaves this pretty
romance. You know Malibran married M. Beriot."
"Do I not remember how the news of that marriage affected
Vincenzo?" she retorted. "How pale he grew, how he trembled, and
left the company in silence! Yet he could not have hoped to win
Malibran; for she always treated him as a boy, though he was a
year older than herself. But he could not have dreamed she would
marry M. Beriot, who was at one time distracted for Madame
Sontag."
With a pause she went on: "Bellini avoided both Maria and her
husband after the marriage. If he saw M. Beriot, he went out of
the way--very wisely; for in case of an encounter he might have
been tempted--after the Sicilian fashion--you understand?" And
with flashing eyes she swung her arm as one who gives a
dagger-thrust.
"I understand the pantomime, my pretty Romeo! But your fancy
carries the thing too far."
"No one knows what might have happened," she said, "in spite of
Vincenzo's soft heart. It was well Malibran left Paris and went
to Italy. Bellini never confided his secret to any one; but it
became suspected among his friends. And Malibran must have heard
of it; for she suddenly became reluctant to sang in any of
Bellini's pieces. She continued, however, to represent Romeo; she
could not give up that part.
{410}
When the last representation of the _Capuletti_ was given in
Milan, it happened that, in the final act, when Romeo takes the
poison, such a death-like shuddering seized Maria's frame, it was
with great difficulty she could go through with the part. After
the performance was over, she was greatly exhausted; and with
emotion she declared that no power on earth should compel her to
sing again the Romeo of Bellini. She adopted the part as composed
by Vaccai. But she was not satisfied with that; and afterward she
returned to poor Bellini's music so far as to retain the first
acts of the opera. The last act she always sang as Vaccai wrote
it."
"What said Vincenzo to this?"
"When he heard of it, he fell into the deepest despondency. He
would neither write nor think anything more; he seemed at times
to forget himself, and smiled and talked like a man who had lost
his reason. All his friends noticed and lamented the change.
"One day, Lablache came to see him. He found Bellini lying
listless on the sofa, pale, depressed, miserable, his eyes
half-closed, indifferent to every one. The giant singer went up
to him, opened his big mouth, and roared out: 'Halloa, Bellini!
what are you lying there for, like an idle lout of a lazzaroni on
the Molo, weary of doing nothing! Get up and go to work! Paris,
France, all Europe is full of expectation as to what you are to
give the world after your _Norma_, which your adversaries
silenced. Up, I say! Do you hear me, Bellini?'
"'Indeed, I do hear you, my dear Lablache,' replied the composer
in a lachrymose voice. 'I have good ears, and, if I had not, your
brazen base pierces like a trumpet! Leave me, _caro_; leave
me to myself. I am good for nothing, unless it be the _dolce
far niente!_ I have lost interest in everything!'
"'The mischief you have!' exclaimed Lablache, striking his hands
together, with a tone that caused the walls to vibrate. And
you--Bellini--talk thus? You, who have ever pressed on to the
goal, and reached it in spite of obstacles! Are you an artist?
Are you a man? _Amico mio!_ will you be checked midway in
your glorious career? Will you lose the prize fame holds out?
Will you spend your life whining out loverlike complaints, like
some silly Damon of his cruel Doris or Phillis? Shame on you!
Such womanish pinings are unworthy of you!'
"Bellini interrupted him very gently. 'My good Lablache,' he
said, 'you do me injustice! I make no complaints; I am not
pining--'
"'Silence!' roared Lablache. 'You are a fool! Do you think I do
not know where the shoe pinches?'
"Bellini colored deeply and cast down his eyes.
"'Have you nothing to say, Bellini?' continued Lablache. 'Don't
look so stupidly like an apprehended school-boy!'
"Vincenzo sighed piteously. 'If you know all,' he replied, 'you
know that _she_ will sing nothing of my music!'
"Lablache came closer, grasped the shoulders of the young
composer in his powerful hands, lifted him from the cushions of
the sofa to his feet, and gave him a good shaking! Then, as he
released him, he said, with flashing eyes:
"'You shall hear _me_ sing something of yours.' He began the
_allegro_ to the duet from _I Puritani_, "Suoni la
tromba e intrepido." His stentorian voice rang like a clarion or
a martial shout. The flush of enthusiasm rushed to Bellini's pale
face; the tears sprang into his eyes; at length, he threw himself
into Lablache's arms, and joined his voice in the splendid song.
When it was ended, he thanked his friend, and pledged his word
that he would finish the composition of the entire opera in a few
weeks.
{411}
"The promise was kept. Bellini worked diligently, and in the
stipulated time put the opera into the hands of Lablache, who
undertook to see that it should be worthily represented.
"All Paris was delighted at the announcement of the
representation. The opera was splendidly cast, and the rehearsals
commenced. Bellini was present at the first rehearsal; at the
second, he was absent, and word came that he was ill at his
country-seat at Porteaux, near the capital. They hoped he would
recover in time to attend the first performance of the opera.
"All went on successfully; and a large audience attended the
opening representation. The famous duet Lablache had sung was
repeated and encored amid thunders of applause. Just then a
murmur went round the theatre, and the applause was silenced. The
news was:
"'Bellini died an hour ago, at his country-seat.'"
Francilla ceased. She closed the album, rose hastily, and went to
the window. I was deeply affected, and was leaving the room
quietly. But she turned round, and, bidding me stay, went and
seated herself at the piano. The song was a melancholy one, sung
with wonderful expression and feeling. It was a farewell to the
dead.
My friend Pixis came into the room at its close, and asked what
it was we were so mournful about.
I replied, "Francilla has been telling me of Bellini's unhappy
love for Malibran."
"Do not believe a word of it!" cried Pixis, laughing. "She will
get you up a fine romance on that chapter."
I had my doubts of its truth; yet the fact is indisputable that
Bellini was always in love.
Here the pretty artist, Maschinka Schneider, came in, and the
conversation was of the representation of the _Capuletti_,
already announced. I gave advice as to improvements in the
arrangement of the scenes.
I could not help remembering the sad tale my little friend had
told me. I thought of it again when, a year afterward, I read in
the newspapers that Malibran had died at Manchester, on the 23d
of September, the same day on which Bellini had expired a year
before.
------
{412}
Translated from the French of Souvestre.
The Inside of a Stage-Coach.
One of the last days of September the rain had fallen all day in
torrents, but finally, having ceased, left the sky so enveloped
in fog that, though scarcely four o'clock, night seemed already
to have overspread the earth.
A heavy diligence, with its relay of horses, ascended with
difficulty one of the hills which separate Belleville from Lyons,
while the postilions walked on each side of the team, pausing
about every fifty steps to breathe and recover themselves. The
wearied passengers had descended by invitation of the conductor,
and were trudging along in no amiable mood, scolding the horses,
the rain, and the miserable roads. Two of them, who came last,
stopped suddenly at the turning of the ascent One was a man
nearly fifty years old, with a mild and smiling countenance; but
the other, much younger, had an air of gloom and dissatisfaction.
Throwing his eyes over the surrounding country, half enveloped in
fog, he said to his companion:
"What weather and what a year, Cousin Grugel! The Saône has
hardly entered its bed, and the valleys are again inundated."
"God preserve us, Gontran!" replied the man with the mild
countenance; "the rainbow can appear any moment above the
deluge."
"Yes," replied the other traveller, with slight irony; "I know
your mania of hope, Jacques."
"And I yours of discouragement, Darvon."
"Well, I am right when I examine how this world goes. Where do
you see peace, order, or prosperity? I only hear of incendiaries,
contagion, deluge, and murder. What man's wickedness spares, the
wickedness of nature annihilates, for even brute matter seems to
possess the instinct of destruction; and the elements, like
kings, cannot remain neighbors without warring against each
other."
"That is only one side of things, my cousin--the sad side; but of
the other you never speak. Your eyes are riveted on the volcano
which dims the horizon, but you cannot lower them to the fields
of ripe corn undulating at your feet. There is happiness in the
world, if you can make up your mind to believe it."
"Well, I know nothing of it," replied Darvon, in a tone of
vexation.
"But, yourself considered, may you not be placed among the most
favored?"
"True, Jacques, and yet I have not been able to find, in all the
good accorded me, either peace or contentment."
"What have you to wish for? You are rich, honored, and have a
family who love you."
"Yes," replied Gontran; "but this same fortune has cost me the
lawsuit for which I have just made the third voyage to Macon; my
good reputation has not deterred the opposing lawyer from
slander; and as to my family--"
"Well?" inquired Jacques.
"Well! my sister, with whom I always lived so affectionately, has
just quarrelled with me."
"It will be a short quarrel."
{413}
"No, no; I am tired of working without profit to establish order
in her affairs. I have been too much annoyed by her want of
system and reason."
"Think of her excellent heart and you will forgive her."
"Oh! I know that you will always find a good reason for me to
bear my sorrows patiently; you have a recipe for every wound of
the soul, and if I press you a little, you will prove me in the
wrong to complain, and that all is quite right here below."
"Pardon me," replied Grugel; "in the government of this world I
find much to wound me, but I am not sure I am the best judge.
Life is a great mystery, of which we comprehend so little. Must I
own it to you, there are hours when I persuade myself that God
has not afflicted men with so many scourges without intention.
Happy and invulnerable, they could be endured; each one would
count on his individual strength, delight in his own isolation,
and refuse all sympathy to his fellow-being. But weakness has no
such resource; on the contrary, it forces men to be friendly, to
aid and love one another. Grief has become a bond of sympathy,
and we owe to it our noblest and best sentiments, gratitude,
devotion, and piety."
"Well done," said Darvon, smiling; "not being able to sustain the
good in all things, you give me the bright side of evil."
"Perhaps so," said Grugel; "only be sure that evil itself is not
absolute. Science borrows its remedies from the sap of venomous
plants; why, then, may we not from passion, misfortune, or
inequality draw much that is good? Believe me, Darvon, there is
no human dross, however poor, without its particles of gold."
"In good faith, then, I would like to know what could be found in
our travelling companions," cried Gontran. "Let us see, cousin;
suppose we put to the test these curious patterns of our race, as
we proclaim it so intelligent."
"It is very certain," said Jacques, smiling, "fate has not
favored us."
"Never mind, never mind," replied Darvon, whose misanthropy was
niggardly in its character; "disengage the gold from the dross,
as you say. But first, how many grains do you expect to find in
this cattle-merchant before us?"
Grugel raised his head and saw, a few steps in advance, the
traveller who had called him cousin. A coarse man in a blue
blouse, following with heavy steps the side of the road, while
finishing his well-picked chicken-bone.
"I declare, that is the seventh repast I have seen him make
to-day," continued Darvon, "and the coach-pockets are still laden
with his provisions. When he has eaten enough, he goes to sleep,
then he eats again, then goes to sleep in order to recommence his
programme. He is a mere digesting machine, too imbecile to draw
from him either response or information."
"Our companion with the felt hat can sufficiently acquit himself
in that respect."
"Ah! yes, let us consider him and try also to extract his gold.
He joined our party only this morning, and already the conductor
has sent him from the _impériale_ to the travellers in the
_coupé_, who again have sent him to the _intérieur_. We
have had him but two hours, and he has already given us his own
and his family history to the fifth degree. I know his name is
Peter Lepré, that for twenty years he has been commissioner of
colonial produce in the departments of the Saône and Loire, of
Ain, Isère, and of the Rhone, and he has been married three
times.
{414}
Then if you did not have to bear his questioning; but he is
equally talkative and curious, and when his confession is
finished, he awaits yours. If you are reflecting, he speaks to
you; if you speak, he interrupts you. His voice is like a rattle
in constant motion, the noise of which ends in making you
nervous."
"Poor Lepré!" said Grugel; "at heart, after all he is a worthy
man."
"He has one merit," replied Darvon, "that of annoying
Mademoiselle Athénaïs de Locherais; for we almost forgot this
amiable fellow-traveller, who, after recommending us all to get
out to lighten the coach, remained in herself so as not to dampen
her feet."
"You must forgive her," observed Jacques; "isolation has made her
forget all ease of others; her heart is contracted."
"Contracted!" repeated Gontran, "you are deceived, cousin;
Mademoiselle Athénaïs has a great deal of love for herself. The
whole world seems to have been made for her special ease, and she
can imagine nothing in it that does not bear upon her in some way
or other. She is one of those sweet creatures who, hearing the
cry of the midnight assassin, returns to her pillow complaining
of having been awakened."
Grugel was going to reply, but they had arrived at the top of the
hill. The conductor, calling the passengers, urged them to
remount, as a courier had just appeared with an announcement,
that, owing to the overflow of the Saône, the passage by
Villefranche would be impossible, and that in order to reach Anse
they would be obliged to turn more to the right, passing the
Niseran higher up and taking another road. The coach which had
just preceded them, not having taken this precaution, had been
surprised by the waters, and some of the passengers were reported
to be drowned. Happily this last intelligence was not
communicated to the travellers, but they vociferated loudly when
apprised of the by-road they were obliged to take.
"There is a malediction on us," said Gontran, already peevish
with the length of the journey.
"I knew it would be so, sir," cried Pierre Lepré, with
volubility. The two postilions had just escaped from him, so he
fell back on his travelling companions. "I was told on my way
that the Ardiere and Vauzarme had risen considerably; indeed, we
cannot tell if we can pass to Anse, where we may encounter the
waters of the Azergnes and the Brevanne. Where in the world are
you taking us, conductor? Shall we pass the woods of Orrigt?
Well, I know the mayor, a thin man, always smoking. But, speaking
of this, can we not stop again before we come to Anse?"
"Impossible," replied the conductor brusquely; "I am now eight
hours behind time."
"Gracious! where will we sup, then?" cried the fat
cattle-merchant.
"We won't sup at all, sir."
"I declare, I wish I had some broth," interrupted Mademoiselle
Athénaïs, in a shrill voice, with her head out of the coach door;
"I always take my broth at five o'clock."
"We have had nothing since morning," cried all the travellers.
"Get in, gentlemen," called out the conductor; "one hour's delay
may prevent us from reaching there. You can't joke with an
overflow, and I don't want my coach drowned."
"Drowned!" cried Mademoiselle Athénaïs's. "Why, this is horrible.
You shall be informed against, conductor! I demand that you leave
the valley. Why don't you answer me, conductor? I will complain
to your chief."
{415}
The diligence starting, cut the old lady's sentence in two, so
she fell back in her corner with an exclamation of
dissatisfaction.
Jacques Grugel felt himself obliged to tell her that the route
they were taking would lead them away from the Saône and avoid
the danger.
"But where will I get my soup?" inquired she, slightly reassured.
"We will not stop till we reach Anse," resumed Lepré; "the
conductor has said so, and God only knows what kind of roads we
will meet with. Roads of the department; that says everything.
And then I know the engineer, a talented man; his son was married
the same day as my eldest. But we won't arrive till to-morrow,
mark my words."
There was a general cry from the passengers. They had eaten
nothing since morning, calculating on the lunch usually obtained
at Villefranche, and Gontran had already proposed, with his usual
vivacity, to make a descent on the first village and force them
to serve up a supper, when the cattle-merchant cried out:
"A supper! I have one at your service."
"What! for everybody?" asked Lepré.
"For everybody, citizen. I can offer you three courses, with your
dessert, and something for a heeltap."
While speaking he drew from the pockets of the carriage a
half-dozen packets, and, rolling his tongue around his mouth,
proceeded to open them; they contained provisions of every kind,
properly enveloped and tied with care.
"Won't we have a feast?" said Lepré, who had asked the
cattle-merchant, in his inventory, "my friend, what _is_
your name?"
"Barnau."
"Good, Mr. Barnau; but what good care you take of yourself."
"How can a man be at his ease," said the fat merchant, with a
certain pride, "if he can't eat the best of everything? However,
these gentlemen and mademoiselle can judge of my victuals."
Grugel turned to Gontran, and gave him a significant look.
"Truly," said he smiling, and in an under-voice, "here are the
_grains of gold_ you looked for."
"_Grains of gold!_" repeated Barnau, who did not understand
him; "why, man, that's a sausage with truffles."
"And these gentlemen would have us believe grains of gold are
good for famished people," resumed Pierre Lepré, laughing; "that
is a figure of speech, Monsieur Barnau. I have a son who studied
these figures in rhetoric. He explained it all to me; but, pardon
me, let us first help mademoiselle."
They presented the food to Mademoiselle de Locherais, who
returned each piece, but finally ended by choosing the most
delicate, complaining, as she ate, of the privations of
travellers. To console her, Barnau offered her some old brandy;
but mademoiselle cried out with horror:
"Brandy to me! What do you take me for, sir?"
"You like sherry better, perhaps," said the cattle-merchant, in a
careless way.
"I drink neither sherry nor brandy," cried Mademoiselle Athénaïs
fiercely. "I take water only," she said, turning toward Grugel.
"Did you ever hear anything like this rustic?" she murmured;
"offer me cognac, as if the spices he has given us were not
sufficient to burn one's blood. I shall surely be ill from it."
{416}
Finishing what she had to say, she arranged herself in her
corner, so as to turn her back on the cattle-merchant, picked up
a pillow she had with her, leaned her head on it, and fell
asleep.
The diligence continued its tedious route. Though humid, the air
was cold, and not a star was to be seen. Relieved by the repast
which the gastronomical foresight of Barnau had permitted him to
make, Lepré resumed his loquacity, and, although his
fellow-travellers had long since ceased to answer him, he
continued to talk on without being in the least concerned to know
if he was listened to.
This noise of words, the slowness of their progress, the
darkness, and the cold combined to render the passengers
nervously impatient, and every few moments might be heard yawns,
shudderings, or subdued complaints. Darvon, particularly, seemed
more and more excitable; a prey to nervous irritation. He had
already opened and shut for the tenth time the blind of the
coach-door, leaned his head to the right, to the left, and back
on the cushion, fixed his legs in every possible position that
the narrow space of which he could dispose allowed him; and,
finally, at the break of day, his patience was entirely
exhausted.
"I would give ten of the days which remain of my life to be at
the end of this journey," cried he.
"Here we are at Anse," replied Grugel.
"True, upon my word," said Lepré, who had been asleep an instant.
"Hallo, conductor, how long do you remain here?"
"Five minutes."
"Open the door; I am just going to say good day to the
post-master."
The door was opened, and Barnau got down with Lepré to renew his
provisions. Nearly at the same moment the clerk came forward to
see if there were any vacant places.
"Only one," replied Grugel.
"How!" cried Mademoiselle de Locherais, who had just awakened
with a start; "would monsieur by any chance ask any one to come
in here?"
"A traveller for Lyons."
"But it is quite impossible," resumed the old maid; "we are
already frightfully crowded. Monsieur, your coaches are too
small; I will complain to the administration."
"Ah! without doubt here is our new companion," said Grugel, who
was looking out of the door. "M. Lepré has already seized upon
him."
"He is a military man," cried mademoiselle.
"A non-commissioned officer of the Chasseurs."
"Oh! is he coming in here? Why don't they make soldiers go on
foot?"
"In such a time as this it would be hard and fatiguing for them,
mademoiselle."
"Is it not their trade? Such people are never fatigued. These
public conveyances do give you such disagreeable neighbors! ....
The derangement of your usual habits, to have nothing warm, pass
the night without any sleep, be crowded, choked! .... I don't see
why one of these gentlemen don't get up in the imperial."
"Notwithstanding the fog?"
"What does that signify, for men?"
"Mademoiselle would be less incommoded," added Darvon ironically.
"She had better make the proposition herself to our companion."
"What! I speak to a soldier!" said Mademoiselle Athénaïs
fiercely; "I prefer being incommoded, sir!"
"Well, here he is," said Jacques.
{417}
The non-commissioned officer had indeed just appeared before the
door, followed by the clerk with whom he was quarrelling. He was
a spruce, dapper-looking young man, but his bragging and
soldierly manners disgusted Darvon at first sight. He complained
of the delay of the coach, having waited for it since the night
preceding, and with words abused the clerk of the office, whose
responses were timid and embarrassed. At last, the conductor
declaring they must start, he came to the coach-door and looked
inside.
"Magnificent collection," murmured he, after having cast an
impertinent look on the travellers; "I wonder if the _coupé_
and the _rotonde_ are as well furnished. Have you no women
aboard, conductor?"
"The insolent creature!" murmured Mademoiselle.
"Well," resumed the soldier, "one must not be too particular in
the country." And he took his place.
Gontran leaned toward Grugel, and said, in a low voice, "This one
completes our collection of absurdities."
"Take care he don't hear you," replied Jacques.
Darvon shrugged his shoulders.
"Bragging people inspire more disgust than fear," said he, "and
this one certainly needs a lesson in politeness."
Meanwhile, Barnau returned without Lepré. After having looked for
the latter at the inn, and waited for him some minutes, the
diligence started without him, to the great joy of mademoiselle,
who hoped to be more at her ease. But her joy was of short
duration, for the non-commissioned officer, who had located
himself at first on the other bench, got up and took the seat
next to her. The angry old maid adjusted herself brusquely, and
pulled down her veil.
The military man turned toward her.
"Ah!" said he, in a mocking tone, "madame seems afraid of being
looked at."
"Perhaps so, sir," said she, dryly.
"I quite understand the reason," resumed the soldier. "But she
can calm her nerves. I can deprive myself of the pleasure." And
as he noticed the movement of indignation of Mademoiselle de
Locherais, continued, "I speak solely for the interest of her
health; and to allow her to breathe with her face uncovered, as
we want air in this box, I think I had better lower the window."
"I object to it," said mademoiselle quickly; "my doctor has
forbidden any exposure to the morning air."
"And mine has forbidden me to smother," replied the young man,
putting out his hand to open the sash.
But the old maid cried out. The window was on her side, she had a
right to have it closed, and appealed to the other travellers.
However little disposed Darvon had been in favor of Mademoiselle
de Locherais, he considered it right to defend her, and the
result was a sharp discussion between him and the soldier, which
would have ended in trouble had not Grugel ceded his place at the
other window.
The soldier accepted it with a bad grace, preserving a strong
feeling against Darvon.
Now, the reader has already perceived that Gontran's predominant
qualities were neither resignation nor patience. The
contrarieties of the journey had excited his sickly inability,
therefore the disagreement which had already broken out between
them was renewed several times, and only awaited a favorable
opportunity to become a later quarrel.
{418}
Some of the smaller baggage had been placed by Darvon in a net
suspended from the top of the diligence; the soldier pretended
that it incommoded him, and wished it removed. Gontran refused to
do it.
"You have decided it shall remain where it is?" cried the
soldier, after a discussion in which he had grown more and more
animated.
"Decidedly!" replied Darvon.
"Very well. I will get rid of it by the coach-door," replied the
young man, while extending his hand toward the net.
Gontran seized the hand, and said, "Take care what you do, sir,"
in a changed voice. "Ever since you came in here, you have tried
to make me lose my patience; your whole course has been one of
abuse and tyranny, but you may as well understand I am not the
man to put up with your tyranny."
"Is this a challenge?" asked the soldier, throwing on Gontran a
disdainful look.
"By no means," interrupted Grugel, annoyed by the turn affairs
had taken; "my cousin merely wished you to observe--"
"I don't accept the observations of snarlers."
"And snarlers don't accept your insolence," replied Gontran.
At this word insolence the soldier shuddered, a deep redness
suffused his features.
"Where do you stop, sir?" asked he of Darvon, in a voice
trembling with anger.
"At Lyons," replied the latter.
"Very well, we will finish our explanation there."
"So be it."
Jacques, alarmed, wished to interpose, but his cousin and the
soldier spoke at the same time, and repeated they would terminate
this affair at Lyons.
At the same instant great cries were heard, and the diligence was
overtaken by a wagon entirely covered with mud. Mademoiselle de
Locherais put her head out of the coach-door.
"O Lord! what a misfortune," said she; "Monsieur Pierre Lepré has
overtaken us. Now we will be completely filled up."
As soon as they reached the public conveyance, the commissioner
of colonial produce jumped out of the wagon, and presented
himself at the coach-door, which the conductor had just opened.
"Is this the way you go off without waiting for the passengers?"
cried he, furious.
"I warned you three times," interposed the conductor.
"Six times is customary, sir, or even a dozen; you are very
miserly with your words. Does it cost anything to speak? I could
not leave the post-master while he was telling me what happened
to the diligence yesterday; for you did not know, gentlemen, that
the one that preceded this was drowned."
"Drowned!" repeated every one.
"Very good," interrupted the conductor; "but get in."
"Anything but good," responded Pierre Lepré; "everybody is
frightened enough."
"I beg of you to get up immediately."
"And what will our families think when they learn this disaster?"
"Be quick, then."
"Again, there was I trying to obtain these details, when they
came to tell me you had gone on without me."
"And we are going to do the same thing again," said the impatient
conductor.
"Bless me," cried Lepré, who hastened to get up. "I have had
enough of wagons; here I am, conductor, lift me up."
{419}
The commissioner of provisions was overwhelmed with questions,
and he soon related all he had heard; then, interrupting himself,
according to his usual habit, and recognizing the young officer,
he cried out:
"Oh! this is the gentleman I had the honor of seeing at Anse."
"The same," replied the soldier.
"Delighted to meet you again," said Lepré. "Whatever you may
think of me, I am the born friend of all the military. I should
have had to serve myself if they had not found a substitute for
me."
He was interrupted by Mademoiselle Athénaïs, who just perceived
that he was quite wet.
"It is this abominable fog," said he, while wiping the water off
with his handkerchief.
"But people don't come into a carriage in such a condition,"
replied mademoiselle, in a discontented way. "When you are
covered with fog, you might as well remain out."
"To dry one's self?" asked Lepré, laughing. "Great goodness, I
had enough of it; then my coachman was drunk, and just missed
turning the wagon over into the river."
"The deuce!" said Gontran.
"We would have been added to the diligence of yesterday, unless
we had found some good soul brave enough to fish for us. But such
things have been. Three years ago, after a great inundation, a
workman alone saved five persons who were drowning near the
Guillotière."
"We knew of him particularly," said Grugel, "as my cousin's best
friend was one of the saved."
"True?" asked the soldier.
"And he owed his safety to the devotion of that young man."
"Oh! all the details of that action were admirable," said Darvon,
with great warmth; "the frightened horse had pulled the carriage
into the strongest of the current; on the shore the crowd looked
on, without daring to go to their relief; there seemed to be no
hope for the five persons in the carriage."
"Bah!" interrupted the soldier, "perhaps some of them could swim,
and have got nicely out of the scrape."
Gontran disdained a reply.
"The carriage commenced to sink," continued he, "when a workman
appeared with a small boat, which with difficulty he guided into
the midst of the Rhone. Three times it was on the point of
upsetting. The people who looked on from the shore cried out, 'Do
not go any further; come ashore; you are going to perish.' But he
did not listen to them--still advancing toward the carriage,
which by dint of skill and courage, he finally reached."
"And most happily," the military man replied.
"Without doubt," replied Grugel, who remarked Gontran's movement
of impatience, "but only good-hearted people find happiness in
such acts."
"It was a beautiful incident," interrupted Mademoiselle de
Locherais, "and one that should have benefited its author."
"Pardon me, madame," said Darvon. "The workman no doubt
considered that the true recompense for any generous action is in
ourselves; for, after having saved these people, he retired
without wishing to receive either reward or praise."
"Humph! perhaps he thought it useless to demand payment," said
the officer.
"And is his name unknown?" said Pierre Lepré.
"Pardon me, he was called Louis Duroc."
"What! what do you say, Louis----"
"Duroc."
Lepré turned towards the officer.
{420}
"Why, that is your name?" cried he.
"This gentleman's name!" repeated all the travellers.
"Louis Duroc, called the African; I asked him his name at Anse,
while we were talking at the inn, and I have seen it, besides, on
his portmanteau."
"Well, what next?" asked the officer, laughing. "It certainly is
my name."
"Can it be!" interrupted Gontran; "and you are--"
"The workman in question; yes, gentlemen. There would have been
no use in telling it, but now there is no use in concealing it. I
entered the service a week after the accident, and my regiment
had to leave for Algeria, so that I never again met my friends of
the carriage; however, I hope to see them again at Lyons."
"I will take you to them," said Darvon quickly, while offering
his hand to the officer; "for I wish we may be friends, Monsieur
Louis."
"What, we!" replied the military man, regarding Gontran with
hesitation.
"Oh! please forget all that has passed," replied the latter; "I
am ready, if necessary, to acknowledge I have been wrong--"
"No!" interrupted Duroc, "no, indeed; I was the wrong-headed one,
and I regret it, I give you my word of honor. Bad habits of the
regiment, you see. Because we have no fear, we like to show it on
all occasions, and to each new-comer, and so play the bully, but
at heart good children; so without malice, monsieur."
He had cordially pressed Gontran's hand, Lepré seizing his at the
same time.
"Good!" cried he; "you are a true Frenchmen, and so is Monsieur.
Between Frenchmen, people should always agree. I am delighted to
have made your acquaintance, M. Louis Duroc. But, _à
propos_, do you know it was a most happy coincidence that I
obliged you to tell me your name, that you did not want to give
me? Without me, no one would have known what you were worth."
"It is true," replied Grugel. "If this gentleman had talked less,
this explanation would not have taken place, and my cousin would
have mistaken the true character of Monsieur Louis. You see,
chance seems to have taken the task of supporting my theory, and
all the honor of the journey is mine."
As he finished these words, the coach stopped; they had arrived.
The travellers found the diligence-yard crowded with relations or
friends awaiting their arrival. The misfortune of the day before
was known, and had awakened all possible anguish.
Darvon no sooner stepped down, than he heard his name pronounced,
and, turning, saw his sister hastening to him with cries of joy.
Her anxiety on his account had caused her to forget their
quarrel.
They embraced over and over again; their eyes moistened with
tears as they looked at each other, smiling. They were
reconciled.
As they went together from the diligence-yard Gontran met his
travelling companions. Barnau and Lepré saluted them; Louis Duroc
renewed his promise to visit them; Mademoiselle Athénaïs de
Locherais alone passed without any sign of recognition. She was
too much occupied watching her baggage. Jacques Grugel turned
then to Gontran.
{421}
"There is the only objection to my doctrine," said he, pointing
to the old maid. "All our other companions have more or less
redeemed themselves in our eyes: the _gourmand_ procured us
a supper; the babbler revealed a useful secret; the quarrelsome
one gave proof of his generous bravery; but of what use has been
to us the selfish egotism of Mademoiselle de Locherais?"
"To make me realize the value of true devotion and tenderness,"
replied Gontran, who pressed his sister's arm more closely to his
heart. "Yes, from to-day, cousin, I will adopt your system. I
firmly believe there is a good side to everything, and that it is
only necessary to know where to look for the _vein of
gold_."
--------
Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.
He who remains alone by himself, and maintains a state of
tranquillity, is saved the waging of three wars; that is to say,
the warfare of hearing, of speech, and of sight; and he will have
but one to carry on, and that is the warfare of the heart.
Abbot Arsenius, while he still dwelt in a palace, prayed to the
Lord one day, and said, "O Lord! point out to me the way to
salvation." And a voice came to him saying, "Arsenius, avoid the
society of men, and you shall be saved." Thereupon he went away
to lead a monastic life, and it happened that he again made the
same prayer. And he heard a voice saying unto him, "Arsenius,
flee, remain silent, be tranquil."
Abbot Evagrius said: Cast from thee affection for many things,
lest thy mind be full of trouble and lose its tranquillity.
A certain brother once went to Scythia, to ask advice of Abbot
Moses. And the old man said to him, "Go sit in thy cell, and thy
cell will teach thee all things."
Abbot Nilus said: He who loveth quiet shall be impenetrable to
the darts of the enemy; but he who mingleth with the multitude
shall receive many wounds.
A certain father told this story: Three persons who loved their
souls became monks. One of them chose as his task the making up
of quarrels, according as it is written, "Blessed are the
peacemakers." (Matt, v.) The second determined to visit the sick.
The third went away into the desert to remain in solitude. Now,
the first, who busied himself about the quarrels of men, could
not always succeed in bringing about a reconciliation. Sick at
heart, he went to see how he fared who was visiting the sick, and
found that he also was growing weary, and was quite unable to
carry out his purpose. These two then went together to see the
one who had gone into the desert, and told him all their
troubles. And then they asked him to tell them how he himself had
got along. After a short pause, he poured some water into a basin
and said to them, "Look at the water." And it was troubled. After
a little while he again said to them, "Now look at the water, and
see how clear it has grown." And they, looking in the water, saw
their faces reflected as from a mirror.
{422}
And then he said to them, "Thus it is with him who lives among
men; for from the turbulence of his life he sees not his own
sins; when, however, he is become tranquil, and especially when
he lives in solitude, then he clearly perceives his faults."
Abbot Elias said: Three things I fear. One is, the separation of
soul and body; the second, my meeting with God the third, the
sentence which shall be pronounced upon me.
Abbot James said: As a light illuminateth a room, even so doth
the fear of God, when it shall have entered the heart of man,
illuminate and teach him every virtue and the precepts of God.
Syncletica, of holy memory, said: The wicked who are converted to
God have to toil and struggle much, but afterward their joy is
ineffable. For as those who wish to kindle a fire have first to
bear the smoke, and are ofttimes forced to shed tears before they
succeed for it is written, "Our God is a consuming fire"--so
ought we also to kindle within us the divine flame amid toils and
tears.
A father said: As we carry our shadow about with us everywhere,
even so ought we always to weep and be contrite.
They tell of Abbot Agatho that he kept a pebble in his mouth
three years, and thus acquired silence.
Abbot Agatho was once making a journey with his disciples, when
one of them found a little bundle of green vetches lying on the
roadside, and said to his master, "Father, if you wish it, I will
take them." The old man looked at him in astonishment, and asked,
"Didst thou place them there?" And the disciple said "No." And
then the father replied, "Why, then, do you desire to take away
what you have not placed there?"
Abbot Evagrius tells that a father once said: I deprive myself of
carnal delights, in order that I may the more readily avoid
occasions of anger. For I know that this passion always attacks
and disturbs my mind and clouds my intellect according as I
indulge in carnal delights.
Epiphanius, Bishop of Cyprus, once sent for Abbot Hilarion, that
he might see him before he died. When they had met and were
dining, a fowl was set on the table which the bishop offered
Hilarion. And then Hilarion said, "Pardon me, father, for ever
since I have worn this habit I have never eaten of anything
slain." And then Epiphanius replied, "And I, since I have worn
this habit, have never allowed any one to sleep who had anything
against me, nor have I ever slept having aught against any one."
"Pardon me," replied the old man, "your life is more perfect than
mine."
They tell of Abbot Elladius that he lived in his cell twenty
years without ever lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Abbot John the Small said: If a king should wish to take a
hostile city, he would first intercept supplies of water and
provisions, and thus the enemy, being in danger of starvation,
would fall into his hands. So it is with the inordinate desires
of the stomach. If a man fast well, the enemies of his soul grow
weak.
--------
{423}
New Publications.
Language, And The Study Of Languages.
In Twelve Lectures on the
Principles of Linguistic Science.
By William Dwight Whitney, Professor of
Sanskrit and Modern Languages in Yale College.
New York: Scribner & Co. 1867. 12mo, pp. 489.
Professor Whitney, with a full knowledge of the chief results
thus far obtained in linguistic science by philologists, appears
to be passably free and independent in his judgments, and
cautious and sober in his inductions. His book is, however,
rather an introduction to the study of linguistics than a full
statement and vindication of its principles as a science. Its
chief merit is in its correction of the exaggerations of
enthusiastic and hasty philologists, and in brushing away
numerous false theories and hypotheses unsustained and
unsustainable by the facts in the case.
For the most part, the principles laid down by the author are
sound and incontrovertible; but in some instances his application
of them, and the conclusions he draws, may be disputed. Even his
definition of language, as the medium by which men communicate
their thoughts to one another, maybe objected to as superficial
and inadequate, and as really including only one of its
functions. Language is better defined: the sensible sign or
representation of the ideal or the intelligible, and is as
indispensable to the formation of thought in one's own mind as to
the communication of thought to the minds of others. For
intuition, no matter of what sort, language indeed is not
necessary; but intuition is the _à priori_ condition of
thought, as necessary to it as creation is to contingent
existence, not thought itself. Without intuition there is no
thought; but thought itself is the action of the mind on the
intuition--an action not possible without the sensible sign
which holds and represents--re-presents--the intuition. What
could we do in algebra or the calculus without sensible signs; or
in philosophy or theology, or anything that belongs to the noetic
or intelligible order, without the words which hold and represent
the noetic object? There is a more intimate connection of thought
and the word than the professor admits--a deeper significance, a
profounder philosophy, a more inscrutable mystery in language,
than most philologists dream of, and he who masters its secret
masters the secret of the universe. He who is no theologian, no
philosopher, can at best be only a sorry philologist. The part
can be fully understood only in its relation to the whole, nor
the effect without its cause, and hence it is that man and the
universe cannot be understood without the knowledge of God.
The author regards linguistics as a moral science, dependent
wholly on moral causes, and denies that it is a physical science,
or that physical causes have anything to do in producing the
dialectic changes, modifications, or differences of language,
which the science notes. Here he is too sweeping in both his
assertion and his denial. Moral causes operate in the changes
language undergoes; and so do physical causes, especially in its
phonetic change. At any rate, linguistics is to be classed with
the inductive sciences, and, therefore, is a subordinate science,
and can never without foreign aid be raised to the dignity or
certainty of science itself. None of the inductive sciences are
complete in themselves, or sufficient for themselves, and they
all do and must, consciously or unconsciously, borrow from
philosophy or theology, which has been very properly called
_scientia scientiarum_, the science of sciences. Facts are
facts always and everywhere; but facts are the matter of science,
not science itself. The science is in their explication, or their
reduction to the principles from which they proceed, and the law
of their procession or production.
{424}
The inductive philosophers seek to obtain the law by induction
from the facts observed, and the principle by induction from the
law, which is unscientific; for the principle determines the law,
and the law the facts. Hence their inductions are never science,
or anything more than empirical classifications. Till the law is
referred to its principle, it is not a law, but simply a
congeries of facts. The reason why the inductive philosophers
fail to perceive this is in the fact that the mind is already in
possession of the principle, and simply supplies or applies it to
the facts observed; while they, finding they have it, take it for
granted that they have obtained it by induction. But he who lacks
intuition of the ideal or the universal can never from the
observation and analysis of facts rise scientifically above the
phenomenal. Here, under the point of view of science, is the
defect of all the inductive sciences; and hence, the tendency of
all inductive philosophy, as any one may see in the writings of
the Positivists, Auguste Comte, E. Littré, J. Stuart Mill,
Herbert Spencer, and Sir William Hamilton and his school, is to
restrict all science to the phenomenal, and, therefore, to
exclude principles and causes, and consequently laws.
We do not mean by these strictures to exclude the inductive
sciences, so-called, to condemn the inductive method, or to
maintain that the sciences are to be created by way of deduction
or _à priori_. The inductive method is censurable only when
it insists on being exclusive, and that it needs for its
application only bare phenomena; and we value as highly as
anybody does the inductive sciences when completed by the
principles and laws which are neither obtained nor obtainable by
induction. There is no way of constructing linguistics but by
observation of facts and induction therefrom. The error as to
principles and method of Professor Whitney is, that he forgets
that all inductions of any value are made by virtue of a
principle not obtained by induction, and, therefore, controllable
by the science of sciences, that is, by faith, and universal
science or philosophy.
The professor proves very satisfactorily that what are called
dialects are the result of development, growth, or modifications
of the original language, and, therefore, that the unity of the
language precedes diversity of dialects. Hence, he maintains that
the various languages of the Aryan, Indo-Germanic, or, as he
prefers to say, Indo-European group, have all sprung from a
common original now lost, but of which perhaps the Sanscrit is
the best representative now remaining. Why not, then, conclude
that all the languages of mankind, extinct or extant, have sprung
from one common original? If we suppose the unity of the species,
this must be so; and the professor says that, while linguistics
is not and never will be able to confirm it, it cannot, by any
means, deny it. The diversity of tongues, then, cannot be alleged
as disproving the unity of the species; and as we know the
species is one, and that all men have sprung from one original
pair, we know that all the diverse tongues of men are but so many
dialects of one and the same original language. This is not an
induction from linguistic facts, nor can linguistics, in its
present state, confirm it; but it is a scientific truth, and also
a truth of faith which controls air linguistic inductions. The
professor himself goes too far when he says linguistics will
never be in a condition to confirm it. That it will not is
possible, not certain. His whole work proves that as yet the
science of linguistics is in its infancy, hardly a science at
all, and that it is not safe to conclude what it may one day do,
or not do.
The professor proceeds throughout on the assumption that language
is conventional. We do not agree to this, for there can be no
convention without language, and language, as he himself shows,
is traditional. I speak English because I was born, brought up,
and live in a community that speaks English, and because I have
learned or been taught it. It is my mother tongue, the tongue of
my mother, and taught me by her. Particular words, and particular
senses of words already in use, may have been conventionally
introduced, but not language itself.
{425}
These words, whether newly coined or borrowed from other tongues,
do not make up the language or modify its laws; they add to its
vocabulary, but are subjected to its regimen. We have borrowed
largely from the Latin, but we cannot construct a sentence with
words so borrowed till we have made them English words. Nobody
can talk Latin in English, though we can talk English in words
wholly of Latin origin. The vocabulary is of various origin, but
the language is English, and has remained so through all the
changes the vocabulary has undergone; and this English language
defies all conventions, and the influence of both the learned and
the unlearned.
Professor Whitney, who appears never to have understood the
relation of the inductive sciences either to science or to faith,
denies the divine and supernatural origin of language, supposes
man to have commenced his career on this earth without language,
and to have formed for himself voluntarily but irreflectively
language, by attempting to imitate the various cries of animals
and the more striking sounds of nature, among which there is not
a single articulate sound, the distinguishing mark of human
speech. He does not represent men as saying to one another, "Go
to, now; let us construct a language, so that we can tell each
other our thoughts;" but he represents them as listening to the
growl, barking, and howling of dogs, the bleating of sheep, the
mooing of cows, the chirping of birds, the crowing of the cock,
the hissing of the serpent, the roaring and whistling of the
winds, the rattling of the shower or pouring of the rain, the
bellowing of the storm, and, by way of imitation, forming out of
these inarticulate sounds language in which we praise God and
communicate with men. He adopts the onomatopoetic or bow-wow
theory, so contemptuously dismissed by Max Müller. There is no
doubt that in all dialects there have been introduced vocables in
which there is an attempt in the word itself to imitate the sound
or cry of the object named; but, supposing men had no language
and were unable to converse, how were they to agree on the
meaning to be given to these imitated sounds, or construct these
words into sentences composed of subject, predicate, and copula,
inflected according to the demands of number, gender, case, mood,
and tense? There may have also been vocables formed from
interjections, and there may be some truth in the interjectional
or pooh! pooh! theory; but how form them into words, and these
words into language with its grammatical laws and inflections
before any knowledge of grammar or language, and bring about a
general understanding as to the sense they are to bear? The same
objections may be urged against the ding-dong theory, or that man
is so constructed that, when touched in a certain manner, he
involuntarily emits a certain sound. These theories explain the
origin of certain vocables, but not of language.
Professor Whitney is not willing, by any means, to admit the
supernatural origin of language, for the inductive sciences
recognize nothing above nature. But none of the facts treated by
any one of the inductive sciences are explicable without God, and
God is supernatural. Man has his origin in the supernatural,
though the species is developed by natural generation. In like
manner, language, though developed, modified, or changed
structurally or phonetically by natural causes according to
natural laws, has its origin in the supernatural, or the direct
act of God infusing it along with the ideal truth it signifies
into the first man. Its origin is divine, as is the origin of
man. This is evident because it requires in man the possession of
language to be able to invent language, as we have already seen.
It is from God, because it can come from no other source; and
immediately from God to the first man, though traditionally to
us, because there is no natural medium through which its
origination is possible; yet not the entire vocabulary of
language, but language in the respect that it is the sensible
sign or representation of the ideal or the intelligible, whence
proceeds the sensible, which copies or imitates it.
{426}
I. Grammatical Synthesis:
The Art of English Composition.
By Henry N. Day.
New York: Scribner & Co. 1867.
12mo, pp. 356.
2. The Art Of Discourse:
A System of Rhetoric.
By Henry N. Day.
New York: Scribner & Co. 1867.
12mo, pp. 343.
We know Mr. Day only as the author of these two books, and these
do not give us a very high opinion of him either as a master of
English grammar or of English composition. His volumes are
elaborate, and evidently have cost him much time and hard study;
he has aimed to make them profound, logical, philosophical,
attractive, and profitable to the student; but their depth is
less than he believes, their logic is more pretentious than real,
and their philosophy is borrowed from a bad school.
The first work purports to be a grammar of the English language,
and aims, while teaching the art of composition or the
construction of sentences, to make the study of grammar
attractive by exercising the thought and reasoning faculty of the
pupil. The aim is commendable, but is rarely successful. The
author lacks simplicity, ease, and grace as a writer, and a
thorough mastery of his subject; and his grammar, by its attempt
at logic and philosophy, is better fitted to discourage than to
quicken thought. As far as we can discover, the work is no
improvement on Lindley Murray's well-known English grammar; it is
less simple, and not a whit more logical or philosophical. It
departs widely from the old grammatical technology, but with no
advantage, that we can discover, to the pupil. What is gained by
calling adjectives and adverbs _modifiers_, a name
appropriate to adverbs only? Adjectives _qualify_; adverbs
_modify_. Murray defines the verb, "A word that signifies to
be, to do, or to suffer." What do we gain by rejecting this
definition, and defining it to be the word in a sentence that
asserts? The author makes a sentence, as a judgment, consist of
three parts, subject, predicate, and copula, which is correct. He
identifies the verb with the copula, which is also correct; but
he makes its essence consist in assertion, which is not correct.
There is, indeed, no assertion without the copula; but the copula
alone does not make the assertion. The assertion is made by the
whole sentence; and the three terms, subject, predicate, and
copula, are each equally necessary to the assertion or judgment.
The author is right in making the verb the copula, but not when
he makes its essence consist in assertion. The verb, the author
says, is the copula, and essentially the copula merely expresses
the identity or non-identity of the subject and predicate; but
the copula, in a judgment, distinguishes as well as unites the
subject and predicate, and the predicate is never identical with
the subject; for, if it were, it would be subject and not
predicate. When an author attempts to make grammar, logic, and
philosophy correspond, he can escape censure only by success.
Murray's definition of the verb is sufficient for us and for all
the purposes of grammar. As such, it is enough to say a verb is a
word that signifies "to be, to do, or to suffer;" but, if you
insist on running grammar into logic, and making the verb express
the copula of the judgment, we insist that you shall make it
represent, as it does philosophically, the creative act, the real
copula between being and existence, in which case the predicate
is connected by the copula to the subject as its product, as when
we say, Two and two make four. The verb, then, while it expresses
the union of the predicate with subject, distinguishes it from
the subject, as the effect from the cause.
The details of the book are frequently objectionable. The author
makes _as,_ when it follows _some, such, so,_ and
_as,_ a relative pronoun, and _that_, in the clause,
"The last time that I saw him," a relative pronoun, and in other
locutions, exactly similar, a conjunction. _As_ is never a
relative pronoun in any correct speaker, but an adverb or
conjunction of comparison. We doubt if _as_ ever properly
follows _same_. "It is the same _as_ a denial" is not
good English, although sometimes met with; but, if so, the
sentence is elliptical. "It is the same as a denial would be."
Ordinarily, _same_ requires _that, which,_ or
_who_ after it; and where it will not take one or another of
these terms, it requires _with_; for _same_ expresses
identity not comparison, and, therefore, can never be properly
followed by _as_.
{427}
The _same as_ seems to us no better than _equal as_.
_So_, when it must be followed by a relative pronoun,
demands _that_. "He went as far as the gate" is good
English, but neither _as_ is a relative pronoun. The phrase,
"Such men _as_ these" is elliptical for, "Such men _as_
these men are," where _as_ is clearly an adverb or
conjunction of comparison, and no relative pronoun at all.
Wherever _as_ is used as a relative, the phrase or sentence
is a vulgarism; as, in the phrase mentioned by Mrs. Trollope,
"The lady _as_ takes in washing over the way," though not a
Yankee vulgarism.
The second work should, by its title, _The Art of
Discourse_, be a work on logic, not on rhetoric.
_Discourse_ is from the Latin _discursus_, and means
reasoning as distinguished from intuition, if taken
etymologically, and it is only in a neological sense that it
stands for an oration. We see no gain in exchanging the old term
_rhetoric_ for that of _discourse_, which in the sense
used is a pure neologism. In the first work, the author to a
great extent confuses grammar with rhetoric, and in this second
work he confuses rhetoric with logic. The arts of grammar,
rhetoric, and logic are undoubtedly three kindred arts, but yet
distinguishable by well-defined lines of difference. Grammar
treats of words and their formation into sentences; rhetoric, of
the arrangement of sentences in an oration, essay, dissertation,
or treatise; logic, of the construction, arrangement, and
relation of propositions or judgments. Grammar teaches to speak
and write correctly; rhetoric, to speak or write pleasingly and
persuasively; logic teaches us to reason justly and conclusively.
Grammar makes us acquainted with language; rhetoric addresses
language to the affections, passions, and sentiments; logic
addresses the reason and judgment. Though they must all three
unite in forming what Mr. Day would call a perfect discourse,
they should be taught separately. Sentences may be correctly
formed, and yet the discourse be heavy and dull; the sentences
may be rhetorically arranged so as to move the feelings, without
instructing or convincing the understanding; but still, in
teaching, each art should be kept distinct, and prevented from
encroaching on the province of either of the others.
Mr. Day's treatise on rhetoric is not, in our judgment, superior,
or, as a whole, equal to that of Campbell or even that of Blair.
Yet it is not without value, though better adapted to private
study than to colleges and academies. No man can treat the art of
rhetoric well who does not understand well the science both of
language and of logic. Mr. Day is well aware of this, and
attempts to connect the art with the science of which it is the
application. This is well and praiseworthy; but, unhappily, he
understands the science neither of language nor of logic. He does
not understand the relation of the word to thought any more than
does Professor Whitney; and no one can understand the science of
logic until he has mastered philosophical science, which Mr. Day
is very far from having done. The science neither of language nor
of logic can be mastered by one who holds Sir William Hamilton
was a philosopher, whose pretended philosophy is substantially
that of the Positivists. The school Sir William Hamilton founded,
and of which Professor Ferrier and Mr. Mansel are distinguished
disciples, avowedly maintains that philosophy cannot rise above
the sensible, and that the supersensible as well as the
superintelligible must be taken, if at all, on the authority of
faith or revelation.
Mr. Day belongs to this school, and adopts, to a great extent,
its manner of writing English, which is hardly more intelligible
to us than Choctaw or the dialects of South Africa. His example,
if not his precept, is likely to encourage the distortion, we may
say corruption, of plain, simple, and nervous English, which we
see coming into fashion with our English as well as Scottish
writers. The present race of Englishmen, when treating
philosophical or theological subjects, seem to mistake obscurity
for depth, and darkness for sublimity. Undeniably Jeffrey is
dead. We wish the authors of school-books would show that they
know and love our real English tongue, and are aware that
simplicity and clearness of style are merits that should be
retained.
------
{428}
Short Studies On Great Subjects.
By James Anthony Froude, M.A., late
Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford.
Crown 8vo, pp. 534. New York:
Charles Scribner & Co.
Mr. Froude is a very startling instance of the truth of a
statement often made during the last few years--and made by men
within the Church of England as well by men outside her
pale--that the Anglican establishment is rapidly losing all hold
upon the most thoughtful and best educated of those who profess
to be her subjects. Time, which tries all things, is
demonstrating beyond cavil the insufficiency of Anglicanism not
only to content the soul but to satisfy the intellect. There are
fashions of thought just as there are fashions of dress, and the
church which Henry VIII. made to fit as well as he could the
prevailing style of mental activity in his day has been getting
more and more antiquated ever since, until now it will no more
suit the intelligence of the present century than King Harry's
hose and doublet would accord with a modern fine gentleman's idea
of dress. In the sixteenth century, the mass of men knew very
little; and so, when the king's clergy told them to believe this
or to believe that, they were ready enough to obey, not because
they heard the church as the voice of God, but because it was
only the churchmen who had learning enough to know anything about
it. Now all this is changed. The relative positions of the
Protestant clergy and laity have been reversed. The education of
the former is for the most part narrow and superficial. The best
class of laymen, on the contrary, receive a broad and liberal
schooling; they sound the remotest depths of science, and
penetrate recesses of nature to which the clergy, as a general
thing, never approach. Taking the average of all the educated
classes, the laity know more than the churchmen. The obedience,
therefore, which ignorance once paid to learning has vanished.
What is there to substitute in its stead? The Anglican
establishment claims no direct authority from heaven to teach and
direct, or, if she does assert any such prerogative, she asserts
it in so loose a manner, claiming and disclaiming in the same
breath, that her disciples cannot help feeling themselves at
perfect liberty to obey or not as they please.
What is the natural consequence of this state of things? Why,
earnest, thinking men are driven away from the English
establishment in constantly increasing numbers. In a few years,
if matters go on as they are now going, the regular old humdrum
Episcopalian or Anglican will be as great a curiosity as the last
soldier of the Revolution. Some are taking refuge in ritualism,
and trying to supplant their cold and cheerless establishment by
a counterfeit Catholicism, which may, and we hope will, lead them
ultimately to the one true faith, but which is at present only a
pretty sham. Others, and among these is Mr. Froude, rush to the
opposite extreme, and profess an extravagant rationalism which is
nearly equivalent to no creed at all. Mr. Froude has been
regarded as in some sense the champion of the English
establishment. He is the admiring chronicler of its infancy, the
apologist and biographer of its earliest apostles and prophets,
Henry and Elizabeth, Cromwell and Cranmer. He has made the
history of its foundation the study of his life, and has told
that history in a strain of enthusiasm such as has inspired no
other reputable writer. If there is any man from whom we might
have expected a vigorous defence of the claims of Anglicanism, a
recognition of its right to command our obedience, it is Mr.
Froude. Yet he has given us just the reverse of this. His volume
is at once a startling indication of the mental unrest which has
kept thinking Anglicans disturbed of late years, and a strong
protest against the right of the Church of England to seek to
quiet that uneasiness by the exercise of ecclesiastical authority
or the bold promulgation of clerical dogmas. In his "Plea for the
Free Discussion of Theological Difficulties," reprinted in the
present volume from _Fraser's Magazine_, he calls for a
reopening of all the fundamental questions of religious belief, a
subjection of every article of every creed to the most searching
discussion.
{429}
The clergy, he says in effect, are not to be our instructors in
matters of theology. We are quite as competent to judge as they
are. Theological truth is not different from any other truth. The
Holy Spirit does not guide the Church, and there is no tribunal
but public opinion which is competent to decide disputed
questions of religious belief. In a word, the great truths of
theology are all to be declared open problems, and the world is
to be turned into one great debating society for their free
discussion.
This is not the place to show the tendency of Mr. Froude's
principles, nor to Catholic readers is there much need of showing
it. We only refer to them as a remarkable example of a state of
feeling which prevails among a large party of the most
intellectual members of the Church of England, and what the
result of that state of feeling must be it is not difficult to
tell.
Of the other essays in this volume we have little to say. The
three lectures on "The Times of Erasmus and Luther" are not very
pleasant reading for us, but they are counterbalanced by a paper
on "The Philosophy of Catholicism," in which the writer pays an
eloquent tribute to "the beautiful creed which for 1500 years
tuned the heart and formed the mind of the noblest of mankind."
His admiration, of course, stops short of its logical term, and
is but a coldly intellectual sort of appreciation at best--not
that emotional comprehension which must accompany the grace of
faith; but, such as it is, we thank him for it.
-------
Life And Letters Of Madame Swetchine.
By Count de Falloux, of the French Academy.
Translated by H. W. Preston,
1 vol. 12mo, pp. 369.
Boston: Roberts Brothers.
New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1867.
It can hardly be necessary to inform our readers who Madame
Swetchine was, or what are the claims of her life and career to
the interest and attention of the public. A sketch of her
remarkable history has been already given in _The Catholic
World_ for July, 1865. Her biographer was one of her most
intimate friends--a member of the distinguished coterie of French
ecclesiastics and laymen with whose aims and aspirations she most
deeply sympathized--a witness of her dying hours, and the
executor of her last will and testament. He is the Count de
Falloux, and that is more than any eulogium we could pronounce on
his qualities as a writer. Mr. Alger, under whose auspices this
life has been translated and published, has done a great service,
and has added no little to the value of the book, in its English
dress, by the short preface with which he introduces it to the
American public. The following passage shows what has been the
intention and the spirit with which he has been animated:
"It may seem strange that a work so eminently Catholic in its
quality as this biography should be introduced to a Protestant
people by a Protestant translator and Protestant publishers.
But, on further consideration, will not this be found
especially fit and serviceable? In this country, a traditional
antipathy or bigoted repugnance to the Catholic Church prevails
in an unjustifiable extreme. Whatever is repulsive in the
Catholic dogmas or rule is fastened on with unwarrantable
acrimony and exclusiveness. The interests alike of justice and
of good feeling demand that the attention of Protestants shall,
at least occasionally, be given to the best ingredients and
workings of the Catholic system. In the present work, we have
the forensic doctrine and authority of Catholicity in the
background, its purest inner aims and life in the foreground.
We here have a beautiful specimen of the style of character and
experience which the most imposing organic Symbol of
Christendom tends to produce, and has, in all the ages of its
mighty reign, largely produced. If every bigoted disliker of
the Roman Catholic Church within the English-speaking race
could read this book, and, as a consequence, have his
prejudices lessened, his sympathies enlarged, the result, so
far from being deprecated, should be warmly welcomed. This is
written by one who, while enthusiastically admiring the
spiritual wealth of the Catholic Church, the ineffable
tenderness and beauty of its moral and religious ministrations,
is, as to its dogmatic fabric and secular sway, even more than
a Protestant of the Protestants. Finally, this book is
especially commended to women as a work of inestimable worth.
The character and life of Madame Swetchine, her lonely studies
and aspirations, her sublime personal attainments, her
philanthropic labors, her literary productions, her sweet
social charm and vast influence, her thrice-royal friendships
with kings and geniuses and saints, the sober raptures of her
religious faith and fruition, form an example whose exciting
and edifying interest and value are scarcely surpassed in the
annals of her sex."
The translation has been well done, and the typographical
execution is unexceptionable. We desire for the book as wide a
circulation as possible.
------
{430}
The Catholic Crusoe.
Adventures of Owen Evans, Esq., Surgeon's Mate,
set Ashore with Five Companions on a Desolate
Island in the Caribbean Sea, 1739.
Given from the original MS.
By Rev. W. H. Anderdon, M.A.
12mo, pp. 344.
London: Burns, Lambert & Gates.
New York: The Catholic Publication Society.
The name of Dr. Anderdon's interesting story is so well indicated
by the title that we have only to add that it seems admirably
adapted both to amuse and instruct young people, is full of
incident, and is written in a pleasant and simple style. A
supplement entitled "Don Manuel's Narrative," a marvellous
relation purporting to have been picked up at sea, is a second
story of a nature similar to the first. We commend the book to
parents and teachers as a very acceptable present for lads of a
somewhat advanced age.
------
Aner's Return; or,
The Migrations of a Soul. An Allegorical Tale.
By Alto S. Hoermann, O.S.B.
Translated from the Original German by
Innocent A. Bergrath.
12mo, pp. 294. New York: P. O'Shea.
This is an allegory of human life, sin, repentance, and
forgiveness, the idea of which seems to have been inspired by
Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_. The excellence of the
author's intentions and the soundness of his theology must plead
in excuse for a great many shortcomings, the most serious of
which is that the book is not very readable. The ambitious style,
we fear, will repel a great many readers from a story which
displays considerable ingenuity, and, as we are assured by the
translator, has proved very popular in Europe. It is very neatly
printed and prettily bound, and will serve well as a holiday
present or school premium.
------
Memoirs And Correspondence Of Madame Récamier.
Translated from the French, and edited by
Isaphene M. Luyster.
12mo, pp. 408.
Boston: Roberts Brothers.
We published in an early number of _The Catholic World_ a
sketch of the remarkable and brilliant woman whose life forms the
subject of this attractive little volume. The French work, from
which Miss Luyster's translation is made, appeared in Paris in
1859. It was from the pen of Madame Lenormant, the adopted
daughter of Madame Récamier, and niece of her husband. The lady
seems, from all accounts, to have performed her task in a rather
loose and confused manner, so that Miss Luyster's part has been
not only to turn it into readable English, but to prune,
condense, and arrange it in readable form; and this we judge she
has done in a very satisfactory manner. The correspondence is
strangely deficient in Madame Récamier's own letters; but the
lack of these is well compensated for by numerous ones from
Chateaubriand, Matthieu de Montmorency, and Ballanche, and a few
from Madame de Staël, La Harpe Bernadotte, Louis Napoleon, Victor
Hugo, and Béranger.
---------
The Galin Method Of Musical Instruction.
By C. H. Farnham.
New York: American News Company. 1867.
Mr. Farnham gives us a very concise comparative view of the
common system of musical notation and the new one known as the
Galin Method, which has already received so much consideration in
Europe, and must soon attract the attention of the musical world
in this country. In France, many distinguished musicians have
advocated the general adoption of the Galin method, and it is the
only one now used at the Polytechnic and superior normal schools
in Paris and in the government schools of Russia. It aims at
simplifying the system of musical signs, now certainly somewhat
complicated, by the substitution of a uniform series of figures
for the old staff, with its different clefs and many-shaped
notes.
It is claimed that by this method nine persons out of ten can be
taught the whole theory of music in a few months, and learn at
the same time to sing at sight and to write under dictation,
independently of an instrument, music of ordinary difficulty.
{431}
We have very little doubt that this system possesses immense
advantages over the old one for learning the theory of music and
for the execution of a vocal score. But we are not quite sure
that a page of instrumental music written according to the Galin
method would be any less difficult to read than one written in
the old style. We have already simplified matters a good deal by
the abandonment of several of the clefs formerly in use, and we
do not see why a still further reformation might not be made. We
had the pleasure of assisting at one of Mr. Farnham's classes,
given in this city, and can testify to the remarkable facility of
reading and writing music according to this method, as exhibited
by his pupils. Our musical readers will not fail to find much to
interest them in a perusal of this essay.
---------
St. Ignatius And The Society Of Jesus:
Their Influence on Civilization and Christianity.
A Sermon delivered in the Church of the
Immaculate Conception, in Boston, on Sunday,
August 4th, 1867. By Rev. G. F. Haskins,
Rector of the Home of the Angel Guardian.
Boston: Bernard Carr, Printer, 5 Chatham Row. 1867.
Father Haskins is one of our most eloquent preachers and most
graphic writers, although he seldom favors us with any published
productions. His eloquence is that eloquence of realities which
flies off like a glowing stream of sparks from the energetic
action of a soul on fire with zeal, incessantly occupied in
practical works of charity. The sermon before us is a panegyric
pronounced in the church of the Jesuits in Boston, on the
occasion of the celebration of the feast of St. Ignatius. It
recounts in a succinct but forcible and thorough manner the
services rendered to religion and humanity by the Society of
Jesus. Although the language is glowing and the eulogium of the
highest kind, yet, in point of fact, Father Haskins has not
exaggerated the reality. History bears out all that he so warmly
claims for this great religious order, which has equalled in its
history the greatest orders of past ages, while far surpassing
all others in modern times. The hatred and calumny which the
Jesuits have encountered on the part of anti-Catholics were never
more gratuitous and undeserved. The whole sum of the accusations
which Catholic writers have been able to bring against them
merely show that some portions of the society have at times
degenerated from its true spirit; that individuals have erred in
doctrine, or committed faults in administration; that a mistaken
policy has sometimes been adopted; and that the order has not,
any more than the other great orders, transcended that limited
though elevated sphere to which every order is confined by the
law of its being. The Jesuits were constituted as one of the
_corps d'élite_ of the church militant. As such they have
rendered the most signal services, which will ever cover their
names with imperishable glory; and we ascribe their success, in
subordination to the grace of God and the unfailing vigor of the
Catholic Church whose offspring they are, to the genius elevated
by sanctity of their founder, and the admirable constitutions
which he bequeathed to the institute.
------
Meditations Of St. Thomas, etc.
For a Retreat of Ten Days.
Followed by a Treatise on the Virtues, etc.
By Father Massoulie, O.P.
Translated from the French.
London: Richardson.
New York: The Catholic Publication Society.
These Meditations have been taken, as to their substance, from
the writings of St. Thomas, but arranged and supplemented by the
learned Dominican whose name is given in the title. Their great
advantage lies in the fact that they embody the doctrine of one
who was not only the most consummate theologian the world has
ever seen, but also a contemplative saint of the highest order.
This gives one who wishes to use them for his own profit a secure
warrant that they will furnish his mind and heart with the most
choice as well as wholesome nutriment they can possibly feed
upon. The works of saints are always to be preferred to all
others.
{432}
We recommend, therefore, this work, derived from the writings of
a most illustrious saint, to all; especially to thoughtful and
educated men who can relish, and who, therefore, desire and need,
the most solid spiritual food to promote the growth of
intelligent, solid piety and virtue in their souls.
-------
The Heiress Of Killorgan;
or, Evenings With The Old Geraldines.
By Mrs. J. Sadlier.
New York; D. & J. Sadlier & Co.
The author of this very interesting novel has given to our
literature a great number of works of various kinds, intended not
only for our amusement but for our instruction; and the present
volume is perhaps the very best specimen of her productions,
combining, as it does, the interest of a romance with many
genuine historical and personal reminiscences of the celebrated
Anglo-Norman family of Fitzgerald, with which is associated so
much of the history of Ireland from the English invasion until
the present time. It cannot be said that there is any plot in the
tale, being a simple narration of the incidents occurring in the
household of a refined family reduced in fortune, but still
retaining its native dignity and pride of ancestry; but the
characters, though few, are clearly, gracefully, and vividly
drawn. The heiress of the decayed house of Killorgan is admirably
sketched with a pencil which aims less at personal description
than at those delicate lines of thought and feeling which, after
all, give us the truest idea of the excellence of the female
character. The greatest merit, however, of the work rests in its
historical descriptions, which, being taken from the best
authorities, are thoroughly reliable and presented in a very
attractive and concise form.
--------
Affixes In Their Origin And Application.
Exhibiting the Etymological Structure of English Words.
By S. S. Haldeman, A.M.
Philadelphia: Butler & Co. 1865. 12mo, pp. 271.
Professor Haldeman has few if any superiors in the science of
language, and he has also the modesty that always accompanies
real merit. He pretends to no more knowledge than he really has,
and he never undertakes to explain what in the present state of
linguistic science is not explicable. His chief fault is his fear
of saying on any point more than is necessary, which leaves him
in his brevity sometimes obscure. We should find his work more
easily understood if he allowed himself to enlarge a little more
on the independent meaning of the prefixes and suffixes to
English words. But perhaps he is full enough for others.
The importance of affixes in the construction of English words
may be gathered from the fact that there are in English only
about three thousand two hundred monosyllables, and that many of
these even are not primitives, but have a prefix, a suffix, or
both. It is evident that affixes must be concerned in the
formation of by far the greatest part of the English vocabulary,
and that an accurate knowledge of English words is to be obtained
only "through a distinct appreciation of the modes used to vary
them according to the exigencies of thought and speech." This
appreciation in the case of our mother tongue becomes the more
difficult because it is a composite tongue, and, unlike the Greek
and Welsh, for instance, has not its chief etymological materials
in itself, and its words cannot in general be analyzed
independently of other languages. To have a scientific knowledge
of our language we must know the languages from which its words
are derived, and the derivation, meaning, and use of their
affixes in those languages as well as in our own. Professor
Haldeman has in this small but compact volume attempted to give
us the derivation, meaning, and use of all the affixes, divided
into prefixes and suffixes, in the English language, from
whatever language taken, and he has done it in as satisfactory a
manner as possible in the present state of comparative philology.
No English scholar should fail to obtain and master it, if he
wishes really to understand his own language.
--------
{433}
The Catholic World.
Vol. Vi., No. 34. January, 1868.
The Catholic Doctrine Of Justification.
The remarks we are about to make in this article grow out of the
discussion of the philosophy of conversion between this magazine
and the _New-Englander_. Nevertheless, those who expect a
continuation of personal controversy on the topics suggested in
our last article, and a formal rejoinder to the respected writer
in the _New-Englander_ who replied to it, will be
disappointed. Our views on the subject matter of discussion were
expressed, as we think, clearly enough to be understood, and as
fully as our purpose required. We leave them, therefore, to the
judgment of those of our readers who are really in earnest, that
they may give them whatever weight their intrinsic value may
demand in the court of conscience; and as for the opinion of
others, we care nothing. Controversy upon minor topics and side
issues is of its very nature interminable, as well as of little
comparative utility. The controversy between the Catholic Church
and Protestants on the great, fundamental principles and
doctrines at issue, has been so ably and thoroughly argued out
that there is little left to be done in that department of
theology. For those who desire information, there are plenty of
books to be had treating of every topic in a much more
satisfactory manner than it is possible to treat them in the
short compass of magazine articles. The great controversy of the
day, in our opinion, and the one which interests us most deeply,
is the one which is waging between Christianity and infidelity,
in its various phases of rationalism, scepticism, and atheism. So
far as Protestants of the more orthodox schools are concerned,
the aspect of the question we feel most disposed to present to
them is that which Guizot and others of their own number have
seen with more or less distinctness--namely, that in the great
conflict of the age their real interest is at stake in the
success of the Catholic side; that, as Christians, they belong to
us, and ought to make with us common cause against the enemy.
That method of removing the difficulty in the way of their doing
so which recommends itself to our judgment and feelings is one
which brings into strong relief the grand, fundamental principles
of Christianity in which we agree; and with these principles as a
point of departure, endeavors to explain and develop the complete
Catholic system in such a way as to remove misunderstandings and
to show how the several, particular portions of revealed truth,
held by our various bodies of separated brethren in a fragmentary
state, are integrated in a grand, universal whole in this
Catholic system.
{434}
In this line, as we conceive it, lie the richest and least
worked-out fields, where new writers may enter in and follow up
the labors of their predecessors. One special need, moreover, is
to clothe thought in a language which is familiar to the persons
we are addressing, and to translate or explain in their own idiom
what may be strange or unintelligible in the forms of other ages,
countries, and schools of philosophy and theology. What little
the writer of this article is able to do he prefers to do in this
line, and thinks it best to restrict himself to single and
specific topics in the short essays which are the only suitable
ones for a magazine. We have no wish to abjure general
controversy in the abstract, or to lay down a rule of conduct in
this matter for others. Nor would we seem to slight or treat with
indifference what may be written on the other side. We desire to
give due attention to all that candid and courteous opponents may
have to say, and to keep it in view when we are arguing our own
cause. It suits better, however, with the time and strength we
have at our command, and our other avocations, to keep ourselves
free from the obligations of formal controversy, and to be at
liberty to take up such single topics as may be opportune
according to circumstances. At present, we propose to touch a
little more at length upon the topic of justification, one of
those we have before now briefly remarked upon, dropping
altogether the attitude and style of personal controversy.
The real objection against the Catholic doctrine of justification
by _fides formata_, or faith informed by charity, as well as
the reason for insisting that faith alone justifies, exclusively
of the charity which accompanies it, is grounded in a notion that
the former doctrine subverts the gratuitous character of
salvation by the grace of God through the merits of Jesus Christ.
We propose, therefore, to make a brief exposition of the Catholic
doctrine, with a view of showing what it really teaches
respecting the gratuitousness of grace, and the work of Christ as
the meritorious cause of its being conferred.
Catholic theology teaches, what even sound philosophy
demonstrates, that all created existence proceeds from a
gratuitous act of the Creator. But it teaches, moreover, against
the Pelagians, that the original state of supernatural justice
and sanctity in which the angels and Adam were constituted was an
additional gratuitous boon, or grace conferred by God. It is
evident, then, that the Catholic doctrine excludes the
possibility of holding that the first principle of the
beatification and glorification of a creature is in the nature of
the creature itself. This principle, as supernatural, is not due
to nature, cannot be merited by any acts proceeding from the
principles of nature, and must therefore be a pure, gratuitous
grace. That is, the creature is justified by grace, and owes the
capacity of attaining beatitude, consequently beatitude itself
when attained, radically to a pure act of the divine goodness. It
is plain, therefore, that the angels and Adam could not have
merited their own justification. They were obliged either to
receive it passively, or to accept it, as Billuart holds, by an
active concurrence with grace.
{435}
The grace being given, constituting its subjects in the state of
justice and sanctity, what was it? It was not a mere forensic and
exterior modification of their relation to God, but an interior,
sanctifying grace, making them subjectively, holy, like to God,
affiliated to him, united to him in an inchoate union whose final
term is beatitude. It is evident that this sanctifying grace,
which in act was the love of God, made them fit and worthy to be
the friends of God, and to be admitted to the fellowship of his
glory. It is also certain that they were placed in probation.
What was that probation? Was it not a trial of obedience, in
which certain definite acts of free-will were prescribed as the
conditions of being confirmed in grace and consummated in glory?
Eternal life was therefore proposed to them as the reward of good
works, as a premium of voluntary obedience, and as such is
actually possessed by the holy angels in heaven. It is,
therefore, true that the angels were justified by grace,
justified by charity, justified by good works; that their
salvation proceeds from the pure goodness of God, and has been
obtained by their own good acts: nor is there the least
contradiction in any of these statements.
There being no intrinsic, necessary contradiction between the two
propositions, the creature is justified and beatified by the
gratuitous grace of God; and, the creature is justified and
beatified by his personal sanctity--there is no necessary
logical deduction derivable from the premise that man in his
present state is justified by gratuitous grace to the conclusion
that he is not justified by his intrinsic sanctity. The
redemption has repaired the fall, has restored the human race to
the condition from which it fell by the sin of Adam. There is no
reason, therefore, why man should not be justified now, in
essentially the same manner as before; no reason why the order of
grace, repaired by redemption, should not follow the same
essential laws as before the fall. If a change has taken place,
it must be proved that it is so. If this change was required by
the fact that the restoration of man is due to the merits of
Christ, the reason of it must be shown. It must be shown that the
recovery of justification through the merits of Christ is
incompatible with justification by intrinsic sanctity and
glorification as the reward of good works done from the principle
of charity. If this cannot be shown, no argument can be derived
from the doctrine that the work of Christ is the meritorious
cause of the justification of fallen man to prove that the formal
cause of his justification is any other than the formal cause of
the justification of the angels and of man in his original state.
The Catholic doctrine teaches that the sacrifice of himself which
Jesus Christ offered up on the cross is the meritorious cause of
justification through the expiation which it made of original and
actual sin, and the new title which it obtained to the lost
inheritance of everlasting life. This includes in itself the
grant of all those graces which are necessary in order to the
remission of sins, the sanctification of the soul, and its
complete preparation for the state of beatitude and glory.
Consequently, all Catholic theologians teach that the initial
movement of the sinner to return to God, the faith which disposes
him for justification, the sanctifying grace which makes him
really just and the friend of God, the actual graces which enable
him to perform salutary acts, the special aid which enables him
to persevere, all proceed from the grace of God, which is
gratuitous in reference to the original provision of a plan of
redemption, gratuitous toward each individual who receives it so
far as he is personally concerned, and due as a reward, under the
title of justice, solely to Jesus Christ himself on account of
his own personal merits.
{436}
It is, therefore, through the merits of Christ that a sinner
receives the grace which justifies and sanctifies him in the
first instance. Through the same merits he receives the remission
of his sins, if he falls into any afterward. Through the same
merits he receives all the actual graces which he obtains by
prayer. And, finally, it is through the same merits that the
kingdom of heaven has been prepared for him, as the ultimate term
to which he is permitted to aspire. The effect of the merits of
the death of Christ upon the cross is therefore to put fallen man
back again, essentially, where he was before the trial in
Paradise, and where the angels were when they were created. It
does not affect the case at all whether the angels and Adam were
placed in that state in view of the Incarnation, or by the mere
goodness of God, without any reference to the Incarnation. If
they were created and elevated to the divine filiation,
_intuitu Christi_, they received a boon motived upon the
extrinsic glory which God would receive from his deific humanity.
If not, they received the same boon motived upon the glory which
God would receive from their elevation to beatitude. The boon was
equally gratuitous in either case, for the decree of the
Incarnation, whether included in the decree of creation or in
that of redemption--whether antecedent or subsequent to the
foresight of redemption--was perfectly gratuitous. Nay, more:
because it was gratuitous it was fitting and just that God should
condition it with any terms that were possible and reasonable. He
did actually condition it upon obedience to certain precepts,
unknown to us as regards the angels, but known as regards Adam.
The original grace conceded to them, therefore, merely placed
them in a condition to obtain everlasting beatitude by
corresponding to this grace with their free, voluntary acts, or
by fidelity to the obligations of their probation. They were
justified, that is, placed in the state of justification, by the
act of God which gave them sanctifying grace. They were
constituted just in act by this personal quality of sanctifying
grace, which made them fit and worthy to be the sons of God; and
they were commanded to retain the state of justice, to augment
it, and to obtain confirmation in it, with the consummation of it
in glory, as a premium of obedience to the divine precepts. The
holy angels are now in heaven actually the object of the divine
love of complacency on account of their inherent sanctity and in
proportion to the degree of it which each one possesses. They
enjoy heaven as a reward gained by the right exercise of their
free-will; and yet, it is no less true that their state of glory
is due to the gratuitous grace of God, nor is there any
contradiction in supposing that the grace was given to them
_intuitu Christi_.
The fact that man is now placed under an order of grace, based on
the merits of Christ, cannot therefore be shown to be
incompatible with the position that he is also placed in a state
of probation essentially similar to that of angels and of Adam.
He may be constituted just by sanctifying grace, as well as they;
obliged, as well as they, to remain just, and to attain perpetual
justice and its complement of glory by the right exercise of his
free-will in producing acts which proceed from the principle of
sanctity within him.
{437}
The Catholic doctrine teaches that man is actually placed in this
state of probation under the law of grace established in Christ.
This probation implies that the initial, inchoate principle of
the divine everlasting life to which he is destined should be
implanted within him, as the centre of the supernatural force
giving him a movement toward his prefixed end. It implies, also,
that a series of acts impelling him forward should proceed from
this principle by the effort of his free-will. This principle can
be nothing else than sanctifying grace, and sanctifying grace, in
its essence, can be nothing else than the love of God. Love is
the only principle capable of uniting the soul with God. Faith
alone cannot do it. It is further evident that faith cannot be
the essential principle which makes the soul just, for two
reasons: First. That infants are capable of justification, which,
we suppose, no one will deny, but are not capable of an act of
faith. Second. That faith is a temporary virtue, ceasing in the
beatified state, whereas the principle of justification is
permanent and eternal.
Moreover, the sphere of probation is necessarily identical with
the sphere of free-will, and the sphere of free-will is
coextensive with all the precepts which God has given as the
matter for free-will to exercise its choice upon, by selecting
the good and rejecting the evil. The acts which must proceed from
the principle of love, in order to bring the soul to God as its
ultimate term, must, therefore, cover the whole ground of the
divine law, and include the fulfilment of all its commandments.
It is impossible, therefore, that faith alone should justify,
unless probation, free-will, and the law of God are strictly
confined to the sphere of faith. No one will pretend that they
are. If they are not, it is impossible that a mere habit of
faith, or the mere exercise of faith in act, should alone
constitute a man just before God. God is not bound to place a
creature on probation. He can justify, sanctify, and glorify him
immediately, without leaving him any liberty of choice between
good and evil. But he cannot elevate him to the high state of
personal union and friendship with himself without giving him
that love which fixes the will immovably in God as the supreme
good, and includes in itself all virtue and sanctity. Union
between the soul and God requires likeness. The soul must be made
like to God in order that it may love God, and that God may love
the soul. Although, therefore, God is not bound to place a
creature on probation--that is, to require of him the particular
exercise of love which consists in a voluntary obedience to
certain precepts--yet he cannot dispense with love itself, which
is the sole and indispensable requisite to a state of perfect
justification; and although he is not bound to place a creature
in a state of probation, yet if he does so, he cannot dispense
with those acts of love which are suitable to such a state. The
very notion of a state of probation requires that certain
precepts should be given to a rational creature, who is free to
keep them or violate them as he may choose, and who is to receive
the favor of God during his probation and an eternal reward at
the end of it if he keeps them, forfeiting both if he fails to do
so. On any other supposition, the state of probation is entirely
illusory and unreal. The attributes of God require him to carry
out the terms of the probation to which he has subjected man.
{438}
When he imposes precepts, he must from his very nature withdraw
his friendship from the transgressor. He may still regard him
with the love of benevolence, and offer him forgiveness; but he
cannot actually forgive him and look upon him again with the love
of complacency until he has regained his lost sanctity and
returned to the love of God. Sin of its own nature turns the soul
away from God as its supreme good to some created object. It is,
therefore, a contradiction in terms to say that a man can be in
the state of sin and the state of justification at the same time;
for it is equivalent to saying that he can at the same instant be
turned toward God as his supreme good, and away from him. Love is
therefore the _conditio sine quâ non_, at least, of
justification. Faith alone cannot, therefore, formally justify.
If it did, there would be no need of love in order to constitute
a man just before God. A man might be completely justified while
in the very act of the most grievous sin, as, for instance,
blasphemy, murder, or suicide, and might die without having
changed his will to commit those sins, yet pass immediately to
heaven. These sins are not incompatible with faith, though they
are with charity. If they are incompatible with faith, all mortal
sins--that is, all those which, in the strict and proper sense,
alienate the soul from God, and destroy charity--must be
incompatible with faith. Why is this? Does faith, of its own
nature, produce charity? If it does, it must contain within
itself the radical principle of charity, and while it exists in
the soul it must exclude all sins which are directly contrary to
charity and incompatible with it. Then, one who has faith cannot
commit a mortal sin. If faith is inamissible, and a man once
justified can no more lose his justification, then, as soon as
one has obtained faith, he has obtained also exemption from all
mortal sins for the future. If faith is not inamissible, then
every sin against charity, or every mortal sin, destroys faith
and justification. Such a definition of faith, however, including
love and sanctifying grace, makes faith to be the _fides
formata_ of Catholic theology.
If it is said that faith does not, of itself, produce charity,
yet is always accompanied by charity, it must be, then, that
faith gives one a title to sanctifying grace and charity, so
that, whoever makes an act of faith, receives an additional gift
which makes him holy. In that case, every one who was once
justified would be exempt from mortal sin while his faith lasts.
If the first act of faith justifies once for all, then the
believer can never again commit a mortal sin. If it justifies
only for the time being, then while it lasts it preserves the
soul from sin, and whoever sins proves that he has already lost
faith. This is contrary to reason and experience. It is certain
that men who have had faith and grace have afterwards sinned
mortally. Therefore, faith does not, by its first act, bring with
it an inamissible gift of charity. It is also certain that men do
not always lose faith when they sin, or sin against faith first
before they sin against charity. Many a man who believes firmly
in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the Saviour of men, and who
hopes for salvation through his merits, commits mortal sin, and
even lives for years in the habitual state of sin. It may be said
that such persons have no _saving_ faith, never did have it,
or have lost it. But what is saving faith? What is the
_differentia_ of that faith which really justifies?
{439}
It is evident enough that a certain kind of habitual belief in
Jesus Christ and his doctrines, accompanied by a desire and hope
of being saved through his merits and mercy, does frequently
exist in persons who are living in habitual sin. If this is not
genuine faith, or saving faith, there must be in saving faith
some additional quality which distinguishes it from that faith
which produces no fruits of sanctity. Is it made saving by its
quality of supernaturalness, or as proceeding from the grace of
the Holy Spirit? This is the same as saying that supernatural
faith, as such, or because it is a grace of the Holy Spirit,
necessarily brings with it sanctification. This is not so. The
Holy Spirit may and does give men a firm belief in revealed
truths, and a hope of obtaining mercy from God through Christ
before they are actually forgiven and justified. This remains in
them, often, after they have lost sanctifying grace by sin, as a
disposition which facilitates their return to God. It does not,
however, _per se_, produce the fruits of sanctity, or
implant the principle of love, from which these fruits proceed,
which is the very principle of union with God, and, therefore,
the formal cause of justification. That quality which faith must
have, in order to render it justifying faith, cannot be,
therefore, anything else but charity, or the love of God, which
makes it _fides formata_.
We are convinced that a great number of Protestants substantially
hold the doctrines we have laid down. They believe that man has
free-will; is bound to believe and obey the doctrine and precepts
of Jesus Christ; is made the friend of God by sanctifying grace
brought into the active exercise of Christian virtue by his own
voluntary cooperation; is placed here to work out his own
salvation; will receive heaven as a reward if he serves God
faithfully, and will be damned if he lives in sin. Even those who
hold the Calvinistic tradition either modify its tenets or hold
more sound and rational opinions in juxtaposition with them,
which really control their sentiments and conduct. It would be
easy to show this by a multitude of citations. So far as
metaphysical opinions and technical statements are concerned, we
judge every work and every formula of doctrine by its obvious,
objective sense, and accept every individual writer's statements
respecting his own opinions. But in regard to the real, genuine
ideas which form the true intellectual and spiritual life of men,
we take the liberty of judging them more by the language they use
in common life, by their indirect statements, and by the general
spirit and scope of what they say and write, when not immediately
intent upon stating their technical formulas, than from their
technical formulas themselves. We have heard it said of the
illustrious President Dwight that his real sentiments and conduct
toward his fellow-men indicated a belief in the goodness of all
men, whereas he held theoretically that all men were totally
depraved. We have no doubt that President Edwards always acted on
the belief that his children possessed the self-determining power
of the will, against which he wrote so acutely, or that Bishop
Berkeley was persuaded of the reality of the external world.
Therefore, we still think that a large number of non-Catholics
are more Catholic in their belief than they are aware, and that
their rejection of what they suppose to be Catholic doctrine is
frequently only a rejection of opinions attributed by mistake to
the Catholic Church.
{440}
In regard to this special question of justification, it is our
opinion that the objection prevalent among the more orthodox
Protestants is based on the supposition that the Catholic
doctrine ascribes a justifying and saving efficacy to a mere
intellectual submission to church-authority, and a mere external
compliance with its precepts, without reference to the interior
disposition of the soul toward God, or recognition of the merits
of Christ as the source of all the supernatural excellence and
value of good works. It is believed that the Catholic substitutes
the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the merits of the saints,
and his own merits, as an independent ground of justification, in
lieu of the merits of Christ. Also, that merit is ascribed to
mere external works, such as fasting, hearing mass, and
performing ceremonial rites or penitential labors, on account of
the mere physical nature and extent of the works done, without
reference to the motive from which they proceed. The vague and
timorous pastoral of the late Synod of Lambeth is explicit and
bold only on this one point, of condemning the substitution of
the Virgin Mary as a mediator in the place of Christ. For this
reason, we think that the simple statement of the genuine
Catholic doctrine is the surest way to remove objections against
it, and that most of these objections fall away of themselves as
soon as the misapprehensions of the doctrine are removed. This is
no private fancy of our own, but the judgment of some of the
ablest theologians of the world, Protestant as well as Catholic.
Leibnitz, the greatest philosopher among Protestants, found
nothing to object to in the doctrines of the Council of Trent
respecting justification. Dr. Pusey, one of the most learned men
of the age in scriptural and patristic theology, has publicly
expressed his adhesion to the same doctrine. It is easy to
ridicule that movement in the Anglican church, of which he is the
head; but it would be much more sensible for those who do it to
study his elaborate and profound writings, and much more
difficult to refute them. Protestantism has produced nothing, at
least in the English language, which can approach the great works
of the High-Church divines of England. These works contain the
elements of all the theology of Catholic doctrine respecting the
justification of man, in the ascetical, spiritual, and
sacramental aspects of the question. All the life of
Protestantism in England is centred in the Catholicizing
movement. On the continent, that orthodox Protestantism which is
derived from Luther and Calvin is a nullity. The real issue of
the world, as we have repeatedly said, is about the fundamental
principles of Christianity. The question between Catholics and
those Protestants who hold with us these fundamental principles
is not, as many of them suppose, respecting the first principles
of the doctrine of Christ, but respecting the deductions to be
derived from them and their due development. That God is revealed
in Jesus Christ, as our sovereign teacher, our sovereign Lord,
our sovereign redeemer and mediator, the sovereign author of our
spiritual and everlasting life; that we are bound to render him
the absolute homage of our faith and our obedience, is admitted
by all. The only question is, by what method or means can we
ascertain with certainty the exact and complete sense of the
doctrine he has commanded us to believe and the law he has
commanded us to keep. This is a question to be decided by
evidence. The sooner the _prohibentia_ in the way of
examining carefully and candidly this evidence are removed the
better. This is the only point we have been aiming at--the only
result we desire to reach.
{441}
We have endeavored to remove some of the obstacles in the way of
a fair hearing of the claims of the Catholic Church, arising from
_à priori_ conceptions of her doctrine, which are thought to
authorize a foregone conclusion against them. We have also
presented some of the reasons specially urgent at present, why
the basis for unity which the Catholic Church offers should be
carefully and studiously considered by all those who desire the
union and welfare of Christendom, its victory over every form of
anti-Christianity, and its universal extension in the world. The
_fides formata_, or faith working by love, which we have set
forth as the vital principle of spiritual life in the individual,
must also be the principle of unity in the Christian society.
Whoever has faith implicitly believes all those revealed
doctrines which, without his own fault, he does not explicitly
know to be revealed. Whoever has love has the principle of
obedience to those laws whose existence he does not know.
Therefore, we say that whoever has _fides formata_ is
justified, and, of course, spiritually united to the true church.
But whoever remains culpably in error respecting essential
doctrines and precepts, or refuses to believe and obey what is
fairly presented to him as the revealed truth and will of Jesus
Christ, cannot have _fides formata_. It is evident,
therefore, that we are all bound to strive after as great a
certitude as possible respecting the important question at issue
between the Catholic Church and Protestants.
--------
Translated From The French.
The Story Of A Conscript.
VI.
The mairie of Phalsbourg, that Thursday morning, January 15th,
1813, during the drawing for the conscription, was a sight to be
seen. To-day it is bad enough to be drawn, to be forced to leave
parents, friends, home, one's goods and one's fields, to go and
learn--God knows where "_One! two!_ one! two! halt! eyes
left! eyes right! front! carry arms!" etc. etc. Yes, this is all
bad enough, but there is a chance of returning. One can say, with
something like confidence: "In seven years I will see my old nest
again, and my parents, and perhaps my sweetheart. I shall have
seen the world, and will perhaps have some title to be appointed
forester or gend'arme." This is a comfort for reasonable people.
But then, if you had the ill-luck to lose in the lottery, there
was an end of you; often not one in a hundred returned. The idea
that you were only going for a time never entered your head.
The enrolled of Harberg, of Garbourg, and of Quatre-Vents were to
draw first; then those of the city, and lastly those of Wéehem
and Mittlebronn.
{442}
I was up early in the morning, and with my elbows on the
work-bench I watched the people pass by; young men in blouses,
poor old men in cotton caps and short vests; old women in jackets
and woolen skirts, bent almost double, with staff or umbrella
under their arms. They arrived by families. Monsieur the
Sous-Préfet of Larrebourg, with his silver collar, and his
secretary, had stopped the day before at the "Red Ox," and they
were also looking out of the window. Toward eight o'clock,
Monsieur Goulden began work, after breakfasting. I ate nothing,
but stared and stared until Monsieur the Mayor, Parmentier and
his coadjutor, came for Monsieur the Sous-Préfet.
The drawing began at nine, and soon we heard the clarionet of
Pfifer-Karl and the violin of great Andrès resounding through the
streets. They were playing the "March of the Swedes," an air to
which thousands of poor wretches had left old Alsace for ever.
The conscripts danced, linked arms, shouted until their voices
seemed to pierce the clouds, stamped on the ground, waved their
hats, trying to seem joyful while death was at their hearts.
Well, it was the fashion; and big Andrès, withered, stiff, and
yellow as boxwood, and his short chubby comrade, with cheeks
extended to their utmost tension, seemed like people who would
lead you to the churchyard all the while chatting indifferently.
That music, those cries, sent a shudder through my heart.
I had just put on my swallow-tailed coat and my beaver hat to go
out, when Aunt Grédel and Catharine entered, saying:
"Good morning, Monsieur Goulden. We have come for the
conscription."
Then I saw how Catharine had been crying. Her eyes were red, and
she threw her arms around my neck, while her mother turned to me.
Monsieur Goulden said:
"It will soon be the turn of the young men of the city."
"Yes, Monsieur Goulden," answered Catharine, in a choking voice;
"they have finished Harberg."
"Then it is time for you to go, Joseph," said he; "but do not
grieve; do not be frightened. These drawings, you know, are only
a matter of form. For a long while past none can escape; or if
they escape one drawing, they are caught a year or two after. All
the numbers are bad. When the council of exemption meets, we will
see what is best to be done. To-day it is merely a sort of
satisfaction they give people to draw in the lottery; but every
one loses."
"No matter," said Aunt Grédel; "Joseph will win."
"Yes, yes," replied Monsieur Goulden, smiling, "he cannot fail."
Then I sallied forth with Catharine and Aunt Grédel, and we went
to the town place, where the crowd was. In all the shops, dozens
of conscripts, purchasing ribbons, thronged around the counters,
weeping and singing as if possessed. Others in the inns embraced,
sobbing; but still they sang. Two or three musicians of the
neighborhood--the Gipsy Walteufel, Rosselkasten, and George
Adam--had arrived, and their pieces thundered in terrible and
heart-rending strains.
Catharine squeezed my arm. Aunt Grédel followed.
Opposite the guard-house I saw the peddler Pinacle affar off, his
pack opened on a little table, and beside it a long pole decked
with ribbons which he was selling to the conscripts.
I hastened to pass by him, when he cried:
{443}
"Ha! Cripple! Halt! Come here; I have a fine ribbon for you; you
must have a magnificent one--one to draw a prize by."
He waved a long black ribbon above his head, and I grew pale
despite myself. But as we ascended the steps of the mairie, a
conscript was just descending; it was Klipfel, the smith of the
French gate; he had drawn number eight, and shouted:
"The black for me, Pinacle! Bring it here, whatever may happen."
His face was gloomy, but he laughed. His little brother Jean was
crying behind him, and said:
"No, no, Jacob! not the black!"
But Pinacle fastened the ribbon to the smith's hat, while the
latter said:
"That is what we want now. We are all dead, and should wear our
own mourning."
And he cried savagely:
"_Vive l'Empereur!_"
I was better satisfied to see the black ribbon on his hat than on
mine, and I slipped quickly through the crowd to avoid Pinacle.
We had great difficulty in getting into the mairie and in
climbing the old oak stairs, where people where going up and down
in swarms. In the great hall above, the gendarme Kelz walked
about, maintaining order as well as he could, and in the
council-chamber at the side, where there is a painting of Justice
with her eyes blindfolded, we heard them calling off the numbers.
From time to time a conscript came put with flushed face,
fastening his number on his cap and passing with bowed head
through the crowd, like a furious bull who cannot see clearly and
who would seem to wish to break his horns against the walls.
Others, on the contrary, passed pale as death. The windows of the
mairie were open, and without were heard six or seven pieces
playing together. It was horrible.
I pressed Catharine's hand, and we passed slowly through the
crowd to the hall where Monsieur the Sous-Préfet, the Mayors, and
the Secretaries were seated on their tribune, calling the numbers
aloud as if pronouncing sentence of death in a court of justice;
for all those numbers were really sentences of death.
We waited a long while.
It seemed as if there was no longer a drop of blood in my veins,
when at last my name was called.
I advanced, seeing and hearing nothing; I put my hand in the box
and drew a number.
Monsieur the Sous-Préfet cried out:
"Number seventeen."
Then I departed without speaking, Catharine and her mother behind
me. We went out into the _place_, and, the air reviving me,
I remembered that I had drawn number seventeen.
Aunt Grédel seemed confounded.
"And I put something into your pocket, too," said she; "but that
rascal of a Pinacle gave you ill luck."
At the same time she drew from my coat-pocket the end of a cord.
Great drops of sweat rolled down my forehead; Catharine was white
as marble, and so we returned to Monsieur Goulden's.
"What number did you draw, Joseph?" he asked, as soon as he saw
us.
"Seventeen," replied Aunt Grédel, sitting down, with her hands
upon her knees.
Monsieur Goulden seemed troubled for a moment, but he said
instantly:
"One is as good as another. All will go; the skeletons must be
filled. But it don't matter for Joseph. I will go and see
Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the Commandant. It will be
telling no lie to say that Joseph is lame; all the town knows
that; but among so many they may overlook him. That is why I go,
so rest easy; do not be anxious."
{444}
These words of good Monsieur Goulden reassured Aunt Grédel and
Catharine, who returned to Quatre-Vents full of hope; but they
did not affect me, for from that moment I had not a moment of
rest day or night.
The emperor had a good custom: he did not allow the conscripts to
languish at home. Soon as the drawing was complete, the council
of revision met, and a few days after came the orders to march.
He did not do like those tooth-pullers who first show you their
pincers and hooks and gaze for an hour into your mouth, so that
you feel half dead before they make up their minds to begin work:
he proceeded without loss of time.
A week after the drawing, the council of revision sat at the town
hall, with all the mayors and a few notables of the country to
give advice in case of need.
The day before Monsieur Goulden had put on his brown great-coat
and his best wig to go to wind up Monsieur the Mayor's clock and
that of the Commandant. He returned laughing and said:
"All goes well, Joseph. Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the
Commandant know that you are lame; that is easy enough to be
seen. They replied at once, Eh, Monsieur Goulden, the young man
is lame; why speak of him? Do not be uneasy; we do not want the
infirm; we want soldiers."
These words poured balm on my wounds, and that night I slept like
one of the blessed. But the next day fear again assailed me; I
remembered suddenly how many men full of defects had gone all the
same, and how many others invented defects to deceive the
council; for instance, swallowing injurious substances to make
them pale; tying up their legs to give themselves swollen veins;
or playing deaf, blind, or foolish. I had heard that vinegar
would make one sick, and, without telling Monsieur Goulden, in my
fear I swallowed all the vinegar in his bottle. Then I dressed
myself, thinking that I looked like a dead man, for the vinegar
was very strong; but when I entered Monsieur Goulden's room, he
cried out:
"Joseph, what is the matter with you? You are as red as a cock's
comb."
And, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw that my face was red
to my ears and to the very tip of my nose. I was frightened, but
instead of growing pale I became redder yet, and I cried out in
my distress:
"Now I am lost indeed! I will seem like a man without a single
defect, and full of health. The vinegar is rushing to my head."
"What vinegar?" asked Monsieur Goulden.
"That in your bottle. I drank it to make myself pale, as they say
Mademoiselle Selapp, the organist, does. O Heavens! what a fool I
was."
"That does not prevent your being lame," said Monsieur Goulden;
"but you tried to deceive the council, which was dishonest. But
it is half-past nine, and Werner is come to tell me you must be
there at ten o'clock. So, hurry."
I had to go in that state; the heat of the vinegar seemed
bursting from my cheeks, and when I met Catharine and her mother,
who were waiting for me at the mairie, they scarcely knew me.
"How happy and satisfied you look!" said Aunt Grédel.
{445}
I would have fainted on hearing this if the vinegar had not
sustained me in spite of myself. I went upstairs in terrible
agony, without being able to move my tongue to reply, so great
was the horror I felt at my folly.
Above, more than twenty-five conscripts who pretended to be
infirm, had been examined and received, while twenty-five others,
on a bench along the wall, sat with drooping heads awaiting their
turn.
The old gendarme, Kelz, with his huge cocked hat, was walking
about, and as soon as he saw me exclaimed: "At last! At last!
Here is one, at all events, who will not be sorry to go; the love
of glory is shining in his eyes. Very good, Joseph; I predict
that at the end of the campaign you will be corporal."
"But I am lame," I cried angrily.
"Lame!" repeated Kelz, winking and smiling; "lame! No matter.
With such health as yours you can always hold your own."
He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door of the hall of the
Council of Revision opened, and the other gendarme, Werner,
putting out his head, called, "Joseph Bertha."
I entered, limping as much as I could, and Werner shut the door.
The mayors of the canton were seated in a semi-circle, Monsieur
the Sous-Préfet and the Mayor of Phalsbourg in the middle, in
arm-chairs, and the Secretary Frélig at his table. A Harberg
conscript was dressing himself, the gendarme Descarmes helping
him. This conscript, with a mass of brown hair falling over his
eyes, his neck bare, and his mouth open as he caught his breath,
seemed like a man going to be hanged. Two surgeons--the
Surgeon-in-Chief of the Hospital, with another in uniform--were
conversing in the middle of the hall. They turned to me, saying,
"Take off your coat."
I did so. The others looked on.
Monsieur the Sous-Préfet observed:
"There is a young man full of health."
These words angered me, but I nevertheless replied respectfully:
"I am lame, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet."
The surgeons examined me, and the one from the hospital, to whom
Monsieur the Commandant had doubtless spoken of me, said: "The
left leg is a little short." "Bah!" said the other; "it is
sound."
Then placing his hand upon my chest he said, "The conformation is
good. Cough."
I coughed as freely as I could; but he found me all right, and
said again:
"Look at his color. How good his blood must be!"
Then I, seeing that they would pass me if I remained silent,
replied: "I have drank vinegar." "Ah!" said he; "that proves you
have a good stomach; you like vinegar."
"But I am lame!" I cried in my distress.
"Bah! don't grieve at that," he answered; "your leg is sound.
I'll answer for it."
"But that," said Monsieur the Mayor, "does not prevent his being
lame from birth; all Phalsbourg knows that."
"The leg is too short," said the surgeon from the hospital; "it
is doubtless a case for exemption."
"Yes," said the Mayor; "I am sure that this young man could not
endure a long march; he would drop on the road the second mile."
The first surgeon said nothing more.
I thought myself saved, when Monsieur the Sous-Préfet asked: "You
are really Joseph Bertha?"
{446}
"Yes, Monsieur the Sous-Préfet," I answered.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, taking a letter out of his portfolio,
"listen."
He began to read the letter, which stated that, six months
before, I had bet that I could go to Laverne and back quicker
than Pinacle; that we had run the race, and I had won.
It was unhappily too true. The villain Pinacle had always taunted
me with being a cripple, and in my anger I laid the wager. Every
one knew of it. I could not deny it.
While I stood utterly confounded, the first surgeon said:
"That settles the question. Dress yourself." And, turning to the
Secretary, he cried, "Good for service."
I took up my coat in despair.
Werner called another. I no longer saw anything. Some one helped
me to get my arms in my coat-sleeves. Then I found myself upon
the stairs, and while Catharine asked me what had passed, I
sobbed aloud and would have fallen from top to bottom if Aunt
Grédel had not supported me.
We went out by the rear-way and crossed the little court. I wept
like a child, and Catharine did too.
Monsieur Goulden knowing that Aunt Grédel and Catharine would
come to dine with us the day of the revision, had had a stuffed
goose and two bottles of good Alsace wine sent from the "Golden
Sheep." He was sure that I would be exempted at once. What was
his surprise, then, to see us enter together in such distress.
"What is the matter?" said he, raising his silk cap over his bald
forehead, and staring at us with eyes wide open.
I had not strength enough to answer. I threw myself into the
armchair and burst into tears. Catharine sat down beside me, and
our sobs redoubled.
Aunt Grédel said:
"The robbers have taken him."
"It is not possible!" exclaimed Monsieur Goulden, letting fall
his arms by his side.
"It shows their villainy," replied my aunt, and, growing more and
more excited, she cried, "Will a revolution never come again?
Shall those wretches always be our masters?"
"Calm yourself, Mother Grédel," said Monsieur Goulden. "In the
name of Heaven don't cry so loud. Joseph, tell me how it
happened. They are surely mistaken; it cannot be possible
otherwise. Did Monsieur the Mayor and the hospital surgeon say
nothing?"
I told the history of the letter, and Aunt Grédel, who until then
knew nothing of it, again shrieked with her hands clenched.
"O the scoundrel! God grant that he may cross my threshold again.
I will cleave his head with my hatchet."
Monsieur Goulden was astounded.
"And you did not say that it was false. Then the story was true?"
And as I bowed my head without replying, he clasped his hands,
saying:
"O youth! youth! it thinks of nothing. What folly! what folly!"
He walked around the room; then sat down to wipe his spectacles,
and Aunt Grédel exclaimed:
"Yes, but they shall not have him yet! Their wickedness shall yet
go for nothing. This very evening Joseph shall be in the
mountains on the way to Switzerland."
Monsieur Goulden hearing this, looked grave; he bent his brows,
and replied in a few moments:
{447}
"It is a misfortune, a great misfortune, for Joseph is really
lame. They will yet find it out, for he cannot march two days
without falling behind and becoming sick. But you are wrong,
Mother Grédel, to speak as you do and give him bad advice."
"Bad advice!" she cried. "Then you are for having people
massacred too!"
"No," he answered; "I do not love wars, especially where a
hundred thousand men lose their lives for the glory of one. But
wars of that kind are ended. It is not now for glory and to win
new kingdoms that soldiers are levied, but to defend our country,
which had been put in danger by tyranny and ambition. We would
gladly have peace now. Unhappily, the Russians are advancing; the
Prussians are joining them; and our friends, the Austrians, only
await a good opportunity to fall upon our rear. If we do not go
to meet them, they will come to our homes; for we are about to
have Europe on our hands as we had in '93. It is now a different
matter from our wars in Spain, in Russia, and in Germany; and I,
old as I am, Mother Grédel, if the danger continues to increase
and the veterans of the republic are needed, I would be ashamed
to go and make clocks in Switzerland while others were pouring
out their blood to defend my country. Besides, remember this
well, that deserters are despised everywhere; after having
committed such an act, they have no kindred or home anywhere.
They have neither father, mother, church, nor country. They are
incapable of fulfilling the first duty of man--to love and
sustain their country, even though she be in the wrong."
He said no more at the moment, but sat gravely down.
"Let us eat," he exclaimed, after some minutes of silence.
"Midday is striking. Mother Grédel and Catharine, seat yourselves
there."
They sat down, and we began dinner. I meditated upon the words of
Monsieur Goulden, which seemed right to me. Aunt Grédel
compressed her lips, and from time to time gazed at me as if to
read my thoughts. At length she said:
"I despise a country where they take fathers of families after
carrying off the sons. If I were in Joseph's place, I would fly
at once."
"Listen, Aunt Grédel," I replied; "you know that I love nothing
so much as peace and quiet; but I would not, nevertheless, run
away like a coward to another country. But, notwithstanding, I
will do as Catharine says; if she wishes me to go to Switzerland,
I will go."
Then Catharine, lowering her head to hide her tears, said in a
low voice:
"I would not have them call you a deserter."
"Well, then, I will do like the others," I cried; "and as those
of Phalsbourg and Dagsberg are going to the wars, I will go."
Monsieur Goulden made no remark.
"Every one is free to do as he pleases," said he, after a while;
"but I am glad that Joseph thinks as I do."
Then there was silence, and toward two o'clock Aunt Grédel arose
and took her basket. She seemed utterly cast down, and said:
"Joseph, you will not listen to me, but no matter. With God's
grace, all will yet be well. You will return if he wills it, and
Catharine will wait for you."
Catharine wept again, and I more than she; so that Monsieur
Goulden himself could not help shedding tears.
At length Catharine and her mother descended the stairs, and Aunt
Grédel called out from the bottom:
"Try to come and see us once or twice again, Joseph."
{448}
"Yes, yes," I answered, shutting the door.
I could no longer stand. Never had I been so miserable, and even
now, when I think of it, my heart chills.
VII.
From that day I could think of nothing but my misfortune. I tried
to work, but my thoughts were far away, and Monsieur Goulden
said:
"Joseph, lay labor aside. Profit by the little time you can
remain among us; go to see Catharine and Mother Grédel. I still
think they will exempt you, but who can tell? They need men so
much that it may be a long time coming."
I went then every morning to Quatre-Vents, and passed my days
with Catharine. We were very sorrowful, but very glad to see each
other. We loved one another even more than before, if that were
possible. Catharine sometimes tried to sing as in the good old
times; but suddenly she would burst into tears. Then we wept
together, and Aunt Grédel would rail at the wars which brought
misery to every one. She said that the Council of Revision
deserved to be hung; that they were all robbers, banded together
to poison our lives. It solaced us a little to hear her talk
thus, and we thought she was right.
I returned to the city about eight or nine o'clock in the
evening. When they closed the gates, and as I passed, I saw the
small inns full of conscripts and old returned soldiers drinking
together. The conscripts always paid; the others, with dirty
police-caps cocked over their ears, red noses, and horse-hair
stocks in place of shirt-collars, twisted their mustaches and
related with majestic air their battles, their marches, and their
duels. One can imagine nothing viler than those holes, full of
smoke, cobwebs hanging on the black beams, those old sworders and
young men drinking, shouting, and beating the tables like crazy
people; and behind in the shadow old Annette Schnaps or Marie
Héring--her old wig stuck back on her head, her comb with only
three teeth remaining, crosswise, in it--gazing on the scene, or
emptying a mug to the health of the braves.
It was sad to see the sons of peasants, honest and laborious
fellows, leading such an existence; but no one thought of
working, and any one of them would have given his life for two
farthings. Worn out with shouting, drinking, and internal grief,
they ended by falling asleep over the table, while the old
fellows emptied their cups, singing:
"'Tis glory calls us on!"
I saw these things, and I blessed heaven for having given me, in
my wretchedness, kind hearts to keep up my courage and prevent my
falling into such hands.
This state of affairs lasted until the twenty-fifth of January.
For some days a great number of Italian conscripts--Piedmontese
and Genoese--had been arriving in the city; some stout and fat as
Savoyards fed upon chestnuts--their great cocked hats on their
curly heads; their linsey-woolsey pantaloons dyed a dark green,
and their short vests also of wool, but brick-red, fastened
around their waists by a leather belt. They wore enormous shoes,
and ate their cheese seated along the old marketplace. Others
were dried up, lean, brown, shivering in their long cassocks,
seeing nothing but snow upon the roofs and gazing with their
large, black, mournful eyes upon the women who passed. They were
exercised every day in marching, and were going to fill up the
skeleton of the sixth regiment of the line at Mayence, and were
then resting for a while in the infantry barracks.
{449}
The captain of the recruits, who was named Vidal, lodged over our
room. He was a square-built, solid, very strong-looking man, and
was, too, very kind and civil. He came to us to have his watch
repaired, and when he learned that I was a conscript and was
afraid I should never return, he encouraged me, saying that it
was all habit; that at the end of five or six months one fights
and marches as he eats his dinner; and that many so accustom
themselves to shooting at people that they consider themselves
unhappy when they are deprived of that amusement.
But his mode of reasoning was not to my taste; the more so as I
saw five or six large grains of powder on one of his cheeks,
which had entered deeply, and as he explained to me that they
came from a shot which a Russian fired almost under his nose.
Such a life disgusted me more and more, and as several days had
already passed without news, I began to think they had forgotten
me, as they did Jacob, of Chèvre-Hof, of whose extraordinary luck
every one yet talks. Aunt Grédel herself said to me every time I
went there, "Well, well! they will let us alone after all!" When
on the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, as I was about
starting for Quatre-Vents, Monsieur Goulden, who was working at
his bench with a thoughtful air, turned to me with tears in his
eyes and said:
"Listen, Joseph! I wanted to let you have one night more of quiet
sleep; but you must know now, my child, that yesterday evening
the brigadier of gendarmerie brought me your marching orders. You
go with the Piedmontese and Genoese and five or six young men of
the city--young Klipfel, young Loerig, Jean Léger, and Gaspard
Zébédé. You go to Mayence."
I felt my knees give way as he spoke, and I sat down unable to
speak. Monsieur Goulden took my marching orders, beautifully
written, out of a drawer, and began to read them slowly. All that
I remember is that Joseph Bertha, native of Dabo, Canton of
Phalsbourg, Arrondissement of Sarrebourg, was incorporated in the
sixth regiment of the line, and that he should join his corps the
twenty-ninth of January at Mayence.
This letter produced as evil an effect on me as if I had known
nothing of it before. It seemed something new, and I grew angry.
Monsieur Goulden, after a moment's silence, added:
"The Italians start to-day at eleven."
Then, as if awakening from a horrible dream, I cried:
"But shall I not see Catharine again?"
"Yes, Joseph, yes," said he, in a trembling voice. "I notified
Mother Grédel and Catharine, and thus, my boy, they will come,
and you can embrace them before leaving."
I saw his grief, and it made me sadder yet, so that I had a hard
struggle to keep myself from bursting into tears.
He continued, after a pause:
"You need not be anxious about anything, Joseph. I have prepared
all beforehand; and when you return, if it please God to keep me
so long in this world, you will find me always the same. I am
beginning to grow old, and my greatest happiness would be to keep
you for a son, for I found you good-hearted and honest. I would
have given you what I possess, and we would have been happy
together. Catharine and you would have been my children.
{450}
But since it is otherwise, let us resign ourselves. It is only
for a little while. You will be sent back, I am sure. They will
soon see that you cannot make long marches."
While he spoke, I sat silently sobbing, my face buried in my
hands.
At last he arose and took from a closet a soldier's knapsack of
cowskin, which he placed upon the table. I looked at him,
thinking of nothing but the pain of parting.
"Here is your knapsack," he added; "and I have put in it all that
you require; two linen shirts, two flannel waistcoats, and all
the rest. Well, well, that is all."
He placed the knapsack upon the table and sat down.
Without, we heard the Italians making ready to depart. Above us
Captain Vidal was giving his orders. He had his horse at the
barracks of the gendarmerie, and was telling his orderly to see
that he was well rubbed and had received his hay.
All this bustle and movement produced a strange effect upon me,
and I could not yet realize that I must quit the city. As I was
thus in the greatest distress, the door opened and Catharine
entered weeping, while Mother Grédel cried:
"I told you you should have fled to Switzerland; that these
rogues would finish by carrying you off. I told you so, and you
would not believe me."
"Mother Grédel," replied Monsieur Goulden, "to go to do his duty
is not so great an evil as to be despised by honest people.
Instead of all these cries and reproaches, which serve no good
purpose, you would do better to comfort and encourage Joseph."
"Ah!" said she; "I do not reproach him, although this is
terrible."
Catharine did not leave me; she sat by me and said, pressing my
arm:
"You will return?"
"Yes, yes," said I, in a low voice. "And you--you will always
think of me; you will not love another?"
She answered, sobbing:
"No, no! I will never love any but you."
This lasted a quarter of an hour, when the door opened and
Captain Vidal entered, his cloak rolled like a hunting-horn over
his shoulder.
"Well," said he, "well; how goes our young man?"
"Here he is," answered Monsieur Goulden.
"Ah!" remarked the captain; "you are making yourself miserable.
It is natural. I remember when I departed for the army. We have
all a home."
Then, raising his voice, he said:
"Come, come, young man, courage! We are no longer children."
He looked at Catharine.
"I see all," said he to Monsieur Goulden. "I can understand why
he does not want to go."
The drums beat in the street and he added.
"We have yet twenty minutes before starting," and, throwing a
glance at me, "Do not fail to be at the first call, young man,"
said he, pressing Monsieur Goulden's hand.
He went out, and we heard his horse at the door.
The morning was overcast, and grief overwhelmed me. I could not
leave Catharine.
Suddenly the roll beat. The drums were all collected in the
Place. Monsieur Goulden, taking the knapsack by its straps, said
in a grave voice:
"Joseph, now the last embrace; it is time to go."
{451}
I stood up, pale as ashes. He fastened the knapsack to my
shoulders. Catharine sat sobbing, her face covered with her
apron. Mother Grédel looked on with lips compressed.
The roll continued for a time, then suddenly ceased.
"The call is about commencing," said Monsieur Goulden, embracing
me. Then the fountains of his heart burst forth; tears sprang to
his eyes; and, calling me his child, his son, he whispered,
"Courage!"
Mother Grédel seated herself again, and as I bent toward her,
taking my head between her hands, she sobbed:
"I always loved you, Joseph; ever since you were a baby. You
never gave me cause of grief--and now you must go. O God! O God!"
I wept no longer.
When Aunt Grédel released me, I looked a moment at Catharine, who
stood motionless. Then I turned quickly to go, when she cried, in
heart-breaking tones:
"O Joseph! Joseph!"
I looked back. Her strength seemed to leave her, and I placed her
in the arm-chair, and fled.
I was already on the Place, in the midst of the Italians and of a
crowd of people crying for their sons or brothers. I saw nothing;
I heard nothing.
When the roll of the drums recommenced, I looked around, and saw
that I was between Klipfel and Furst, all three with our
knapsacks on our backs. Their parents stood before us, weeping as
if at their funeral. To the right, near the town-hall, Captain
Vidal, on his little gray mare, was conversing with two infantry
officers. The sergeants called the roll, and we answered. They
called Furst, Klipfel, Bertha; we answered like the others. Then
the captain gave the word, "March!" and we went, two abreast,
toward the French gate.
At the corner of the baker Spitz, an old woman cried, in a
choking voice, from a window:
"Kasper! Kasper!"
It was Zébédé's grandmother. His lips trembled. He waved his
hand, without replying, and passed on with downcast face.
I shuddered at the thought of passing my home. As we neared it,
my knees trembled, and I heard some one call at the window; but I
turned my head toward the "Red Ox," and the rattle of the drums
drowned the voices.
The children ran after us, shouting:
"There goes Joseph! there goes Klipfel!"
Under the French gate, the men on guard, drawn up in line on each
side, gazed on us as we passed at shoulder arms. We passed the
outposts, and the drums ceased playing as we turned to the right.
Nothing was heard but the plash of footsteps in the mud, for the
snow was melting.
We had passed the farm-house of Gerberhoff, and were going to the
great bridge, when I heard some one call me. It was the captain,
who cried from his horse:
"Very well done, young man; I am satisfied with you."
Hearing this, I could not help again bursting into tears, and the
great Furst, too, wept, as we marched along; the others, pale as
marble, said nothing. At the bridge, Zébédé took out his pipe to
smoke. In front of us, the Italians talked and laughed among
themselves; their three weeks of service had accustomed them to
this life.
Once on the way to Metting, more than a league from the city, as
we began to descend, Klipfel touched me on the shoulder, and
whispered:
"Look yonder."
{452}
I looked, and saw Phalsbourg far beneath us; the barracks, the
magazines, the steeple whence I had seen Catharine's home, six
weeks before, with old Brainstein--all were in the gray distance,
with the woods all around. I would have stopped a few moments,
but the troop marched on, and I had to keep pace with them. We
entered Metting.
VIII.
That same day we went as far as Bitche; the next, to Hornbach;
then to Kaiserslantern. It began to snow again.
How often during that long march did I sigh for the thick cloak
of Monsieur Goulden, and his double-soled shoes.
We passed through innumerable villages, sometimes on the
mountains, sometimes in the plains. As we entered each little
town, the drums began to beat, and we marched with heads erect,
marking the step, trying to assume the mien of old soldiers. The
people looked out of their little windows, or came to the doors,
saying, "There go the conscripts!"
At night we halted, glad to rest our weary feet--I, especially. I
cannot say that my leg hurt me, but my feet! I had never
undergone such fatigue. With our billet for lodging we had the
right to a corner of the fire, but our hosts also gave us a place
at the table. We had nearly always buttermilk and potatoes, and
often fresh lard on a dish of sauerkraut. The children came to
look at us, and the old women asked us from what place we came,
and what our business was before we left home. The young girls
looked sorrowfully at us, thinking of their sweethearts, who had
gone five, six, or seven months before. Then they would take us
to the son's bed. With what pleasure I stretched out my tired
limbs! How I wished to sleep all our twelve hours' halt! But
early in the morning, at day-break, the rattling of the drums
awoke me. I gazed at the brown rafters of the ceiling, the
window-panes covered with frost, and asked myself where I was.
Then my heart would grow cold, as I thought that I was at
Bitche--at Kaiserslantern--that I was a conscript; and I had to
dress fast as I could, catch up my knapsack, and answer the
roll-call.
"A good journey to you!" said the hostess, awakened so early in
the morning.
"Thank you," replied the conscript.
And we marched on.
Yes! a good journey to you! They will not see you again, poor
wretch! How many others have followed the same road!
I will never forget how at Kaiserslantern, the second day of our
march, having unstrapped my knapsack to take out a white shirt, I
discovered, beneath, a little pocket, and opening it I found
fifty-four francs in six-livre pieces. On the paper wrapped
around them were these words, written by Monsieur Goulden:
"While you are at the wars, be always good and honest. Think of
your friends and of those for whom you would be willing to
sacrifice your life, and treat the enemy with humanity that they
may so treat our soldiers. May heaven guide you, and protect you
in your dangers! You will find some money inclosed; for it is a
good thing, when far from home and all who love you, to have a
little of it. Write to us as often as you can. I embrace you, my
child, and press you to my heart."
{453}
As I read this, the tears forced themselves to my eyes, and I
thought, "Thou art not wholly abandoned, Joseph; fond hearts are
yearning toward you. Never forget their kind counsels."
At last, on the fifth day, about five o'clock in the evening, we
entered Mayence. As long as I live I will remember it. It was
terribly cold. We had begun our march at early dawn, and, long
before reaching the city, had passed through villages filled with
soldiers--calvary, infantry, dragoons in their short
jackets--some digging holes in the ice to get water for their
horses, others dragging bundles of forage to the doors of the
stables; powder-wagons, carts full of cannon-balls, all white
with frost, stood on every side; couriers, detachments of
artillery, pontoon-trains were coming and going over the white
ground; and no more attention was paid to us than if we were not
in existence.
Captain Vidal, to warm himself, had dismounted and marched with
us on foot. The officers and sergeants hastened us on. Five or
six Italians had fallen behind and remained in the villages, no
longer able to advance. My feet were sore and burning, and at the
last halt I could scarcely rise to resume the march. The others
from Phalsbourg, however, kept bravely on.
Night had fallen; the sky sparkled with stars. Every one gazed
forward, and said to his comrade, "We are nearing it! we are
nearing it!" for along the horizon a dark line of seeming cloud,
glittering here and there with flashing points, announced that a
great city lay before us.
At last we entered the advanced works, and passed through the
zig-zag earthen bastions. Then we dressed our ranks and marked
the step, as we usually did when approaching a town. At the
corner of a sort of demilune we saw the frozen fosse of the city,
and the brick ramparts towering above, and opposite us an old,
dark gate, with the draw-bridge raised. Above stood a sentinel,
who, with his musket raised, cried out:
"Who goes there?"
The captain, going forward alone, replied:
"France!"
"What regiment?"
"Recruits for the Sixth of the Line."
A silence ensued. Then the draw-bridge was lowered, and the guard
turned out and examined us, one of them carrying a great torch.
Captain Vidal, a few paces in advance of us, spoke to the
commandant of the post, who called out at length:
"Whenever you please."
Our drums began to beat, but the captain ordered them to cease,
and we crossed a long bridge and passed through a second gate
like the first. Then we were in the streets of the city, which
were paved with smooth round stones. Every one tried his best to
march steadily; for, although it was night, all the inns and
shops along the way were open and their large windows were
shining, and hundreds of people were passing to and fro as if it
were broad day.
We turned five or six corners and soon arrived in a little open
place before a high barrack, where we were ordered to halt.
There was a shed at the corner of the barrack, and in it a
_cantinière_ seated behind a small table, under a great
tri-colored umbrella from which hung two lanterns.
Several officers arrived as soon as we halted; they were the
Commandant Gémeau and some others whom I have since known. They
pressed our captain's hand laughing, then looked at us and
ordered the roll to be called.
{454}
After that, we each received a ration of bread and a billet for
lodging. We were told that roll-call would take place the next
morning at eight o'clock for the distribution of arms, and then
we were ordered to break ranks, while the officers turned up a
street to the left and went into a great coffee-house, the
entrance to which was approached by a flight of fifteen steps.
But we, with our billets for lodging--what were we to do with
them in the middle of such a city, and, above all, the Italians,
who did not know a word either of German or French?
My first idea was to see the _cantinière_ under her
umbrella. She was an old Alsatian, round and chubby, and, when I
asked for the _Capougner-Strasse_, she replied:
"What will you pay for?"
I was obliged to take a glass of _eau-de-vie_ with her; then
she said:
"Look just opposite there; if you turn the first corner to the
right, you will find the _Capougner-Strasse_. Good evening,
conscript."
She laughed.
Furst and Zébédé' were also billeted in the
_Capougner-Strasse_ and we set out, glad enough to be able
to limp together through the strange city.
Furst first found his house, but it was shut; and while he was
knocking at the door, I found mine, which had a light in two
windows. I pushed at the door, it opened, and I entered a dark
alley, whence came a smell of fresh bread, which was very
welcome. Zébédé had to go further on.
I called out in the alley:
"Is any one here?"
Then an old woman appeared with a candle at the top of a wooden
staircase.
"What do you want?" she asked.
I told her that I was billeted at her house. She came
down-stairs, and, looking at my billet, told me in German to
follow her.
I ascended the stairs. Passing an open door, I saw two men at
work before an oven. I was, then, at a baker's, and this
accounted for the old woman being up so late. She wore a cap with
black ribbons; her arms were bare to the elbows; she, too, had
been working, and seemed very sorrowful.
"You come late," she said.
"We were marching all day," I replied, "and I am fainting with
hunger and weariness."
She looked at me and murmured:
"Poor child! poor child!"
"Your feet are sore," said she; "take off your shoes and put on
these sabots."
She put the candle upon the table and went out. I took off my
shoes. My feet were blistered and bleeding, and pained me
horribly, and I felt for the moment as if it would almost be
better to die at once than to continue in such suffering.
This thought had more than once arisen to my mind in the march,
but now, before that good fire, I felt so worn, so miserable,
that I would gladly have laid myself down to sleep for ever,
notwithstanding Catharine, Aunt Grédel, and all who loved me.
Truly, I needed God's assistance.
While these thoughts were running through my head, the door
opened, and a tall, stout man, gray-haired, but yet strong and
healthy, entered. He was one of those I had seen at work below,
and held in his hands a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"Good evening!" said he gravely and kindly.
I looked up. The old woman was behind him. She was carrying a
little wooden tub, which, she placed on the floor near my chair.
{455}
"Take a foot-bath," said she; "it will do you good."
This kindness, on the part of a stranger, affected me more than I
cared to show. I took off my stockings; my feet were bleeding,
and the good old dame repeated, as she gazed at them:
"Poor child! poor child!"
The man asked me whence I came. I told him from Phalsbourg in
Lorraine. Then he told his wife to bring some bread, adding that,
after we had taken a glass of wine together, he would leave me to
the repose I needed so much.
He pushed the table before me, as I sat with my feet in the bath,
and we each drained a glass of good white wine. The old woman
returned with some hot bread, over which she had spread fresh,
half-melted butter. Then I knew how hungry I was. I was almost
ill. The good people saw my eagerness for food; for the woman
said:
"Before eating, my child, you must take your feet out of the
bath."
She knelt down and dried my feet with her apron before I knew
what she was about to do. I cried:
"Good Heavens! madame; you treat me as if I were your son."
She replied, after a moment's mournful silence:
"We have a son in the army."
Her voice trembled as she spoke. I thought of Catharine and Aunt
Grédel, and could not speak again. I ate and drank with a
pleasure I never before felt in doing so. The two old people sat
gazing kindly on me, and, when I had finished, the man said:
"Yes, we have a son in the army; he went to Russia last year, and
we have not since heard from him. These wars are terrible!"
He spoke dreamily, as if to himself, all the while walking up and
down the room, his hands crossed behind his back. My eyes began
to close, when he said suddenly:
"Come, wife. Good night, conscript."
They went out together, she carrying the tub.
"God reward you," I cried, "and bring your son safe home!"
In a minute I was undressed, and, sinking on the bed, I was
almost immediately buried in a deep sleep.
IX.
The next morning I awoke at about seven o'clock. A trumpet was
sounding the recall at the corner of the street; horses, wagons,
and men and women on foot, were hurrying past the house. My feet
were yet somewhat sore, but nothing to what they had been; and
when I had dressed, I felt like a new man, and thought to myself:
"Joseph, if this continues, you will soon be a soldier. It is
only the first step that costs."
The baker's wife had put my shoes to dry before the fire, after
filling them with hot ashes, to keep them from growing hard. They
were well greased and shining.
Then I buckled on my knapsack, and hurried out, without having
time to thank those good people--a duty I intended to fulfil
after roll-call.
At the end of the street--on the Place--many of our Italians were
already waiting, shivering around the fountain. Furst, Klipfel,
and Zébédé arrived a moment after.
Cannon and their caissons covered one entire side of the Place.
Horses were being brought to water, led by hussars and dragoons.
Opposite us were cavalry barracks, high as the church at
Phalsbourg, while around the other three sides rose old houses
with sculptured gables, like those at Saverne, but much larger.
{456}
I had never seen anything like all this, and while I stood gazing
around, the drums began to beat, and each man took his place in
the ranks, and we were informed, first in Italian and then in
French, that we were about to receive our arms, and each one was
ordered to stand forth as his name was called.
The wagons containing the arms now came up, and the call began.
Each received a cartouche box, a sabre, a bayonet, and a musket.
We put them on as well as we could, over our blouses, coats, or
great-coats, and we looked, with our hats, our caps, and our
arms, like a veritable band of banditti. My musket was so long
and heavy that I could scarcely carry it; and the Sergeant Pinto
showed me how to buckle on the cartouche-box. He was a fine
fellow, Pinto.
So many belts crossing my chest made me feel as if I could
scarcely breathe, and I saw at once that my miseries had not yet
ended.
After the arms, an ammunition-wagon advanced, and they
distributed fifty rounds of cartridges to each man. This was no
pleasant augury. Then, instead of ordering us to break ranks and
return to our lodgings, Captain Vidal drew his sabre and shouted:
"By file right--march!"
The drums began to beat. I was grieved at not being able to thank
my hosts for their kindness, and thought that they would consider
me ungrateful. But that did not prevent my following the line of
march.
We passed through a long winding street, and soon found ourselves
without the glacis, and near the frozen Rhine. Across the river
high hills appeared, and on the hills, old, gray, ruined castles,
like those of Haut-Bas and Geroldseck in the Vosges.
The battalion descended to the river-bank, and crossed upon the
ice. The scene was magnificent--dazzling. We were not alone on
the ice; five or six hundred paces before us was a baggage-train
on the way to Frankfort. Crossing the river, we continued our
march through the mountains. Sometimes we discovered villages in
the defiles; and Zébédé, who was next to me, said:
"As we had to leave home, I would rather go as a soldier than
otherwise. At least we shall see something new every day, and, if
we are lucky enough ever to return, how much we will have to talk
of!"
"Yes," said I; "but I would like better to have less to talk
about, and to live quietly, toiling on my own account and not on
account of others, who remain safe at home while we climb about
here on the ice."
"You do not care for glory," said he; "and yet glory is a grand
thing."
"Yes; the glory of fighting and losing our lives for others, and
being called lazy idlers and drunkards when we get home again. I
would rather have these friends of glory go fight themselves, and
leave us to remain in peace at home."
"Well," he replied, "I think much as you do; but, as we are
forced to fight, we may as well make the most of it. If we go
about looking miserable, people will laugh at us."
Conversing thus, we reached a large river, which, the sergeant
told us, was the Main, and near it, upon our road, was a little
village. We did not know the name of the village, but there we
halted.
We entered the houses, and those who could bought some brandy,
wine, and bread. Those who had no money crunched their ration of
biscuit, and gazed wistfully at their more fortunate comrades.
{457}
About six in the evening we arrived at Frankfort, which is a city
yet older than Mayence, and full of Jews. They took us to the
barracks of the Tenth Hussars, where our Captain, Florentin, and
the two Lieutenants, Clavel and Bretonville, awaited us.
X.
At Frankfort I began to learn a soldier's duty in earnest. Up to
that time I had been but a simple conscript. I do not speak
merely of drill--that is only an affair of a month or two, if a
man really desires to learn; but I speak of discipline--of
remembering that the corporal is always in the right when he
speaks to a private soldier, the sergeant when he speaks to the
corporal, the sergeant-major when speaking to the sergeant, the
second lieutenant when he orders the sergeant-major, and so on to
the Marshal of France--even if the superior asserts that two and
two make five, or that the moon shines at midday.
This is very difficult to learn; but there is one thing that
assists you immensely, and that is a sort of placard hung up in
every room in the barracks, and which is from time to time read
to you. This placard presupposes everything that a soldier might
wish to do, as, for instance, to return home, to refuse to serve,
to resist his officer, and always ends by speaking of death or at
least five years with a ball and chain.
The day after our arrival at Frankfort I wrote to Monsieur
Goulden, to Catharine, and to Aunt Grédel. I told them that I was
in good health, for which I thanked God, and that I was even
stronger than before I left home, and sent them a thousand
remembrances. Our Phalsbourg conscripts, who saw me writing, made
me add a few words for each of their families. I wrote also to
Mayence, to the good couple of the _Capougner-Strasse_, who
had been so kind to me, telling them how I was forced to march
without being able to thank them, and asking their forgiveness
for so doing.
That day, in the afternoon, we received our uniforms. Dozens of
Jews made their appearance and bought our old clothes. The
Italians had great difficulty in making these respectable
merchants comprehend their wishes, but the Genoese were as
cunning as the Jews, and their bargainings lasted until night.
Our corporals received more than one glass of wine; it was policy
to make friends of them, for morning and evening they taught us
the drill in the snow-covered yard. The _cantinière_
Christine was always at her post with a warming-pan under her
feet. She took young men of good family into special favor, and
the young men of good family were all those who spent their money
freely. Poor fools! How many of them parted with their last
_sou_ in return for her miserable flattery! When that was
gone, they were mere beggars; but vanity rules all, from
conscripts to generals.
All this time recruits were constantly arriving from France, and
ambulances full of wounded from Poland. Klipfel, Zébédé, Furst,
and I often went to see these poor wretches, and never did we see
men so miserably clad. Some wore jackets which once belonged to
Cossacks, crushed shakos, women's dresses, and many had only
handkerchiefs wound around their feet in lieu of shoes and
stockings. They gave us a history of the retreat from Moscow, and
then we knew that the twenty-ninth bulletin told only truth.
{458}
These stories enraged our men against the Russians, and we longed
for the war to begin again. I was at times almost overcome with
wrath after hearing some tale of horror; and even the thought
that these Russians were defending their families, their homes,
all that man holds most dear, could scarcely recall me to a right
frame of mind. We hated them for defending themselves; we would
have despised them had they not done so. But about this time an
extraordinary event occurred.
You must know that my comrade, Zébédé', was the son of the
gravedigger of Phalsbourg, and sometimes between ourselves we
called him "Gravedigger." This he took in good part from us; but
one evening after drill, as he was crossing the yard, a hussar
cried out:
"Halloo, Gravedigger! help me to drag in these bundles of straw."
Zébédé, turning about, replied:
"My name is not Gravedigger, and you can drag in your own straw.
Do you take me for a fool?"
Then the other cried, in a still louder tone:
"Conscript, you had better come, or beware!"
Zébédé, with his great hooked nose, his gray eyes and thin lips,
never bore too good a character for mildness. He went up to the
hussar and asked:
"What is that you say?"
"I tell you to take up those bundles of straw, and quickly, too.
Do you hear, conscript?"
He was quite an old man, with mustaches and red, bushy whiskers.
Zébédé seized one of the latter, but received two blows in the
face. Nevertheless, a fist-full of the whisker remained in his
grasp, and, as the dispute had attracted a crowd to the spot, the
hussar shook his finger, saying:
"You will hear from me to-morrow, conscript."
"Very good," returned Zébédé; "we shall see. You will probably
hear from me too, veteran."
He came immediately after to tell me all this, and I, knowing
that he had never handled a weapon more warlike than a pickaxe,
could not help trembling for him.
"Listen, Zébédé," I said; "all that there now remains for you to
do, since you do not want to desert, is to ask pardon of this old
fellow; for those veterans all know some fearful tricks of fence
which they have brought from Egypt or Spain, or somewhere else.
If you wish, I will lend you a crown to pay for a bottle of wine
to make up the quarrel."
But he, knitting his brows, would hear none of this.
"Rather than beg his pardon," said he, "I would go and hang
myself. I laugh him and his comrades to scorn. If he has tricks
of fence, I have a long arm, that will drive my sabre through his
bones as easily as his will penetrate my flesh."
The thought of the blows made him insensible to reason; and soon
Chazy, the _maitre d'armes_, Corporal Fleury, Klipfel,
Furst, and Leger arrived. They all said that Zébédé was in the
right, and the _maitre d'armes_ added that blood alone could
wash out the stain of a blow; that the honor of the recruits
required Zébédé to fight.
Zébédé answered proudly that the men of Phalsbourg had never
feared the sight of a little blood, and that he was ready. Then
the _maitre d'armes_ went to see our Captain, Florentin, who
was one of the most magnificent men imaginable--tall,
well-formed, broad-shouldered, with regular features, and the
Cross, which the Emperor had himself given him at Eylau. The
captain even went further than the _maitre d'armes_; he
thought it would set the conscripts a good example, and that if
Zébédé refused to fight he would be unworthy to remain in the
Third Battalion of the Sixth of the Line.
{459}
All that night I could not close my eyes. I heard the deep
breathing of my poor comrade as he slept, and I thought: "Poor
Zébédé! another day, and you will breathe no more." I shuddered
to think how near I was to a man so near death. At last, as day
broke, I fell asleep, when suddenly I felt a cold blast of wind
strike me. I opened my eyes, and there I saw the old hussar. He
had lifted up the coverlid of our bed, and said as I awoke:
"Up, sluggard! I will show you what manner of man you struck."
Zébédé rose tranquilly, saying: "I was asleep, veteran; I was
asleep."
The other, hearing himself thus mockingly called "veteran," would
have fallen upon my comrade in his bed; but two tall fellows who
served him as seconds held him back, and, besides, the Phalsbourg
men were there.
"Quick, quick! Hurry!" cried the old hussar.
But Zébédé dressed himself calmly, without any haste. After a
moment's silence, he said:
"Have we permission to go outside our quarters, old fellows?"
"There is room enough for us in the yard," replied one of the
hussars. Zébédé put on his great-coat, and, turning to me, said:
"Joseph, and you, Klipfel, I choose you for my seconds."
But I shook my head.
"Well, then, Furst," said he.
The whole party descended the stairs together. I thought Zébédé
was lost, and thought it hard that not only must the Russians and
Prussians seek our lives, but that we must seek each other's.
All the men in the room crowded to the windows. I alone remained
behind, upon my bed. At the end of five minutes the clash of
sabres made my heart almost cease to beat; the blood seemed no
longer to flow through my veins.
But this did not last long; for suddenly Klipfel exclaimed,
"Touched!"
Then I made my way--I know not how--to a window, and, looking
over the heads of the others, saw the old hussar leaning against
the wall, and Zébédé rising, his sabre all dripping with blood.
He had fallen upon his knees during the fight, and, while the old
man's sword pierced the air just above his shoulder, he plunged
his blade into the hussar's breast. If he had not slipped, he
himself would have been run through and through.
The hussar sank at the foot of the wall. His seconds lifted him
in their arms, while Zébédé, pale as a corpse, gazed at his
bloody sabre.
And so, for a few thoughtless words, was a soul sent to meet its
Maker.
XI.
The events of the preceding chapter happened on the eighteenth of
February. The same day we received orders to pack our knapsacks,
and left Frankfort for Seligenstadt, where we remained until the
eighth of March, by which time all the recruits were well
instructed in the use of the musket and the school of the
platoon. From Seligenstadt we went to Schweinheim, and on the
twenty-fourth of March, 1813, joined the division at
Aschaffenbourg, where Marshal Ney passed us in review.
The captain of the company was named Florentin; the lieutenant,
Bretonville; the commandant of the battalion, Gemeau; the
colonel, Zapfel, the general of brigade, Ladoucette; and the
general of division, Sonham. These are things that every soldier
should know.
{460}
The melting of the snows began about the middle of March, and on
the day of the review the rain did not cease falling from ten in
the morning until three in the afternoon. The water ran over our
shoes, and every moment, to keep us brightened up, the order rang
out:
"Carry arms! Shoulder arms!"
The Marshal advanced slowly, surrounded by his staff. What
consoled Zébédé was, that we were about to see "the bravest of
the brave." I thought that if I could only get a place at the
corner of a good fire, I would gladly forego that pleasure.
At last he arrived in front of us, and I can yet see him, with
his chapeau dripping with rain, his blue coat covered with
embroidery and decorations, and his great boots. He was a
handsome, florid man, with a short nose and sparkling eyes. He
did not seem at all haughty; for, as he passed our company, who
presented arms, he turned suddenly in his saddle and said:
"Hold! It is Florentin!"
Then the captain stood erect, not knowing what to reply. It
seemed that the Marshal and he had been simple soldiers together
in the time of the republic. The captain at last answered:
"Yes, Marshal; it is Sebastian Florentin."
"_Ma foi_, Florentin," said the Marshal, extending his arm
toward Russia, "I am glad to see you again. I thought we had left
you there."
All our company felt honored, and Zébédé said:
"That is what I call a man. I would spill my blood for him."
I could not see why Zébédé should wish to spill his blood because
the Marshal had spoken a few words to an old comrade.
At Schweinheim, our beef and mutton and bread were very good, as
was also our wine. But many of our men pretended to find fault
with everything, thinking thus to pass for people of consequence.
They were mistaken; for more than once I heard the citizens say
in German:
"Those fellows, in their own country, were only beggars. If they
returned to France, they would find only potatoes to live upon."
And the _bourgeois_ were quite right; and I always found
that people so difficult to please abroad were but poor wretches
at home. For my part, I was well content to meet such good fare.
Two conscripts were billeted with me at the house of the village
postmaster, when, on the evening of the fourth day, as we were
finishing our supper, an old man in a black great-coat came in.
His hair was white, and his mien and appearance neat and
respectable. He saluted us, and then said to the master of the
house, in German:
"These are recruits?"
"Yes, Monsieur Stenger," replied the other; "we will never be rid
of them. If I could poison them all, it would be a good deed."
I turned quietly, and said:
"I understand German; do not speak in such a manner."
The postmaster's pipe fell from his hand.
"You are very imprudent in your speech, Monsieur Kalkreuth," said
the old man; "if others beside this young man had understood you,
you know what would happen."
"It is only my way of talking," replied the postmaster. "What can
you expect? When everything is taken from you--when you are
robbed, year after year--it is but natural that you should at
last speak bitterly."
{461}
The old man, who was none other than the pastor of Schweinheim,
then said to me:
"Monsieur, your manner of acting is that of an honest man;
believe me that Monsieur Kalkreuth is incapable of such a
deed--of doing evil even to our enemies."
"I do believe it, sir," I replied, "or I should not eat so
heartily of these sausages."
The postmaster, hearing these words, began to laugh, and, in the
excess of his joy, cried:
"I would never have thought that a Frenchman could have made me
laugh;" and bringing out a bottle of wine, we drank it together.
It was the last time we met; for while we chatted over our wine,
the order to march came.
And now the whole army was moving, advancing on Erfurt. Our
sergeants kept repeating, "We are nearing them! there will be hot
work soon;" and we thought, "So much the better!" that those
beggarly Prussians and Russians had drawn their fate upon
themselves. If they had remained quiet, we would have been yet in
France.
These thoughts embittered us all towards the enemy, and, as we
meet everywhere people who seem to rejoice only in fighting,
Klipfel and Zébédé talked only of the pleasure it would give them
to meet the Prussians; and I, not to seem less courageous than
they, adopted the same strain.
On the eighth of April, the battalion entered Erfurt, and I will
never forget how, when we broke ranks before the barracks, a
package of letters was handed to the sergeant of the company.
Among the number was one for me, and I recognized, Catharine's
writing at once. Zébédé took my musket, telling me to read it,
for he, too, was glad to hear from home.
I put it in my pocket, and all our Phalsbourg men followed me to
hear it, but I only commenced when I was quietly seated on my bed
in the barracks, while they crowded around. Tears rolled down my
cheeks as she told me how she remembered and prayed for the
far-off conscript.
My comrades, as I read, exclaimed:
"And we are sure that there are some at home to pray for us,
too."
One spoke of his mother, another of his sisters, and another of
his sweetheart.
At the end of the letter, Monsieur Goulden added a few words,
telling me that all our friends were well, and that I should take
courage, for our troubles could not last for ever. He charged me
to be sure to tell my comrades that their friends thought of them
and complained of not having received a word from them.
This letter was a consolation to us all. We knew that before many
days passed we must be on the field of battle, and it seemed a
last farewell from home.
To Be Continued.
--------
{462}
Bethlehem--A Pilgrimage.
Bethlehem, where was born the Redeemer of the world, is one of
the holiest spots of earth, and to it the thoughts of the
Christian turn with constant delight. The events in the life of
our Lord which give to Jerusalem its supreme interest are mostly
of a saddening character, bringing to recollection the sufferings
of Jesus for the salvation of his people; and, wherever we turn
in the city of the Great King, we are reminded of the Man of
Sorrows, and the contradiction of sinners which he endured. But
Bethlehem has other associations; and the pilgrim to the sacred
shrines can here pour out his soul in joyful gratitude and love,
for he is where God's infinite mercy was made evident to Jew and
Gentile, and the Saviour of the world was first seen by those he
came to redeem.
On the 30th of January, 1866, I reached Jerusalem in company with
my friend the Reverend Father Wadhams, of Albany. We had brought
letters from Rome to his excellency the Patriarch of Jerusalem,
and to the reverendissimo superior of the Franciscans at the
convent of San Salvador. The Franciscan monks have charge of all
the sacred places in the Holy Land. We were most kindly received
by the patriarch and the superior of the convent; and the latter
not only offered us the hospitality of the Casa Nuova, (where all
the Catholic pilgrims lodge,) but gave permission for one of the
priests to be our companion and attendant every day. The company
of this good father, with which we were constantly favored during
our stay in Jerusalem, was of inestimable value. He knew all
about the sacred localities, having been six years a resident in
the Holy Land. He was from Ireland, and the only one in the
community who spoke English, the others being Italians.
On Sexagesima Sunday, Father Wadhams, Father Luigi, and the
writer of this sketch walked to Bethlehem, a distance of six
miles. Leaving Jerusalem by the Jaffa gate, we turned southward.
Having crossed the valley of Gihon, after a short distance the
pathway was on level ground, over the plain of Rephaim, where
King David gained his victory over the Philistines. Beyond this,
in the middle of the road, is a well or cistern, having around it
some large rough stones. There is a tradition that, as the wise
men from the east were going from Jerusalem to Bethlehem in
search of the new-born King of the Jews, the star which had
guided them in the early part of their journey from home, but had
disappeared as they drew near the former city, was seen reflected
in the water at this spot. Certain it is that, either here or
within a short distance, they were favored once more with the
guidance of the star which led them to the place, and stood still
over where the child Jesus was.
About half-way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem is the Greek
monastery of the Prophet Elijah. It is said he once rested here.
From this neighborhood we can see Jerusalem on the north and
Bethlehem on the south; and thus the two holiest places in the
world are visible to the pilgrim at once. Before we go on to the
city of the Nativity, let us pause a few moments to recollect the
history of the place and observe its appearance from a distance.
{463}
Bethlehem is one of the oldest cities in the world, having a
history of more than three thousand six hundred years. The name
signified the House of Bread; now its Arabic form, Beit Lahm,
denotes the House of Flesh. Either name is suitable for the place
in which the true bread of life, whose flesh is the food of
immortality, was to be born. It is called Bethlehem-Judah, to
distinguish it from another Bethlehem in the region of Zebulun;
it is also called Bethlehem Ephratah, or _the fruitful_. The
earliest mention of it is in the book of Genesis, (xxxv. 1 8,) in
the description of the death and burial of Rachel. Six hundred
years afterward occurred the events narrated in the book of Ruth.
A century after the marriage of Boaz and Ruth, David was born
here, who, at the age of seventeen years, was anointed king over
Israel--and hence it obtained the name of the city of David, and
is thus called in the holy Gospel.
For a thousand years the history of Bethlehem is obscure, until
the place starts into prominence and immortal glory as the scene
of the wondrous events attending the birth of Christ. With this
narrative every Christian is familiar; and each year, under the
guidance of the church, we renew, at Christmas and Epiphany, the
joy which its telling brings. An edict of the Roman emperor
required all the people of Judea to present themselves for
enrolment in the cities where they belonged, even should they be
residing in other and distant places. In obedience to this
injunction, Joseph, the espoused husband of the Virgin Mary,
accompanied by her, repaired to his own city, Bethlehem, he being
of the house and lineage of David. A long journey of eighty miles
from Nazareth in the north, where he lived, to Bethlehem in the
south was thus imperative; for Roman rulers were strict in
demanding obedience to their laws on the part of conquered
peoples. By the time they reached Bethlehem, the town was already
full, and there was no room for them in the inn or public place
for the reception of travellers. They were thus compelled to do
the best they could, and found shelter in a rude place where some
cattle were kept. This was not only better than none, but was
such as many travellers since that time have been obliged to
content themselves with. Even now, it is sometimes found in the
East that the house and stable are together, being the same
apartment; a floor somewhat raised above the ground being the
place for the people, while the other part is tenanted by cattle,
sheep, or goats. There was no evidence that it was cruel
indifference on the part of the Bethlehemites which led to the
choice of this place by the holy ones who came there. That they
were poor is more certainly known from the offering made in the
temple in Jerusalem, when the Divine Infant was presented there,
at the purification of his stainless mother.
It was in this cheerless place that Christ was born of the Holy
Virgin, according to the prophecies of Isaias and Micheas. Now,
indeed, was it true that "Thou, Bethlehem Ephrata, out of thee
shall he come forth unto me that is to be the ruler in Israel;
and his going forth is from the beginning, from the days of
eternity." Shepherds were keeping watch over their flocks by
night; and the angel of God appeared to them, and the brightness
of God shone round about them; and while they feared, the angel
said to them: "Fear not; for behold I bring you good tidings of
great joy that shall be to all the people; for this day is born
to you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David.
{464}
And this shall be a sign unto you: you shall find the infant
wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger. And suddenly
there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host,
praising God and saying, Glory be to God in the highest, and on
earth peace to men of good will." The shepherds went to
Bethlehem, and found these things so, and they and others
wondered thereat.
So was the Messiah made known to the Jews, as, in a few days
afterwards, he was manifested to Gentiles in the persons of the
magi, or wise men from the East.
Standing at the place where we have the first good view of
Bethlehem, at the point midway between Jerusalem and the city of
the Nativity, the eye ranges over an extensive region. Before us
is the city to which our steps are directed. It is on very high
ground, on a ridge projecting from the mountain range. The Church
of the Nativity, a large building with the convents attached, is
on the left of the view, the houses of the village being more to
the right and three or four hundred yards from the church. From
three sides there is a descent, in places very great, so that on
the north, east, and south, there are deep valleys at the foot of
the hill on which the buildings stand. All the land near the
church and houses is cultivated, and the hill is completely
terraced and covered with olive and fig trees, and vines, which
are carefully tended. Every foot of available ground is thus
brought into use; and the fine condition of the trees and vines
shows that nothing is wanting to restore the ancient fertility of
the region but security for labor--something miserably wanting
throughout the East. The convents are built up against the
church, and give it the appearance of an enormous castle. The
houses of the town are grouped somewhat closely, and have a
compact look. Like all edifices in this part of the world, they
are built of a grayish limestone, the roofs being of stone,
generally flat, but sometimes with a small dome. We are standing
about three miles north of Bethlehem, and the eye ranges over a
wide extent of hill country, especially to the left. The hills of
Judea are near us, the mountains of Moab beyond and to the east.
On the hither side of these last is the Dead Sea, filling the
sunken basin where once stood the wicked cities of the plain.
Under our feet, and all the way to Bethlehem, the ground is
covered with immense numbers of stones about four inches in size,
so that travelling, whether on foot or horseback, is neither easy
nor pleasant.
Let us now go forward to the city. One mile this side of
Bethlehem, at a short distance to the right of the path we
follow, is the tomb of Rachel. This spot is one of the most
interesting of its kind in the world. Rachel was the wife of the
Patriarch Jacob, and she died and was buried here, "on the way to
Ephrah which is Bethlehem." Her memory has always been held in
respect by the Jews and Christians, and even now the former go
there every Thursday, to pray and read the old, old history of
this mother of their race. When leaving Bethlehem for the fourth
and last time, after we had passed the tomb of Rachel, on our way
to Jerusalem, Father Luigi and I met a hundred or more Jews on
their weekly visit to the venerated spot. A small square
building, with a dome, covers the grave of one whose name will
never perish from the remembrance of the people of God.
{465}
As we stand at the tomb of Rachel, at our right is the village of
Beitjala, Bethlehem being a mile or more to our left. Beitjala is
a thriving place, having many beautiful olive-trees, the finest I
ever saw. The Catholic Seminary for Priests of the Patriarch of
Jerusalem is there, and a fine large church has just been
completed. The Rector of the Seminary was consecrated Bishop of
Beitjala in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre some weeks after our
departure.
Entering Bethlehem to go to the convent, we pass through a large
part of the city, the church being at the left of the ridge.
There are about three thousand residents in the city, who are
all, or nearly so, Christians. The streets are few, and, like all
Eastern cities, narrow and dirty--very narrow and very dirty,
indeed. Many of the people are out of doors. As we pass along, we
see some small, rude shops or dens, in which various articles are
exposed for sale. We look in other rooms, and find men at work
sitting on the ground, turning beads for rosaries. The work is
done rapidly, and great quantities of these are made. Also,
crosses and medals are carved from the mother of pearl shell. As
every one who goes to the Holy Land makes some purchases of these
articles, there is quite a brisk trade at Easter time, when the
pilgrims most resort to the shrines. These beads, medals, and
crosses are taken to Jerusalem and blessed in the most Holy
Sepulchre of our Lord, and are thus in just estimation among the
holy things of earth. A cross made in Bethlehem, where Christ was
born, and blessed in the most Holy Sepulchre where he was buried,
and from which he rose triumphant over death, is surely a
precious thing for any Christian to have. In going through some
of the streets of Bethlehem, I have seen the scraps of pearl
which were left in the manufacture of crosses and medals, and had
been thrown out as refuse, sparkling and glistening in the bright
sunshine, reminding one of the city above, whose gates are pearl.
But the place where Christ was born is so holy that not even
pearls are too precious to pave its streets.
The Latin convent is on the north side of the great church, and
to the left, as one approaches the venerable pile. We knock at
the iron door, which is opened quickly, and enter the
reception-room of the house. This is a pleasant and comfortable
place; and the pilgrim, fatigued by the long walk or ride, finds
it a cheerful place of rest. The good fathers of the monastery
are hospitable and kind, and give such welcome as the traveller
would wish to receive at this holy place. The convent is old, and
the walls are of great strength, being ten feet thick, which
makes a deep recess at every window. A long table covered with a
green cloth is in the middle of the room, and there are
comfortable divans or cushioned seats along the wall by the
windows. Portraits of a king and queen, who were benefactors of
the convent many years ago, hang at the farther end of the
apartment; while among the later decorations of the walls are
good portraits of the present Emperor and Empress of Austria.
Some photographs and engravings of religious subjects are also
here; and there is a homelike and cheerful appearance which is
most grateful to the weary traveller from other and distant
lands.
Let us glance at the buildings and their history. The grotto or
cave in which Christ was born is covered by the large church. Of
this spot, as being the very place where the infant God was born,
there never has been a doubt.
{466}
The identification of it goes back to the very next century after
the Ascension of Christ. The church was built by Saint Helena,
the mother of the first Christian Emperor, Constantine the Great,
and it is the oldest place erected for Christian worship in the
world. It was solidly and well built, and even now bids fair to
last when many of the slight structures of modern times shall
have fallen into ruin. It is fifteen hundred years old; in length
one hundred and twenty feet, the breadth being one hundred and
ten. There are four rows of large marble columns, taken,
probably, from the porches of the temple in Jerusalem. Each row
contains twelve columns, each one being of a single stone, twenty
feet high and thirty inches in diameter; they are smooth, and
have handsome capitals of the Corinthian order. The roof of the
church was originally of the cedars of Lebanon, but was repaired
about four hundred years ago with oak. The columns were once
richly ornamented, and the walls were inlaid with mosaics; these
are nearly all gone, and whitewash is in their stead. The
Sanctuary was very beautiful, and yet retains much of the
adornment of better days; but we can only see the top of the
altar screen as we stand in the body of the church, for a large
wall now runs entirely across the upper end of the nave, dividing
it from the sanctuary. In consequence of this, the whole church
looks desolate, empty, and cold. There are some cheap and mean
glass lamps, a few ostrich eggs, and other trifling objects in
the way of decoration, but the whole of this once beautiful and
magnificent interior is desolate and neglected. Being common
property of the Latins, Greeks, and Armenians, it receives care
from none; or, rather, the jealousies of the Christians prevent
any attempt at restoration. The stone pavement is broken and
irregular. The main door of entrance from the village has been
partly walled up, so that one can only enter by stooping low.
This was done a long time since, to hinder the Turks from riding
in on horses, mules, or camels; and the barrier against this sort
of desecration is effectual enough.
The sanctuary of the church is directly over the spot where our
Lord was born; and was once, as it should be, rich and gorgeous
as loving devotion could make it--a brave sight in the day of its
perfection. Raised six steps above the level of the floor of the
body of the church, it is nearly square, and is large enough to
accommodate the congregations who gather there. This sanctuary is
in the possession of the Greeks and Armenians; for they, being
richer than the Latins, have bought from the Turks the largest
share in all the holy places in Bethlehem and Jerusalem.
The church, with its sanctuary described above, is _over_
the crypt or grotto, which is the glory of Bethlehem, the place
where Christ was born. Let us now go down to this most holy and
blessed spot. It is reached by a flight of steps on each side of
the great sanctuary, about thirteen in number, much worn by the
thousands of feet which have pressed them. Language fails to
convey the sentiments and emotions of the pilgrim as he descends
these old steps. In a moment more he is to be
_there_--there, where his Redeemer was born--there, where
his heart has yearned to be thousands of times, through many long
years, in the far distant land which is his home. Carefully he
descends, and, when nearly at the bottom, he sees, at the right
hand, a silver star fastened in the marble floor; over it a
number of small lamps burning; three steps more--he kneels and
flings himself prostrate--he is _there_! Blessed is the
pilgrim to whom God has given this joy, the holiest and sweetest
ever known on earth!
{467}
Doubtless we have all known, at some time or other, a gladness of
heart whose power and intensity have caused it to be remembered
in after-years, as marking the brightest day in our lives. With
many it is that of the first communion; with others, something
else has caused it. But the pilgrim to the holy places has a
peculiar joy in addition to that shared with his brethren at
home. And he will be forgiven if he say, as he feels, that there
is no joy like that he has when he kneels where Christ was born.
The superior of the convent at Jerusalem told me, on my first
interview with him, "Jerusalem est locus crucis et spinarum." The
superior of the convent at Bethlehem said, "Bethlehem est domus
laetitiae." Both these excellent fathers spoke truly, and justly
described the character of their respective cities. I
subsequently found that Jerusalem was indeed the _place of the
cross and of thorns_; but it needed only this day--only this
hour--to prove to me, with all fulness of absolute certainty,
that Bethlehem is indeed _the house of joy_. Think you that
there is on earth another place so blessed and joyful as this? I
know of none. Whoever has prayed at Bethlehem will say the same.
The good tidings of great joy to all people _from this
place_ have been spread over the world.
Let us now look around and observe with carefulness the objects
about us. We are in a grotto, apparently hewn in the rock,
thirty-eight feet long, eleven feet wide, and nine feet high. The
floor and walls are of large slabs of marble, once white, but
grown dark by age and lamp-smoke and droppings of olive oil, for
hundreds of years. The hangings are old, and in some places
(especially the ceiling, which is covered with a blue stuff)
dropping to pieces. Twenty-nine lamps, suspended from the roof,
burn continually. The Holy Place is at the east end of the
grotto; the two flights of stairs mentioned above land very near
it. Imagine a semi-circular recess or apse, some four or five
feet across, raised four inches above the floor. A marble slab,
six inches in diameter, marks the spot where our Lord was born.
Around this stone is a large silver star, which lies flat, as
would a plate laid on the floor. The body of the star is cut out,
so that it makes a rim around the stone in its centre. The star
has fourteen rays or points, each about seven inches long, so
that it is about twenty inches across the stone from one point to
the opposite one. On the star is the inscription--the letters
forming a circle around the marble centre--"Hic de Virgine Maria
Jesus Christus natus est." Over the star hang sixteen silver
lamps which ever burn; they are carefully tended day and night.
There are eleven small and rude Greek pictures around the recess
behind the lamps. Immediately over the star is an altar, used by
the Greeks and Armenians, but not by the Latins; for the reason
that Greek and Armenian gold has been largely given to the
Turkish rulers for the privilege they possess. The Catholics are
comparatively few in numbers and poor in money throughout the
Holy Land; and to this circumstance is owing the melancholy fact
that what ought to be our exclusive possession, is enjoyed by
schismatics, or grudgingly shared with us by them. This altar is
quite without decoration during the day.
{468}
When the Greeks say their mass, they dress it up, removing the
things immediately afterward. The Armenians do the same.
Just at the foot of the stairs, as we came down to the shrine, at
our _left_ hand--the star being at our _right_--is a
little recess two feet below the floor of the grotto, perhaps
seven feet square, a spot of great interest, which happily
belongs to the Catholics or Latins. A stone raised eight inches
high above the floor of this little chapel marks the spot where
the crib stood. Over and behind the stone is an excellent
painting in a frame of silver. A screen of silver wire is in
front of the painting and of the five silver lamps which hang
over the stone. Opposite this, and in the same little chapel, is
an altar standing in the spot where the wise men from the East
offered their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the
newborn King. It was my happiness to have said Mass three times
on this altar. The painting over this altar is very good; and a
screen of wire is put up at the end of Mass, to protect the
painting and the top of the altar during the day. In this little
sunken chapel there is only just room for the celebrant and for
the brother who serves the Mass; but, as it opens into the grotto
on two sides, many persons can assist at the divine mysteries. Of
all the shrines in Bethlehem this is the most favorable to
devotion. Only a very little daylight comes down the stairs. The
grotto is dimly lighted by the lamps, which are all like
sanctuary lamps, with a small flame. The eye is attracted to the
place of the nativity. All is silent, disposing to recollection
and meditation. There are no crowds as in Jerusalem, and no Turks
are seen here.
Beside these objects of chief interest, there are several others
adjoining the sacred grotto. A passage leads from the rear of the
grotto, at the opposite end from the shrine, past the tombs of
St. Eusebius, the tombs and altar of Santa Paula and Santa
Eustachium, her daughter. Opposite is the tomb of St. Jerome,
with a painting representing him resting on a lion. A short
distance from this is a square vault, about twenty feet in length
and breadth, and nine feet high, lighted from above by a window.
A stone seat or dais is around the apartment. This was the study
of the great St. Jerome. It is now a chapel, and over the altar
is a painting representing the saint with a lion at his feet. For
more than thirty years did this great Father live in this cell.
Here he made the translation of the Holy Scriptures into Latin,
which we yet use--the Latin Vulgate, as it is called. Here, also,
he wrote his treatises, letters, and commentaries, which are of
such value and estimation in the church. Here, also, he wrote
those remarkable words concerning the day of judgment, which are
sometimes appended to his picture: "Quoties diem illum considero,
toto corpore contremisco; sive enim comedo, sive bibo, sive
aliquid aliud facio, semper videtur illa tuba terribilis sonare
in auribus meis: Surgite mortui, venite ad judicium." This is the
reason why he is sometimes painted with a trumpet, _illa tuba
terribilis_, blown by an angel over his head. He was one of
the earliest and certainly the most illustrious of pilgrims from
Europe to Bethlehem, and is justly honored as a doctor and father
of the church. He died A.D. 420, and was buried here in his
monastery; but his remains were subsequently removed to Rome,
where they now are in the magnificent church of St. Mary Major.
{469}
In another place, some forty feet from the study of St. Jerome,
is the tomb of the Holy Innocents, where were buried many of
those so cruelly murdered by order of the wicked Herod, who hoped
that in their number would be the new-born King of the Jews. With
a single exception, the slaughter of the Holy Innocents is the
only sad memory associated with Bethlehem. That exception is the
poverty, fearful and extreme, in which some of the Catholics at
this time live. Their desolation is great, and their appeals for
assistance are urgent and painful to the traveller.
In Bethlehem, as in Jerusalem, there is a procession daily made
to the sacred places in the church. The plan and idea of the
office is the same in both places, that is, a hymn with antiphon
and prayer at each station. There is a difference in the subject,
of course. It was touching, when we came to the place where is
the silver star, to listen to the words in the prayer,
"_Here_ Jesus Christ was born." Also, when we next went to
the place where the wise men made their offerings, one of the
acolytes stood at the corner of the altar and, pointing with his
finger, chanted "_Hic_ magi offerabant munera." Few things
in life can equal in impressiveness this daily visit to the holy
places.
At night I went up on the convent roof to see the stars shining
on Bethlehem; to be in Bethlehem and see the stars look down on
the spot where I stood. The sky was clear and pure. Countless
thousands of the heavenly bodies were there, each in its
brilliancy. Starlight is always beautiful; especially is it
grateful to the eye which has been pained with the dazzling and
blinding power of the Eastern sun. How often, at home, had I
thought of Bethlehem and the stars, not alone _that one_
which is so memorable in the gospel history, but also of those
which may now be seen; for, ever in the future, Bethlehem and the
starlight are intimately associated. I looked up with a thankful
heart. Countless as these lights had been God's mercies to
myself. Another was added in its being granted me to come to
Bethlehem to see it, to pray there, to look up to the sky and
recall the sacred events belonging to the place. That night I
went to rest in joy.
The next morning, Monday, February 5th, I said mass at the altar
of the Magi or Three Kings. In the afternoon, Father Wadhams,
Father Luigi, and myself went out to visit a place of great
interest, a mile or so from the convent. We passed through the
village of the shepherds--yet retaining that name--where dwelt
those who kept their flocks. Beyond this we walked over the plain
and fields of Boaz and Ruth to the place where the shepherds were
abiding, keeping watch over their flocks by night, and where the
angel came upon them in glory, saying, "Fear not: for behold, I
bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour
who is Christ the Lord." And suddenly there was with the angel a
multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, "Glory
to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will."
We recalled this history with joy, and, taking off our hats,
chanted the _Gloria in Excelsis_ on the spot where those
holy words were first heard by men. How often has not that grand
and touching chant been sung throughout the world, melting the
hardest hearts into penitence, and subduing the roughest natures
into gentleness and love!
{470}
The place where the shepherds rested while watching their flocks
was a grotto, of which there are very many throughout the Holy
Land, and in it they would be sheltered from the night air,
needing less protection in the day time, as the winter is not
very cold. The grotto had long ago been converted into a chapel
by the Greeks, and we went into it and prayed. The
neighborhood--especially the place were the shepherds heard the
angel's message--is planted with olive trees; and I broke a few
leaves from the tree under which we stood while singing the
_Gloria_ to keep as a memorial of the place. A Catholic
priest is now building a church in the village of the shepherds.
Returning, we saw the place where Santa Paula lived and died; it
is a mile or less from the Church of the Nativity toward
Jerusalem. We came home in time to join the procession which is
daily made.
Later in the evening, and when there was no one present but
ourselves, we went into the sacred grotto. Perfect silence
reigned. Prostrate on the marble floor, I passed an hour close to
the very spot where our Lord was born. Over and over again did I
pray for the good people of Nativity Church at home, and for all
who were commended to my prayers. Then, in this unbroken silence,
which not even our breathing disturbed, I meditated on all that
had taken place here, and on the mercy from God of which the
birth of the Divine Infant was the seal. Repeatedly I kissed the
stone which marks the spot, and the silver star by which it is
surrounded. God has often in time past been gracious to me; but I
say it with a thankful heart, that this one hour was the most
blessed and happy of my whole life.
I have thus attempted to describe the holy city of David, and the
objects of interest within and near it. My fourth and last visit
was made on the return from Hebron; and I had more difficulty in
tearing myself away from Bethlehem than in leaving any other
place in the Holy Land. At the Greek convent of Elijah, of which
mention has been made, I turned to take my last look at the city
where Christ was born. Gazing long and earnestly, the whole scene
was stamped indelibly on memory, and I said "Good-bye, Bethlehem,
dearest city of holy mercy, house of joy, good-bye. Peace be with
thee, and peace with them who love thee!"
--------
{471}
Lines on the Ceremonial Sandal of his Holiness.
Preserved At Burton Manor, Staffordshire,
The Seat Of Francis Whitgreave, Esq.
"How beauteous on the hills the feet of him"
('Tis thus Isaias sings)
"Who preaches heavenly peace, and brings to man
Glad tidings of good things!"
Christ first, his vicar now, to us fulfils
_This_ gracious work of God;
No land by seas or mountains so concealed
But Peter there hath trod.
Hail, dearly-prized memorial, in late days
By our loved Pius worn!
Hail, emblem of the foot that walked the waves
In our redemption's morn!
Before the little cross embroided here
Princes have bended low,
And owned the presence of a greater power
Than the proud world can show.
Here love hath left a kiss; here guilt hath been.
Nor dropped her tear in vain
At his dear feet who can absolve all sins,
Or, when he wills, retain!
Here learning to the truthful Roman See
Hath noble homage paid;
Here to religion's lovelier majesty
Beauty hath bowed her head.
Oh! by this sacred relic here I swear,
As all my life shall prove,
To him who sits in Peter's holy chair
True loyalty and love.
E. Caswall.
Oratory, Birmingham.
--------
{472}
The Labor Question.
Translated From Le Correspondant.
Address Of Rev. Father Hyacinthe
Before The Catholic Congress Of Malines.
Your Eminence, My Lords, And Gentlemen:
I will not attempt to conceal from you the emotion which thrills
me. I behold and am dismayed. I am abashed before this assembly,
which will presently give me inspiration. I speak before a prince
of the church, who is also a prince of wisdom and virtue; before
this illustrious circle of bishops, my fathers in the faith;
before these eminent statesmen, masters of science and of
eloquence, and I find this tribunal still warm and palpitating
from the hands which have touched it and the words which have
made it tremulous. I speak before this grand assemblage, convened
from the four quarters of the world to discuss, upon this little
spot of free ground that we call Belgium, the religious interests
of the Catholics of two worlds. Gentlemen, I was alarmed at
first, but I will fear no longer. I feel that I am not a stranger
here; I meet brothers. Your acclamations I accept, for they are
not addressed to the individual, who is nothing, but to the
cause, which is grand; I had almost said, which is every thing.
This cause I can define in two words--the Catholic Church, and
the Catholic Church in the nineteenth century.
On that day which no priest forgets--on that day when, lying
upon the pavement of the temple, I took for my only and virginal
spouse the Holy Church of Jesus Christ; my lips in the dust, my
eyes in tears, my heart in ecstacy and in thrills of rapture--I
vowed in silence to love her well, and, if I could, to serve her
well, not only in her grand past, which is no more, and in her
glorious future, which is not yet come, but in her present, so
sorrowful and so grand also; in her present, which is the product
of the past ages of her history, and, consequently, the work of
God.
Those who undertake to serve the church in the nineteenth century
have one especially profound and threatening question to
encounter: I mean the Labor Question.
This question is one which transcends all fixed limits, but I
will limit my treatment of it to one especial point of view--the
education of the laboring classes. The hope of the harvest is in
the seed, and Leibnitz was right in saying, "Give me the
instruction of the youth during one century and I will change the
face of the globe." This transformation cannot be accomplished
until the working classes shall be educated under the conditions
designed by the nature of man and the general harmony of the
divine plan.
There are three degrees in this education--the primary education
by the family, the professional education by the workshop, the
religious education of the Sunday.
I.
Family Education.
I place the family in the first rank. It occupies it in the order
of time; it ought to occupy it in the order of influences.
Among the many elevated minds occupied with the fate of the
working classes, I am astonished that there are so few who
comprehend their real wants.
{473}
The remedy for the evils which they suffer, the means of the
progress that they wish to realize, are vainly sought for in new
inventions and combinations, in specious theories, or even in
private or public charitable institutions. They are in the
family; that institution which is as ancient and universal as the
world, and which has its roots in the inmost depths of the
strength and tenderness of humanity; that institution which came
from the hands of God himself, a vestige of the primal order of
Eden, which Christ has empurpled with his blood, and raised to
the dignity of a sacrament, making it one of the seven pillars
destined to uphold for ever the edifice of regenerated human
society. (Applause.)
It is, then, the family that embodies the strength to sustain or
to restore in all classes of society; but above all in the
working class of our cities. It is especially to the family that
the first education of the child must be entrusted.
In primary education, there are two things which need especial
consideration--the place and the agent. The place is the
domestic hearth; the agent is the mother.
The domestic hearth! There it is that the cradle of the child
ought to be, there that its first years ought to be passed. Has
not Providence implanted this instinct in the heart of all his
creation, even in the species inferior to ours? Does not the bird
build its nest in the soft moss, under the shelter of the hedge
and among the branches of the tree? Is there not in all the
orders of nature a special place, a sacred spot, where the first
hopes, the first joys, and the first sufferings of life should be
experienced? Ah, well! among all these other cradles, the human
race has a right to a sacred cradle, too; it has a right to a
domestic hearth which shall be free from the infection of filth
and disease, and whose atmosphere shall not be fatal to the life
either of the body or of the soul of the child.
It is at this fireside that must first begin the education of
this young soul, of its imagination and budding perceptions.
These walls are not merely walls, this roof is not alone a
collection of shingles and slate, this furniture is not merely
collection of common objects: I say that all this speaks a deep
language, that all this exercises a powerful influence in the
moral order. Have not we Catholics, in our divine religion,
sensible signs that are called sacraments, water, wine, bread,
oil; in short, matter--but matter which reveals and communicates
in different degrees invisible things! In the order of nature,
and in what I will call the religion of the fireside, there is
also a mysterious influence of places and of things--a secret
communication of the habits, of the virtues, of the soul of the
family by these material objects themselves. The child will see
what its parents have seen; it will mingle its life with objects
filled with recollections of them, and, so to speak, penetrated
by their souls; he will receive some impress from it, and as an
indelible character that he will carry through the errors of
youth and even under the white hairs of the old man. If there be
poetry in this, gentlemen, it is practical poetry; it germinates
in facts; it has its roots in the nature of things. It makes us
feel, besides, of what importance it is for the child to be
reared with its father and mother, and not under a strange roof.
I have said that the mother is the principal agent in the
fireside education. It is not that I disregard the part of the
father; and if it were appropriate for me to say all I think, I
should reproach some Catholic writers, who fail to make
sufficient account of it.
{474}
We are in danger of forgetting the father in the presence of the
mother--this type so pure, so gracious, so Christian.
But I cannot give here an exhaustive treatise upon family
education, and I insist above all upon the importance of this
primary education of which the care devolves almost exclusively
upon the mother. At this period of life, the body and the heart
of the child must be formed; reason will have its turn later, but
it will only develop itself upon the double soil, physical and
moral, a body and a heart worthily prepared. Now, the hands of
the wife are alone capable of this divine field-culture,
_agricultura Dei_; they alone are pure enough and tender
enough to touch this virginal and suffering body that an
imprudent touch might bruise or blight; they alone are powerful
enough to awake in him that organ of the heart which is,
according to science, the first to be born and the last to die,
_primum saliens et ultimum moriens_, the power to love which
remains so often stifled or corrupted in its germ. As the hands
of the priest are consecrated to touch the body of Christ upon
the altar--this body glorious but subjected to the fragile
conditions of the sacrament--so the hands of the Christian woman,
by the benediction of marriage and through the graces of
maternity, are sanctified to touch worthily the body of the
child, a body infirm but glorious, because it contains a soul; I
had almost said because it contains a god. By baptism it has been
made a living member of Jesus Christ. (Applause.)
The fireside and the mother! Where are they to-day for the people
of our great cities? Ah! I touch two great, hideous sores of our
contemporaneous society: the pitiable condition of the working
part of the community, and the absence of the mother from the
domestic hearth. Here is one of the most unrecognized and most
active principles in the evil which we suffer; it is here, in
this disorganization of the family, in this demoralization of the
people, that are formed those black spots which finally rise in
the atmosphere, and become there an ever-increasing cloud which
at last bursts in a great tempest.
Is it a fireside or is it a den, this damp, dark, infected cellar
from which the poor are absent all day, and in the evening return
only to horrible poverty and disorder? Is this the dwelling of
the living or the tomb of the dead, this narrow, suffocating
garret, where, in order to extend himself upon his bed--I cite a
fact recently come to my knowledge in Paris--the fatigued workman
is obliged to open the garret window during the night and to put
his feet upon the roof? I ask, are such dwellings tolerable for
the free citizens of France or Belgium; for men redeemed by the
blood of Jesus Christ? (Applause.)
If at least the mother were there, her look and her smile would
illumine the clouds, transform the ugliness, and make a joyous
festival in the midst of this sadness. But labor, barbarous
labor, has deprived her of performing the sacred duties of the
mother, and has drawn her, weak and tottering, into the great
workshop, full of the noise of work and the sound of blasphemy,
whence she can not hear the cry of her son carried far from her
to an indifferent or covetous stranger, who will restore him to
her dead or at least blighted.
{475}
I do not exaggerate, gentlemen; these are but too common facts,
and which are tending to become the law in these great industrial
masses. Ah! well, it is the duty, the imperious duty of Catholics
to unite among themselves and with the Christians of all churches
and feeling men of all opinions, to make one supreme effort in
favor of the working classes. Let us work to restore to them the
family which has been taken away from them. Let us work to
restore the fireside, modest and poor undoubtedly, but decent and
pleasant, where the mother remains with her children and gives
them those cares of the heart and the body in which no one in the
world can replace her. (Applause.)
I do not wish to be a Utopian, and I have not the credulity to
believe that these things can be accomplished in a day. Whatever
assistance may be rendered, it will require years and still years
before the family life, so deeply violated among the people of
our cities, retakes its vigor and beauty. In the meantime,
gentlemen, what shall we do? Charity has marvellous inventions.
To those who are homeless, it has opened children's homes and
asylums; to those who have no mother, it has prepared devoted
hearts of teachers, whatever may be the dress and name they bear.
It has prepared, above all, three centuries ago, through the
heart of Vincent de Paul, that extraordinary woman whose mission
was reserved especially for the nineteenth century, for the great
crisis of the laboring classes, the helper of the workman as of
the soldier, upon the field of battle, of labor, and of
suffering--the sister of charity. If any one could replace the
mother at the cradles of the people, it would be the sister of
charity, (applause;) it would be this nun, unsecluded and
unveiled, who, not being of the world, yet lives in the world,
and who unites, in an unexampled combination, the heart of the
virgin and the feelings of the mother. (Prolonged applause;) Let
us leave the child to the sister of charity; we will leave it to
the instructor and instructress who fill to it the place of
parents, to the infant-asylum and school that supplies to it the
place of home. Let us not permit that any hand, under any
pretence, snatch it from this cradle-education, and give us that
spectacle, which would be loathsome if it were not lamentable--
the workman eight years of age. I feel the need of speaking the
truth with regard to this grand industry, that has been flattered
even to baseness by some, and disparaged even to abuse by others.
I belong neither to the class of courtiers nor to that of
traducers, and I estimate that the best homage one can render to
a power of this world is to believe it great enough to hear the
truth. I will say, then, to trade, that it has never a right to
put its hand upon a child before the age denoted by nature and by
religion. To do this is to commit a crime more odious than that
which has so long stained America, and that she has been obliged
to wash out in waves of blood. Among those men who owned other
men there were those who were just and good, who were more the
benefactors of their slaves than their masters. But there were
also those who were without conscience and without feeling. They
saw in the negro only an instrument, and they required of him
unmeasured labor without repose. This was the oppression of the
body. But all oppression, as all liberty, passes from that of the
body to that of the soul. If the truth could come in them, the
truth would deliver them! No communication, then, with those who
possess science, with men who speak too high, nor with books that
teach too thoroughly. And, finally, to intellectual oppression,
these cautious and cruel tyrants added moral oppression.
{476}
They were doubly right, for, of all the accessories of liberty,
the most dangerous is not science but virtue. No virtue, then,
for the slave! He has been deprived of the gospel; he must also
be deprived of nature! And because in the absence of the gospel,
and even in the ruins of human nature, when this nature has not
entirely perished, there yet dwell two noble sentiments, two
powerful roots, whence all can spring up again and
flourish--conjugal love and paternal love--family life was
rendered impossible, and in these horrible cases men could no
longer embrace, in honor as in tenderness, the companion of their
misfortunes and the fruit of their love.
You shudder, gentlemen, and you are right. But nothing which has
been lost, however great may be the evil, is ever entirely
without remedy. This negro is an adult, a man grown; and if, in a
childhood more happy than his maturity, he has been warmed upon
the bosom of a black but Christian mother, _nigra sed
formosa_, and has drawn the chaste and healthful milk of
virtue; if he has known the gospel, and if he has loved Jesus
Christ, he holds in his innermost life concealed resources; he
will feel the sudden and powerful awakenings of an honest
conscience and of Christian truth, and against the triple tyranny
of the body, of the intelligence, and of the heart there will be
victorious rebellions.
Gentlemen, the being most effectually oppressed, the victim
irremediably crushed, is not the man; it is the child. It is the
little white slave of our Europe, who has known neither his
cradle nor his mother, and who has awakened to life in the dark
workshop, a kind of hell on earth, of which we may write--
"You who enter here leave all hope behind."
His active lungs breathe in full draughts of air which are simply
draughts of poison; his little limbs, bent under the work before
being formed, are dedicated from infancy to decrepitude. His
intelligence, too, arrested in its early budding, is sadly locked
in darkness. It is in vain that, later, in fruitless remorse, we
would attempt to imbue him with some truths. The negro will
recollect himself after years of brutishness; the child will
learn no more after a few months of this odious system. He will
never hold in his hand the three keys, at once common and
sublime, which open so many things in life and in the
soul--reading, writing, and arithmetic. He will never possess
those rudiments of science which ought to be the portion of
all--something of the form and life of this globe that he
inhabits, and much of the glory and destinies of that country
which he ought to love and to serve. Never, above all, will he
have the clear and strong revelation of his own soul and of God.
His soul and God! it is not only ignorance which steals them from
him, it is vice. What has taken place in this dark workshop, in
this hell, precocious but not the less hopeless? I will not
attempt to speak it, but will listen to the words of a poet
[Footnote 46] of our age, eloquent interpreter of the frenzies
and anguishes of evil in the depths of the human soul:
"The heart of man, unspotted, is a vase profound;
If the first water poured into it be impure,
The sea may pass over without washing away the stain,
For the abyss is unfathomable and the spot in its depths."
[Footnote 46: Alfred de Musset.]
{477}
(Applause.) O hands that have abused the child! you will be
cursed in spite of all your splendor, in spite of all your
science, and in spite of your riches! Hands of a relentless
industry, you will remain dry and withered as the hand of the
tyrant of Israel under the malediction of the prophet of Judos,
"The hand of Jeroboam withered and he was not able to draw it
back again to him, because the Lord had cursed it." You have
committed the most cowardly, the most revolting, and the most
irreparable of crimes. (Prolonged applause.)
II.
The Education Of The Workshop.
I have been too diffuse upon the primary education of man. The
fault, gentlemen, is in your attention and sympathy; and then in
the empty cradle, the absent mother, this gloomy fireside, where
I had need to weep and hope with you.
The home education is concluded by that grand religious ceremony,
the first communion, which serves as the first emancipation of
the child. More precocious in that than the sons of the rich, the
sons of the workman enter from there a sort of public life; from
the family, they pass to the workshop. Am I mistaken, gentlemen;
is there not a school between the family and the workshop, the
primary school first and the professional school afterward? No;
the school is not between the family and the workshop, it is
beside them. It does not form, in connection with them, a third
degree in the popular education. In a word, its part is not
principal and independent, but secondary and subordinate. I am
full of sympathy and respect for those modest and courageous
teachers of the people, to whatever corps of instructors they may
belong, whether they wear the religious or the layman's dress,
provided they remain at the height of their profession. I will
never associate myself with the gross and unmerited injuries of
which they are the objects, in different senses, on the part of
all extreme parties. But grand as is their mission, I repeat it,
it is secondary; and practical reason fails to see in the school
what a large number of our contemporaries see in it--the most
efficacious instrument for the elevation of the laboring classes.
Permit me, gentlemen, to cite the words of an economist, a
patient, impartial, and wise observer, whose name and works I
would wish to popularize among Catholics. "With a free and
prosperous people," says M. Le Play, "the instructor occupies
only a subordinate position. The true education is given by the
family, aided by the priest; it is completed by apprenticeship to
a profession, and by the observance of social duties." [Footnote
47]
[Footnote 47: _Social Reform in France_, by M. Le Play,
author of _European Laborers_, Commissioner-General to
the Universal Exhibitions of 1855, '62, and '67. 3d edition,
vol. ii. p. 369.]
The workshop is, then, after the family, the second centre, the
second home, for the education of the people. But what is a
well-planned and well-organized workshop? It is one where the
dignity and rights of personal being are recognized in the
workmen, and especially in the child. A personal being is always
an end, never a means; it cannot be used as an animal without
reason, nor as an instrument without consciousness. If one expect
services of it, and receive profit from it, it is necessary to
dispose of it, as God does of us, with a great respect; _cum
magna reverentia disponis nos_. What is a well-appointed
workshop? It is one which has at its head a patron who is an
honorable man, a patron truly worthy of the name he bears. Some
have seen something ridiculous and disagreeable in this name;
but, for my part, I find it very grand, very elevated, and, above
all, very Christian.
{478}
I see in it the idea of paternity, and in this very idea the
practical solution of our problem, by the relations of mutual
affection in a free but, nevertheless, close and durable
association between the masters and the workmen. In such a
workshop, under this father of the laborer, an immediate gain
will be sacrificed, however great it may be, to the formation of
intelligent and virtuous apprentices. It is not proposed to
produce only much and quickly; it is desired that trade may be
grand by its workmen as well as by its works; from its moral as
well as its material side. The kingdom of God and his
righteousness is sought first; and all the rest is added, for
righteousness and utility have more bonds between them than we
think, and science has recently stated that in the products of
labor not only the degree of intelligence, but also the degree of
morality of the workmen, may be recognized.
Aided by devoted and qualified foremen, such a patron will make
the workshop he directs the best of professional schools. The
good workman is made, like the good soldier, less by precept than
by example, less by general and theoretical knowledge than by a
practical struggle with the realities of his trade.
Come, then, young conscript of labor! I would have many more of
this kind and many fewer of the other. (Applause.) Yes, the
conscripts of agriculture, in these vast open workshops that we
call the fields, and the conscripts of trade, in the more
confined but not less fruitful workshops of our cities--the
great, peaceful army which forms the true power and superior
influence of a nation. (Renewed applause.) Come, conscript of
labor! Enter upon the field of battle of the workshop! Fight
those combats which are not always without dangers, never without
courage and glory! And you, inured foreman, captain of this noble
militia, follow it, guide it, exercise it by look, and word, and
gesture! See how it avenges its first defeats by valiant
exploits; how it puts its victorious hand upon this wild beast,
this matter, revolted against man. It seizes it, it twists its
mane, and finally curbs it, subdued, pliant, and docile, to carry
on the inventions of science and the creations of genius.
(Applause.)
Gentlemen, yet a word with regard to the workshop. It is a place
which ought to complete the formation of the moral and religious
character, at the same time that it perfects the intelligent and
qualified workman. It is not alone the school of excellence in
the profession; it is also the school of life. The family, with
its auxiliaries, the school and the catechism, has provided the
theory of life more than it has given the practice. The good
precepts have fallen upon the consciousness of the child in the
form of a mysterious revelation, of which he has felt the power
and the beauty, but of which he has not been able to seize all
the significance. Every theory, so far as it remains abstract,
differs more or less from the reality; it is essential that it
descend into the region of facts, and that it enter into a
contact with them which, far from destroying, confirms, but at
the same time modifies and fructifies, it. This is the true
tendency of practical life.
When, then, the mother and the priest have grounded this sublime,
true, and eternal theory of religion and of virtue, it belongs to
the workshop to submit it to its necessary and decisive proof, to
give or refuse it citizenship in practical existence.
{479}
If, finally, everything in this new school says to the young
apprentice, Your teachers have deceived you or are themselves
deceived; the great movement of men and things is not, and cannot
be, what they have told you; if this contradiction of the faith
of his childhood penetrate his mind and heart through the
constant teachings of word and example, by all the influences of
these moral mediums, which act upon us with far greater force
than physical mediums, it will come to pass that he will abandon
the principles of his parents and instructors as a weak support,
and will allow himself to glide down the seductive declivities of
doubt and pleasure. But if, on the contrary, he find one of these
workshops too rare to-day, which are the continuation of the
school and fireside experience; if he hear and see the practical
commentary on all he has believed and loved; if he breathe the
pure air of healthful souls which refreshes and fortifies the
conscience and the heart; you will soon see developed to manly
stature those virtues of childhood instilled in him by the sacred
influence of home and of religion, warmed by the contact of those
two hearts which are equal--I dare not say that one surpasses the
other; God has clothed them with so nearly the same tenderness
and the same piety, for the cradle of mankind--the heart of the
mother and the heart of the priest. (Applause.)
III.
Education By Means Of The Sunday.
I have just compared the priest and the mother. And indeed,
gentlemen, if I have spoken separately of the family and the
workshop, I have not intended by that to separate them from
religion. With these two primordial laws of love and of labor of
which I have indicated the double home--the family and the
workshop--is connected, and, as it were, interlaced, a third
still grander law, which forms with them the divine net-work of
human existence--prayer.
We cannot be the disciples of an independent morality, because we
are not participators in an impersonal deity. We have a morality
which comes from the living God and which returns to him, and in
this golden chain which binds the earth to heaven all the links
are not the duties of man in respect to man; and when one desires
to be an honorable man in the fulness and holiness of this term,
so often profaned, he must not disregard in his practical respect
the most living and sacred of all personalities. Now, this
intercourse of the living and personal soul with the living and
personal God is what we call prayer, in the fullest and most
comprehensive sense of the word. It is not sufficient to think of
God; it is necessary to pray to him. When one habituates himself
to reach him only by thought, he finishes by no longer believing
in God; he vanishes, or at least he transforms himself into a
mass of confused and icy clouds--_evanuerunt in cogitationibus
suis_--and of the Being of beings there remains only a
sublime but chimerical ideality. It is necessary to have a heart,
to have the arts and movements of a soul which looks up with
respect and tenderness to the God who makes it to live upon the
earth, to the Father who awaits it in the heavens. Not even
individual prayer suffices; collective prayer is necessary--the
meeting and communion of souls in the same illumination and
fervidness of love. This prayer has a sacred day and place--the
Sunday and the temple. It is of this day and this place,
gentlemen, that it remains to say to you that they are, after as
before the first communion, the highest school of the child, of
the youth, and of the man.
{480}
This is why the first and most essential of all popular liberties
is the liberty of keeping the Sunday. There are men who do not
comprehend this need of repose for the soul and for the body.
They are usually those who direct work, but who do not perform
it; who receive the profit without knowing the fatigue. They are
those who have not pricked their hands on the hard asperities of
labor, with the thorns and briers of the workshop, and who have
not been bowed down during six days over the earth with their
brows bathed in sweat and their souls exhausted with suffering.
As for such, I can conceive of their objections to the law of
repose. I can comprehend their repugnance to the liberty of the
Sunday. But the laborer, whenever he is not under the pressure of
material or moral violence, whenever he is left to his own
instincts; he claims as his most dear and sacred right the
enjoyment of this day which makes him truly free, truly husband
and father, truly a child of God. The sentiment of human dignity
requires it; it is the exigency of family life; it is the
religious need of souls; it is the cry of all that is most noble
and imperious in our nature.
I still recollect what I experienced in my childhood. Permit me
this confession, which is yours as well, and which would be also
that of our workmen. In the morning, when I awoke, I felt
distinctly that it was Sunday! In the clump of trees near the
window, the birds sang more sweetly; the church-bells pealed more
joyously; the air was filled with more harmonies and perfumes;
the sky was so beautiful, the sun so brilliant! I did not
understand this mystery. I asked myself many times how nature
thus became transformed on a fixed day. Later, I understood it.
Child, still warm from the waters of thy baptism, throbbing from
the caresses of thy mother, it is a reflection of thy religious
soul which passes over nature and makes it more beautiful and
more like thyself. (Applause.)
The child will arise transported. It will go into the temple,
which is the house of God, but which is also the house of the
people. The rich have their palaces; they can content themselves
with a modest chapel. For the people we must have cathedrals,
(applause,) and festivals such as are not given to the princes of
the earth, such as religion alone can realize. The true popular
festival--let me speak the word so much abused, the true
_democratic_ festival--is Sunday. In the vast basilica, all
the arts, united around the altar, have mingled their
enchantments into one supreme enchantment--architecture,
statuary, painting, music, above all, eloquence. Yes, eloquence!
However unpolished the words of the priest may sometimes be, by
the nature of the truths he must announce, by the chords which he
is sure to touch in the human heart, the priest is necessarily
eloquent. (Applause.) The people enter, and they feel its
grandeur. And the little children, as they cross the threshold,
are welcomed like kings by the grand voice of the organ; they
breathe the perfumes of incense and of flowers; they listen to
those majestic and tender chants, those Latin words, which they
do not comprehend, and which nevertheless say to them so many
things--words of eternity dropped down into time, mysterious
secrets of the fatherland, a glimpse caught in exile. Transported
with faith, with hope, and with love, they come from the fireside
to the altar; from the altar to the fireside they recarry to the
mother the kiss of God, as they have carried to God the kiss of
the mother.
{481}
This is the day of which their friends wish to deprive the
people--false friends, who believe only in the body, who see in
it only material needs, the work and the pleasures of the beast
of burden! Courtiers of democracy, you who flatter the people and
despise it, believe in its soul, _crede animae_, and by that
begin to believe in your own. (Applause.)
Yes, this law of Sunday, so religiously democratic, is to-day
everywhere unrecognized. Patriotism imposes upon me still greater
consideration for my country when I speak upon soil which is not
her own. I am mistaken; my country asks of me only equity, and I
know that if much evil can be said of France as she is to-day,
much good may also justly be said of her. I will speak, then,
freely; I will complain of the violation of the Sunday in the
great industrial cities of France. Sometimes I must pass through
the streets in going to the church to speak the sacred word. I
revolve in my heart the lessons of the Gospel and all along the
way are visions of hell; heavy wagons, axle-trees that groan,
pavements that reek, clouds of dust which hide from me the sun
and the face of God. I cover my eyes with my hands and say,
groaning, It is France that does this.
The answer comes, Undoubtedly; but this is liberty. Respect the
liberty of France! Respect the conscience of your
fellow-citizens! Ah! I have nothing to say against liberty. I
speak of it with lips as much more sincere and fervent as they
are more Christian and more Catholic. The hour is not yet come,
gentlemen, but the hour will come, in which misapprehensions
shall cease, and it will be said before the end of this century
that the pontiff so great and so unappreciated, Pius IX., who has
most valiantly combated against revolution, is the same who has
opened the initiatives the most bold and most fruitful--yes, in
spite of apparent reverses, I say the most fruitful for the
liberty of Europe. Let us not do that with which St. Paul
reproaches the Christians of Corinth. We will not depart from
Christ; we will not divide ourselves from Pius IX., _divisus
est Christus!_ As for me, in all the extent of his glory I
accept him; from his prosperity so pure to his misfortunes so
touching; from the raising of the standard of reform and progress
in his royal and priestly hand, previous to 1848, to the
convocation of the ecumenical council which unites at this hour
to the applause of Catholics the sympathy of Protestants and
Rationalists.
No! we will not lessen liberty. We will not wound the interests
of labor nor the exigencies of trade. What contemptible sophisms
these are! Do you not see two great free nations, two great
industrial nations, which are equal to yours, if they do not
surpass you--England and the United States? I have had the
happiness to visit London. I shall never forget the emotion which
filled me at the sight of this city, similar to the ancient
metropolis of the sea which the prophets paint; the woman who is
seated upon the waters, _mulier quae sedet super aquas_. And
in the deep waves I saw no abysses, but only an immense and
solemn fluctuation, and as the majesty of an ever moving but
firmly established throne. And the great queen of the seas was
there, commanding the islands and the continents, reaching out in
the distance over kings and peoples, no longer, as her
predecessors, the rod of oppression, but the beneficent sceptre
of her riches and her liberty.
{482}
And I heard the sound of her vast trade, and in the streets
passed the living flood of men and chariots. Then one day broke
as the days of my childhood; one day such as public life no
longer shows me in my country; one day which did not resemble
other days. No longer the noisy cars in the streets, no longer a
crowd full of business; the gigantic machine which muttered and
thundered the evening before had suddenly stopped, as before the
vision of God. The grand movement of English trade was arrested,
and I saw in the streets only those who went, collected and
happy, to the place of prayer, and I heard only the sweet harmony
of the Protestant bells, which remembered having been Catholic
while waiting to become so again. (Applause.)
Let not any one say, England is an aristocratic and feudal power;
its Sabbath-rest is one of the remnants of the middle ages which
modern breath will soon have swept away. I look to the other side
of the sea, and I find again this Anglo-Saxon race which can
clothe the same grandeur under the most diverse forms; this time
it is not the middle age and aristocracy; it is the most advanced
prow of modern civilization, sailing across all glories and
indiscretions toward an unknown future. This is, I love to think,
the people chosen by God to renew things and to prepare for
truths and institutions which can no longer do without newer and
stronger vestments. Well, the United States observe the Sunday as
England does, and send back to us across the ocean this same
response of the silence of God to the blasphemies of men.
(Applause.)
In praising these great countries, gentlemen, I do not intend to
recommend to you a servile imitation, and I do not ask that what
is not in our manners shall be inscribed in our laws. The law
exists in France, it is true, but in the state of a dead letter.
I do not desire to see it applied. I am persuaded that in such
countries as France and Belgium great inconvenience would arise
by this means. What I ask is not the obligation, it is the
liberty of the Sunday; liberty by the Sunday and the Sunday by
liberty. (Cries of Good. That is it.) Yes, I repeat, the liberty
of the people by the Sunday and the observance of the Sunday by
liberty. If I had the right to speak to governments, I should do
it with that respect which is their due even in their faults.
Even here, we have applauded the beautiful words of M. de Maistre
on the subject of Russia: "I respect all that is respectable, the
sovereigns and the people." I say, then, to them, Give your
example, and I ask of you no other support for the cause that I
defend. Let the public works scrupulously respect the Sunday, and
the state force the individual to blush before it. (Applause.)
And you, princes of trade, organizers, legislators, and monarchs
of labor and of wealth, you can do more here than crowned heads;
you have been powerful agents in suppressing the liberty of the
Sunday; you will be more powerful in restoring it. (Applause.)
And now, gentlemen, before closing, suffer me to address one last
and earnest appeal to your zeal in favor of these three great
restorers in the bosom of the laboring classes--the family, the
workshop, and the Sunday.
Yesterday, in language which belongs only to himself, but which
interprets our feelings as well, M. Le Compte de Falloux said to
the illustrious Bishop of Orleans, "My Lord, you have recommended
us to arise early; but you have joined example to precept; you
have ever been the standard-bearer in all good causes."
{483}
Well, what I could wish is, that each one of us could also be
among the standard-bearers; that we could have the honor, we
Catholics, of being in advance of others in the practical
knowledge of what is preparing in the approximate future.
What is approaching? It is called by an illy-defined name, which
awakens passions and dissensions--democracy. Two years ago I
attempted to explain this word at Notre-Dame de Paris, [Footnote
48] and I have been blamed for it by some. I have since found a
similar definition in the recent writings of the honored bishop
whom I have just named. I retake it, then, with pride, and I say
to all those who invoke this name, There are two democracies in
the world. Which is yours? Is it radical revolution? Does social
hierarchy, entirely prostrated before the force of numbers,
constitute the grandeur of intelligence and virtue? Is it the
brutal level which passes over all things to crush and to lower?
If this be your democracy, it is the worst of barbarisms, and we
will combat it, if necessary, even to the shedding of our blood.
But if democracy be the gradual and peaceable elevation of the
laboring and suffering masses, who are called peasants in the
country and workmen in our cities; if it be their elevation to a
more extended knowledge, to a more secure well-being, to a more
efficient and refined morality, and by legitimate consequence to
a more extensive social influence; we are with this democracy,
not only because we are the sons of our century, but because we
are the sons of the Gospel. [Footnote 49]
[Footnote 48: Advent Conferences of 1865. (3d conference.)]
[Footnote 49: "If democracy be the rising of the common
people, of the peasants and the laborers, to a higher
standard of education, of well-being, of morality, of
legitimate influence, the church is with democracy."
--_Atheism and Social Peril_, by Monsignor the Bishop of
Orleans. 1866. p. 166.]
I see it arise. I salute it in your name; this Christian
democracy, having its deep and solid foundations in the homes,
the workshops of trade, and in the sanctuary of our temples. It
will change history, which, in the past, has only recorded the
intrigues of the wily or the conquests of the strong, the
powerlessness of policy, the too frequent corruption of riches
and art. It will give to the sages a subject of meditation in the
intelligent and faithful working out of the laws of private life,
to which public life itself is subordinate when it is understood.
It will cause a great people to spring up who will seek the
practical welfare of their existence, as well as the inspiration
of their literature and art, in family affection, the struggles
and joys of labor, and in the chaste emotions of prayer and the
splendid festivities of religion.
Undoubtedly, the crisis that we are passing through is one of the
most important and terrible that our race has known. Let us raise
our efforts, our courage, and our faith to the height of these
solemn events, but never doubt the final issue. I can explain the
ruins of pagan society; but the society which has touched Jesus
Christ, the humanity which has possessed for centuries the spirit
of the Gospel--in a word, Europe--she may suffer, she may be in
the pangs of death, but she cannot die. (Prolonged applause.)
--------
{484}
Mater Filii.
Behind this vast and wondrous frame
Of worlds whereof we nothing know
Except their aspects, and their name,--
Behind this blind, bewildering show
Of shapes that on the darkness trace
Transitions fair and fugitive,
Lies hid that power upon whose face
No child of man shall gaze and live.
As one that in broad sunshine stands
While minster organs near him roll,
Screening his forehead with his hands,
And following through the gulfs of soul
Some memory that before him flies--
Thus, power eternal and unknown,
We muse on thine immensities,
Yet find thee in thy Son alone.
Immanuel--God with us--in him
The lineaments divine are glassed
Like mountain outlines, vague and dim
Upon the mists of morning cast.
The "Word made Flesh!" O power divine!
Through him, through him, we guess at thee,
And deepliest feel that he is thine
When throned upon his mother's knee.
"If I but touch his vesture's hem,
I shall be healed, and strong, and free--"
Thou wert his vesture, Mary;--them
His virtue heals that cling to thee!
Aubrey De Vere.
--------
{485}
The Sacrifice and the Ransom.
Introduction.
Among the various manifestations of Christian charity in the
middle ages--charity sometimes ill-understood perhaps, but always
sincere and enthusiastic--there are few that show more
expressively to what a degree the love of our fellow-creature can
suppress all egotistical instincts, than the Order of Mercy for
the redemption of captives. Sustained and encouraged by holy
charity, the Father of Mercy embarked each year at Marseilles,
braving plague, martyrdom, and slavery. In the name of that
heavenly King, of whom he considered himself the ambassador, he
demanded from the astonished tyrant of Algiers the liberty of the
Christian captives, until then apparently condemned never to see
again their homes. The savage Dey, awed by the heroic confidence
of the unarmed pilgrim--moved, perhaps, by some secret
compassion, accepted the gold offered as ransom; and the obscure
and humble father recrossed the sea, and returned again on foot
to his distant monastery.
And what was the origin of this institution? No legislative
assembly, no council of ministers is entitled to the honor of
having conceived the idea of this pious enterprise. The loving
heart of a man who had devoted himself from his childhood to the
service of suffering humanity was the first to devise a plan of
carrying relief and consolation to misfortunes which, until then,
had seemed beyond the ordinary action of Christian charity. Peter
Nolasque, the founder of the Order of Mercy, was born in 1189,
near Castelnaudari, in Languedoc, France. His learning was as
remarkable as his piety, so that at the age of twenty-five, the
education of the son of Peter of Aragon was confided to him by
the celebrated Simon of Montfort. It was while at the court of
Barcelona, in this high and responsible position, that Peter
Nolasque resolved to devote his life and fortune to the ransom of
the Christian slaves who languished hopelessly, under the burning
sun of Africa.
For this purpose he determined to establish a religious order for
the deliverance of captives. Several noblemen contributed large
sums of money toward the good work; the court of Rome gave its
supreme approbation, and on St. Lawrence's day, 1223, Peter
Nolasque was declared the first general of the new institution,
and invested with the monastic habit. He lived far from courts
during the rest of his life, travelling painfully on foot to
carry consolation and freedom to the wretched beings he pitied so
truly. More than four hundred Christians were delivered from the
hands of the Mussulman by his efforts alone.
He died on Christmas-day, 1256, leaving behind him the memory of
a pure and generous life, and an institution which soon numbered
among its members many of the bravest and noblest chevaliers of
France.
----
{486}
The Sacrifice.
It was in the year of our Lord 1363. The curfew bell had just
been rung, the doors of the village houses were all fast shut,
and within the castle wall the measured tread of the sentinel on
the battlements was the only sound that met the ear. If,
perchance, some belated traveller was still abroad, he hung his
rosary around his neck, and hurried onward muttering pious
ejaculations; for a heavy mist deepened the shades of night, and
the sad wailings of the wind and the hootings of the owl mingling
together, sounded ominously in his terrified ears.
The only light visible was in the chapel of the monastery, where
the monks of the Order of Mercy were reciting their evening
prayers. They had just ended the last and solemn petition for
"_all Christians, captive and suffering in the hands of the
infidel,_" when the bell at the great gate of the holy house
rang loudly, and the brother-porter, rising from his knees,
hastened to reconnoitre by the wicket who it was demanded
admittance at such an unusual hour.
Three persons were at the gate; one, a young man, wore a rich
emblazoned coat of arms; his head was uncovered save by the long
clustering curls of dark hair, now heavy with the night-damp,
that descended to his shoulders; a youth, apparently his page,
bore in his arms the knight's helmet. The third individual was an
old man, who kept himself in the background, and who appeared by
his plain steel cuirass to be an humble squire, grown gray in
harness.
The page's youthful face was sad and timid; the elder man's
showed the traces of violent passions in the deep lines that
furrowed it, and his eyes even now seemed to flash in the light
of the torch that the monk carried. The chevalier's noble
countenance was pale and grave, and he stood leaning pensively on
his sword. "What wish you, Messire?" asked the brother-porter of
the knight, when, after a deep but sharp scrutiny, his doubts
were removed as to the quality of the strangers.
"May it please the Reverend Father Prior to grant me a short
interview?"
"May it be as you desire, Messire. I will seek the reverend
Father when you have entered with your followers."
The heavy iron-bound gate of the convent turned on its massive
hinges, and closed the instant that the travellers were within.
The golden spurs of the chevalier resounded on the cloister's
marble flags as he followed the monk, and he murmured to himself
the words of the Psalm, "_Haec requies mea in seculum
seculi_"--but his page and his squire knew no Latin, and his
conductor heard him not.
They were introduced into a spacious ancient parlor lined with
high black oaken wainscot; the brother placed the torch he
carried in an iron claw that was fixed in the wall for that
purpose, and invited the strangers to seat themselves on the
bench that ran round the chamber, then bowing profoundly, left
them.
The squire immediately drew nearer to his young lord who appeared
to be absorbed in thought.
"How, my lord," cried he, "is it possible that you believe that
these monks can forward your plans? Why thus retard our journey?
A few days more and we should have reached our goal, and many a
good man and true would have made your quarrel his own. The brave
free companies would have served you as never a hooded priest in
France!"
"Banish all such thoughts for the future, Michel," replied the
knight, "it is better to pardon than to revenge."
{487}
"Good Saint Denis! do I hear the Lord of Montorgueil aright! My
lord, pardon the frank speech of an old soldier, but never was
the escutcheon of your house dimmed without being washed in
blood--and would you be the first to let it lie soiled in the
dust?"
"Alas! Michel, it is indeed true that too much blood has been
shed in the quarrels of our house!"
"Holy Virgin! can it be possible that my liege lord has forgotten
the duties of a valiant knight?"
"Friend," replied the young warrior sternly while his pale cheek
reddened with the emotion awakened by the squire's reproach, "I
have remembered that I was a Christian before I was made a
knight!"
Michel drew back in silence, gazing on his master with a
countenance in which astonishment and grief were nearly equally
portrayed, while the Lord of Montorgueil silently proceeded to
take off his shoulder-belt and untie his silken scarf.
The heavy oaken door at length opened and the venerable prior
entered. Quick as thought, the knight threw the sword he held in
his hands at the monk's feet; then, falling on his knees,
exclaimed in a loud, firm voice, "Reverend Father, in the name of
God and of the holy Virgin Mary, I, Raoul de Montorgueil,
chevalier, pray and conjure you to admit me into the religious
and devout observance of our Lady of Mercy, for the deliverance
of captives!"
"Amen, my son, so be it, if it be God who sends thee," replied
the Prior.
"My lord, my lord," cried Michel, "remember the Sire of Valeri!
Proud will he be, and loud his boast that fear of him has moved
you to this. You know his _outre-cui-dance!_"
"O my worshipful lord!" exclaimed the timid page, bursting into
tears, "think of your lady-mother!"
"I think of the salvation of my soul more than of all else,"
replied the chevalier.
"Silence, good friend!" said the prior, as Michel appeared about
to attempt another remonstrance; "and you, my son, seat yourself
here by my side, and tell me what has induced you to seek this
peaceful sanctuary."
The young knight arose and placed himself on the wooden bench by
the monk; then, keeping his eyes steadfastly bent to the ground
as if to avoid the sight of his two weeping retainers, "Reverend
Father," he said, "most bitter is the remembrance of the past;
for the last time will I recount the evil thoughts and deeds that
once seemed so natural to me. For many a year all Brittany has
resounded with the feuds of the Lords of Montorgueil and the
Sires of Valeri; bitter has been the hatred and bloody the strife
between these two proud houses; but I will not recall past
outrages--let me relate only the last deadly wrong that filled my
heart with unspeakable thirst of vengeance.
"Twelve days have not yet expired since the passage of arms at
Rennes; the Sire of Valeri was there at the head of a numerous
company of his partisans, and defied me to single combat, with
many a vain and bragging word. I accepted his challenge, resolved
to be the victor or die. The onslaught was terrible, for we were
equal in strength and skill, and we long parried each other's
thrusts. Forced at last to pause to take breath, the Sire of
Valeri proposed a truce.
"'Let us meet a month hence,' he cried, 'with twenty good men
each, and end our quarrel.'
{488}
"'Why should we adjourn till another day what can be so well
ended now?' I replied; 'our swords will be no sharper and our
hate no hotter. No, may my spurs be hacked off my heels by your
basest varlet, ere I consent to sheathe again my sword before one
of us fall!' Then again fast and furious fell our blows until the
traitor knight making a feint, struck me before I had time to
cover and I fell. 'Yield!' cried my exulting foe. 'Never! Never!'
I replied. 'Then die the death!' and he raised his weapon.
"At that moment my young brother--alas! alas! why did my
lady-mother bring him to those fatal lists!--my young brother
leapt over the barriers and sprang to the rescue--the heavy
blade descended on his fair head! Father, I saw the long hair of
the noble child red with his young life's blood, and I saw no
more. When I awoke from my deadly swoon, I found that my good
squire and gentle page had carried me from the lists and were
weeping over me while they swore vengeance on the enemy of our
house.
"I, too, thirsted for vengeance, for vengeance on all the kith
and kin of the house of Valeri, and I resolved to seek fifty
lances and attack the miscreant in his stronghold. Vainly my
lady-mother prayed me to lay aside my sword and live for her.
'Leave vengeance to heaven,' she said, 'I have seen too much
blood--O my son! let me not weep over the mangled corpse of my
last child!' Vainly she prayed; I left her, reverend father, to
mourn over the grave of my brother, while I carried death to the
homestead of our enemy.
"But as I journeyed toward the quarters of the Free Companions,
followed by these, my squire and page, intending to enlist some
good lances under my banner, the remembrance of my mother's grief
returned again and again, and my heart softened each time that I
thought of her, childless and alone in her sorrow. I was
meditating sadly this very day, when the sound of a bell ringing
the _Angelus_ reminded me that it was the hour of prayer,
and I alighted from my horse to repeat an Ave Maria. When I said,
'_Pray for us in the hour of our death_,' I asked myself for
the first time, if in that supreme hour the remembrance of my
revenge would be sweet to me, and if, when in the presence of him
who is the suzerain of the lord as well as of the vassal, I
should dare to vaunt me of the blood I had shed. Thus I continued
to reflect as I resumed my journey, until at last I found myself
before the gate of this holy house, and I heard echoing beneath
the arched cloisters the strains of that sweet _Salve
Regina_, that pilgrims say the angels sing at night beside the
fountains.
"All the bitterness and anguish of my heart melted away as I
listened; 'O Mother of Mercy!' I cried, 'it is then here that
thou art awaiting me? Yes, I will henceforth be thy knight; it is
better, I feel, to wipe tears away, than to cause them to flow.'
I threw myself on my knees, and when again the holy strains
repeated _'O clemens! O pia! O dulcis Virgo Maria!'_ my
resolution was firmly taken, and I had vowed myself to the
service of the blessed Virgin. Receive me then, Father, as her
servant."
Raoul threw himself once more on his knees before the venerable
priest, who raising his arms toward heaven, silently gave thanks
for this miraculous conversion; then turning toward the knight,
blessed him and gave him the kiss of peace. "How admirable are
the ways of God, my son," said he; "how little did my brethren
and I think while we were praying this night for all captives,
that there was one so near us being freed at that moment from his
bonds! Thou wast smitten on the road, my son, like Saint Paul;
like him thou art, perhaps, destined to become a chosen vessel of
grace.
{489}
In the name of God and of the blessed Virgin, I receive thee into
our holy order, and admit thee to the ordeal of our novitiate."
The sobs of the two retainers had been the only sign of their
presence that they had given while the knight was speaking; but
now the old squire cast himself at his feet, and in broken
accents besought him to have pity on his poor vassals, and not
abandon them to the scoffs and outrages of the enemy of his
house.
"Have pity on us," repeated the page, wringing his hands.
"My friends, weep not like women," replied their master, "I have
thought of everything. God will comfort my lady-mother, and she
will rejoice to have her son a knight of the holy Virgin. My
kinsman Gaston will be your lord; he is worthy of the inheritance
I leave him, for he has a noble and generous heart. He is young,
it is true, but I will place him under the tutelage of Messire
Bertrand du Guesclin, and foolhardy will he be who shall then
attack our house or harm its vassals. Reverend Father, I crave
your hospitality for my two retainers, and I entreat you to
permit me now to seek peace and strength in prayer."
The prior took his hand and conducted him in silence to the
chapel. A single lamp burnt before the sanctuary, and shed a
faint, solemn light upon the image of our Lady of Mercy. Raoul
prostrated himself at the foot of the altar and poured forth his
ardent soul in supplication. When he arose, the marble steps were
wet with tears.
"Father," he said to the prior, "I am strong now--the sacrifice
is accomplished."
The young convert passed that night in writing. He addressed a
long and loving letter to his mother, relating to her all his
struggle--his burning wish for vengeance, his fear of shame, the
tender mercy that had touched his heart: the parchment on which
he wrote was stained with many a tear. "I could not remain in the
secular world without revenging our injuries," said he in
conclusion, "I have left it that I may pardon. Honored lady and
dear mother, bless your son and pray for him."
To Messire Bertrand du Guesclin he gave a rapid sketch of the
facts, and besought his protection for his young kinsman, now
Lord of Montorgueil.
A third letter still remained to be written; how much it cost him
to break this last link with the outward world, was revealed by
the sobs that burst from his quivering lips, by the tears that
dropped heavily on the oaken table on which he leaned. "No,"
cried he at last, "this tie _cannot_ be broken," and taking
his pen he traced some hurried words: they were addressed to his
brother-in-arms, his friend, his playmate in happy childhood, his
rival in his first feats of arms.
"Dear Aymar," were his concluding words, "my heart can never
change toward you--oh! believe that it beats the same under the
monk's frock as under the knight's armor! _For love of me_,
Aymar, _avenge not my quarrel._"
The ancient squire, who had passed the night in lamentations,
interrupted only by exclamations of indignant surprise at the
peaceful slumbers of his young companion, looked very sad and
weary when Raoul entered his chamber at break of day.
"Michel," said the knight, "spare me your reproaches and tears;
they can avail nothing to change my purpose, but I have need of
all my fortitude. Here are divers messages; be heedful of them,
that they may reach their destination speedily."
{490}
He put into the squire's hands the letters he had prepared, each
fastened with a silken string, and impressed with his seal.
"Give this rosary of golden beads to my lady mother," he
continued, "she hung it on my neck when we parted; henceforth
when she tells it, the remembrance of her Raoul will be mingled
with every prayer. This ring, that I won in my first tournament,
is for Aymar de Boncourt; beg him also to take my armor and my
war-horse. And now farewell, Michel, the matin-bell is ringing,
and I belong no longer to the world, but to God. Farewell, old
friend, farewell; be as faithful to Gaston as you have been to
me." He threw himself on the old man's breast and pressed him to
his heart, then tearing himself from his arms, he gazed an
instant tenderly on the still sleeping page. "Recommend this poor
child to the new Lord of Montorgueil, Michel, and be ever his
friend." He stooped and kissed the boy's smooth brow, then turned
softly away--the door closed, and the squire and the page never
looked on him again.
When the morning prayers were ended, the prior summoned the
disconsolate retainers to his presence, and, after a discourse
full of consolation and good counsel, dismissed them with a
handsome largess from their beloved master. We will not follow
them on their journey; suffice it to say that when the lady of
Montorgueil received her son's unexpected letter, the first pang
of sorrow and regret was excruciating, but the Christian mother
was soon able to accept the sacrifice. She ceased to grieve, and
in a few months retired to a convent, where she passed the rest
of her peaceful and honored life.
Du Guesclin, whose noble heart was full of generous sympathy,
loudly proclaimed his affection for Raoul, and his determination
to protect the house of Montorgueil. This was sufficient to
prevent all attempts of the Sire of Valeri against the vassals
and lands of the new lord; and he contented himself with
whispering accusations of cowardice against the knight who had
left the death of his brother unavenged, and his own quarrel
unvoided.
Aymar alone could not be comforted for the loss of his
brother-in-arms, and it was long before he was seen to take his
wonted place in the feasts and tournaments that formed the
greater part of the occupations of the young chevaliers of his
time and country.
Raoul meantime consummated his sacrifice; his long curls were
cropped close, and the monk's white woolen robe replaced the
knight's brocade and velvet. After a novitiate of a year and a
day, he pronounced the three vows of his order in the Chapel of
our Lady of Mercy, with an especial promise to give his life for
the ransom of captives. From this time forward he was only known
as the Brother Sainte Foi.
-------
The Ransom.
Time passed away, and France was once more at peace with England
for a brief space; at peace, but far from tranquil, for the Free
Companies, which at first consisted only of nobles, younger sons
of powerful lords, had been terribly augmented by the disbanded
soldiers of both countries, who found inaction intolerable, and
who now ravaged her defenceless provinces. In vain the outraged
people cried for help and protection; the state, without money or
men, was unable either to prevent or punish.
{491}
At length the brave du Guesclin imagined a means to employ these
fiery spirits. He sought the formidable band, then encamped on
the plains of Chalon, at the head of two hundred chevaliers, and
addressed them: "Most of you," said he, "were once my
companions-in-arms, you are all my friends. Your vocation is not
to ravage and destroy, but to conquer and save. Necessity, only,
I know, has forced you to such extremities. I come now to offer
you the means of living honorably and of fighting gloriously.
Spain groans beneath the yoke of the Saracen: would you not
rather choose to be the deliverers of a great nation than the
ruin of this fair country?"
At these words the Free Companions surrounded the chief, and with
enthusiastic acclamations swore as one man to follow him
whithersoever he should lead. The noblest of the French chivalry
joined the enterprise, and Spain soon reechoed with the
well-known war-cry of "Notre-Dame Guesclin!"
The Sire of Valeri and young Aymar of Boncourt were among the
bravest of du Guesclin's gallant band, and their exploits soon
became the favorite themes of the troubadours and trouvères of
tuneful, glory-loving France. But when the chief and his
victorious warriors returned to their native land, Aymar and the
Sire of Valeri were not among them. Had they fallen in the last
bloody encounter? Had they been traitorously ensnared and were
they now languishing in some Moorish dungeon? Several of the
adventurers affirmed that the two knights had embarked for
France, but no vessel from Gallicia had reached a port of
Brittany.
The Fathers of the Order of Mercy were soon aware of the rumors
that circulated concerning the fate of the two bravest chevaliers
of the age; their continual efforts to collect funds for the
ransom of captives placed them in communication with all parts of
Christendom, and the news of the disappearance of the Sire of
Valeri quickly reached the ears of Brother Sainte Foi. The
mysterious fate of him who was Raoul's enemy saddened him, but
terrible indeed was the pang he felt when he learnt that his
friend Aymar was also lost. All his fortitude, all his
resignation, suddenly forsook him, and he wept bitterly.
"My son," said the prior reproachfully, "I thought thou wast dead
to all earthly things."
"O reverend father!" replied he, "earthly things are perishable,
but holy friendship comes from Heaven and dieth not. Let me weep
for my friend. David wept for Jonathan; their souls were one;
mine also was one with Aymar's."
From this time forward the young monk seemed to waste away, his
cheek grew thinner and paler, his eyes were dim and tear-worn. In
vain, hoping to arouse him, his superior sent him without, to
seek funds for their work of charity; no change of scene could
dispel the melancholy languor that had taken possession of him,
and the whole fraternity deplored that so pious and ardent a
spirit would, in all probability, be so soon taken from among
them. After much anxious deliberation the chapter at last
resolved to invest him with the title and functions of
Redemptorist, and, on account of his youth and inexperience, to
associate him with an aged monk who had been several times sent
on the errand of love and mercy.
Brother Sainte Foi was accordingly summoned one day before the
assembled fathers.
{492}
"Brother," said the prior, "don thy sandals, take thy staff, and
be ready to depart."
"I am ready, reverend father."
"Thou dost not enquire whither?"
"Obedience questioneth not, reverend father."
"It is well, my son; depart, then, and may God be with thee! Go
to the land of the infidel--go ransom the captives!"
Brother Sainte Foi, transported with joy, threw himself at the
prior's feet, unable to speak his thanks, while his dim eyes
flashed, and his faded cheek reddened; youth, and health and
strength came back, as if by a miracle, and the good prior,
delighted to see the effect he had produced, entered into full
details for the guidance of the young Redemptorist during his
mission. The whole community assembled to pray for the happy
issue of his journey; and after receiving the blessing of the
elders, he set forth laden with the rich alms destined to relieve
so much misery.
A long and wearisome journey on foot brought the Redemptorist
father to the port where he was to take ship for Algiers, and
here he was joined by the venerable monk who had been appointed
his guide and counsellor in the holy work. They embarked together
on a Genoese vessel they found ready to sail, and a favorable
wind soon carried them across the Mediterranean. The young
father's heart beat hard when he heard the cry of "land!" and saw
the cruel coast of Africa, where so many fellow-Christians were
groaning hopelessly beneath the yoke of the bigot Mussulman.
"It is there that our brethren suffer. O father!" cried he to his
companion, "but we are going to succor, we are going to save!"
And when, at last, the vessel entered the port of Algiers, the
Redemptorist knight knelt and kissed the soil of the wished-for
land, where he was about to make his first trial of arms in the
holy lists of charity.
The two monks, whose errand was well known, were immediately
surrounded by a crowd of slave-merchants, who scoffingly taunted
them, "Have you plenty of gold, Christians? for we have plenty of
slaves; you may have a shipload of them." Father Antoine had
learned prudence and replied as guardedly and as briefly as he
could to the miscreants that pressed upon him. He hastily
directed his steps, followed by his companion, toward the
hospital which the Order of Mercy had with much difficulty
obtained permission to build at the entrance of the port. Arrived
there, without tarrying to rest, he commenced ringing the great
bell that never tolled but to announce the joyful tidings that
charity, holy charity that suffereth long and is kind, that
beareth all things, that believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things; charity that never faileth, had landed again
on those burning sands, to bring hope and aid to the followers of
the cross.
At that signal a crowd of disheveled, ragged men, many wearing
chains at their wrists and ankles, were seen hurrying toward the
chapel. Alas! who would have recognized in those emaciated,
tear-worn spectres, the stalwart soldiers, the valiant
chevaliers, whose deeds the silver-tongued minstrels of France
were singing even then?
Sobs and joyous cries, prayers and ejaculations, burst from them
as they threw themselves on their knees before their deliverers,
and kissed their garments.
{493}
"Brethren," said the venerable father, his voice troubled and
trembling, "we have come hither in the first place for the
salvation of your souls: during eight days we shall be here
waiting to listen to your confessions, and to give you ghostly
consolation, to preach to you the word of life, and to bestow on
you the sacraments of our holy mother church. In the second
place, we have come to work for your deliverance from captivity.
Pray for us, brethren, that we may worthily acquit ourselves of
our sacred tasks."
The unhappy slaves, whose hopes and fears could be read in their
agitated features, gave a great cry when the good father ceased
speaking. It seemed as if despair was calling on heaven for
mercy, and then slowly withdrew.
The next, and the following days, slaves and masters besieged the
hospital gate, and the two monks knew not a moment's rest while
daylight lasted. Each evening, when they were once more alone,
Father Sainte Foi would enquire eagerly of his aged companion if
he thought that they would be able to ransom all the captives.
"We shall be able to save them all, father, shall we not?" he
would say with trembling anxiety; "I have so raised their hopes
to-day that I could not leave one now to despair."
Father Antoine returned no answer to these enquiries; he seemed
rather to avoid the pleading eyes that tried to read his
thoughts. So passed the eight days allowed them by the infidel.
At length, on the eve of that fixed for their departure, a little
before the solemn hour, when all the slaves that the alms of the
faithful had been able to ransom were to be surrendered into the
hands of the Redemptorists, the old man sought his young
coadjutor.
"There are two hundred and twenty, dear brother," cried he, with
a radiant look of triumph; "and we have ransomed them all!"
"All, father! oh! thank God and our Lady;" and the monk cast
himself on his knees, and prayed silently; then rising, clasped
the good old father in his arms, in an ecstasy of joy.
That night Father Antoine repeated the evening prayer, as usual,
with the captives, but his voice trembled, while Father Sainte
Foi could scarcely restrain his tears. All hearts beat hard, and
every face was pale and anxious. In the midst of the solemn
silence that followed the repetition of the last supplication to
the throne of grace, the priest arose slowly, and cast upon the
woe-begone crowd a look so pitiful and so loving, that
consolation seemed to fall like heavenly dew upon even the most
despondent.
"Brethren," said he, "dear brethren! dear children! this is the
twelfth time that the honored title of Redemptorist has been
conferred on me; sometimes it has been the cause of much pain and
disappointment to me, sometimes too of great joy."
Here the slaves stretched their trembling hands toward him, but
their lips uttered no sound.
"My children, my dear children! at this moment my heart overflows
with joy!"
A cry, a terrible, unearthly cry escaped from every mouth, as,
moved by one and the same impulse, the liberated slaves flung
themselves on their knees.
"In the name of our omnipotent God and of the Mother of our
Redeemer, the Blessed Lady of Mercy, I, an unworthy priest, and
my companion here present, declare you to be all free! The alms
of the faithful have been sufficient to ransom you all. All of
you, Christian brethren, will see your native land again!"
{494}
Bursts of frantic joy, rapturous embraces again and again
repeated, succeeded to the silent anguish with which they had
awaited their doom. The venerable father endeavored to calm this
exhausting excitement, and then left to go pay the Moors the sum
stipulated. Father Sainte Foi remained behind to help remove the
fetters whose iron verily entered into his soul.
"To-morrow!" he cried, as he knocked off the heavy chains,
"to-morrow, we shall quit this land of slavery and death!"
"To-morrow!" echoed the pale victims, "to-morrow! Thanks, O Lord
God! Thanks, O well-named Lady of Mercy! Thanks Redemptorist
Fathers! We are going home to-morrow!"
"Retire now, dear brethren," said Father Antoine, returning, "the
Moors are satisfied, and to-morrow at break of day we shall meet
again!"
The now happy crowd left the chapel to seek repose in the
dormitories of the hospital until the wished-for morning light,
and the two monks prostrated themselves before the altar in
humble, hearty thanksgiving.
At dawn, the next day, the ransomed slaves were already
marshalled on the open space before the hospital gate, waiting
the signal for embarking. Father Sainte Foi was in the midst of
them, full of ardor and energy, and as impatient for the happy
moment when they should quit the land of the infidel as the
unfortunate men he had saved. Father Antoine was there also, but,
more reserved in the expression of his joy, he could scarcely
repress a smile as he remarked the excitement and triumph of his
young companion.
"But I was also once young," said he, "nay, to-day I could almost
fancy myself so again! And now, my son, see that all is ready,
that no one is missing; it is time to begin our march to the
ship."
At this moment a cry arose from the assembled Christians.
"Slaves! more slaves! O God! they come too late--they have just
arrived from the desert with their master--there are two of
them--they are too late!"
"There are two of them," repeated Father Sainte Foi, and his
cheek turned pale, "oh! if there had been but one!"
"Alas! they arrive too late," cried the good old priest, "our
purse is empty. Go to them, my son. I cannot comfort them;
promise them that next year--but oh! hide from them, if possible,
the joy of the others!" Father Sainte Foi forced a passage
through the assembled multitude, and found himself before the two
unfortunate captives who had already learned their fate, and were
bewailing it in heartrending accents. One, a man already past the
prime of life, was wringing his hands and sobbing with a choking
voice, "My children, my children, shall I then never see you
again?" Overcome by his emotion he fell fainting to the ground;
the father rushed to his assistance, but started back as he
caught sight of his features. One moment, one single moment he
hesitated, then cast himself on his knees by the side of the
prostrate man, raised and supported the sinking head, and
impressed a kiss on the pale brow. "Thus do I seal my pardon!"
said he; "Sire of Valeri, you shall see your children again!"
The other slave whom he had not yet remarked, at this instant
uttered a joyful cry, and threw himself into his arms,
exclaiming, "Friend, brother, dear Raoul!"
{495}
"Aymar--Sire de Valeri--O Blessed Virgin!" stammered the monk,
with a stifled voice as he fell back insensible.
"Help! help!" exclaimed Aymar, for it was indeed he, "I have
killed my friend!"
The unconscious father was carried into the hospital chapel,
Aymar supporting him in his arms, while tears of mingled joy and
grief coursed down his thin cheeks. Father Antoine desired him to
retire, but not until his friend gave signs of returning life
would Aymar leave him, to await in silence at the other end of
the chapel the effect of the aged monk's consolations and
admonitions.
"Father Antoine," spoke the young priest at length, raising
himself on the bench on which he had been laid, "you know the vow
I made on the day of my profession? If gold I had none, to give
my body for the ransom of Christian captives. That time is come,
father, but I cannot choose between these two. One is--no,
_was_ my enemy, and the other is my dearest friend! O
reverend father, I fear to fail in my duty toward God if I refuse
to return good for evil, if I leave the Sire of Valeri in
captivity. And yet--how can I prefer him to my dear Aymar?--to
Aymar for whom I would gladly give my life! Venerable father,
help me in this terrible struggle and choose for me!"
"Hold!" cried Aymar, coming forward; "there is no choice needful
here! Can you believe, Raoul, that I will accept your sacrifice?
What, you a slave in my place! _I_ return again to France at
the cost of _your_ freedom! Raoul, Raoul, do you know me so
little? If your noble heart prompts you to ransom the Sire of
Valeri at such a cost, let it be so, but never will Aymar consent
to it for himself!"
"Generous friend!" exclaimed the young monk, seizing his hand.
"Nay, Raoul, we have been brothers-in-arms, we will now be
brothers-in-chains; it is but a change of harness!" The two
friends threw themselves into each other's arms, and Father
Antoine blessed them while he wept.
"I cannot prevent you from making this sacrifice, my son," said
he, at length, "it is according to our holy rules; but if God
grant me life, next spring will see me here again to deliver you
both. And now go, tell the Sire of Valeri what your charity has
inspired you to do for him."
"No, no, father; I must not see him again. He is too proud--I
know him well--to receive a gift from the hands of Raoul de
Montorgueil; he would rather die a slave than be delivered by me.
Let him never learn, I entreat you, by what means he recovered
his freedom."
"It is well, my brother; it shall be as you desire."
Father Antoine hastened to the beach, where he found the Sire of
Valeri recovered from his swoon. Without further explanation the
good father told him simply that he was free, and invited the
Mussulman, his master, to accompany him back to the hospital,
where Father Sainte Foi, with a calm, clear voice, proposed to
the astonished unbeliever to take him, a strong, young man and he
showed his muscular, nervous arm--in exchange for the broken-down
and aged slave on the strand.
The avaricious master willingly accepted an offer so advantageous
to himself, and Father Sainte Foi put on with a smile of
ineffable happiness, the chains that had weighed so heavily on
the once stalwart limbs of the enemy of his name and race. Father
Antoine pressed his lips reverentially to those chains, and then
seizing his cross, hastened to take his place at the head of the
long line of ransomed Christians.
{496}
But no chant of joy and triumph resounded as they bent their way
toward the ship that was to bear them to their homes--they
embarked silently, almost sadly--the sails spread, and the swift
vessel was soon lost to sight.
The Moor took possession of his slaves. But we will pass over in
silence their toils and their sufferings: his living faith
sustained the Redemptorist father; hope was the life-spring of
Aymar; their mutual friendship was the consolation of both. Aymar
found his chains light to bear, since his friend was near him,
and the monk feared that he had received his reward in this
world, so sweet did their daily intercourse appear to him.
The young knight related to his younger brother-in-arms, how, on
his return from du Guesclin's victorious expedition, the vessel
in which he and the Sire of Valeri were embarked, had fallen into
the hands of Moorish pirates, and how they had been sold together
in the slave-market at Algiers. He loved, too, to recount to his
sympathizing listener his feats of arms in Spain, until his
friend, reproaching himself for giving ear to such worldly
matters, would talk, in his turn, of heavenly things, of the
peaceful joys and aspirations of his convent life, and would
repeat the history of the Son of Man, who loved us so that he had
willed to bear poverty, hunger, and death for us. When he told
how he had not where to lay his head, "Oh! never more shall I
complain," cried Aymar, "for mine rests on the bosom of a
friend!"
Thus the long days of slavery passed over the two captives, and
when at last the hour of deliverance arrived; when Father
Antoine, true to his word, came with the first days of the next
spring to unloose their chains, Aymar looked tenderly in his
friend's face, while Father Sainte Foi endeavored to hide a tear.
"Can you believe that I will ever leave you again?" said Aymar,
replying to his friend's thoughts. "No, death alone shall
separate us henceforth! I will accompany you to your monastery.
The world smiled on me, but gave me pain and slavery; Heaven has
given me a true friend, and to Heaven I devote myself for ever!"
Then turning toward Father Antoine, "Father," said he, "receive
me here, in the land of our cruel taskmasters, here, where we
have suffered together, as a novice of the Order of Mercy!"
Father Antoine in answer threw his white mantle on the young
knight's shoulders, and the two friends, hand in hand, climbed
the side of the ship that was waiting to carry them back to
France.
Here we will bid them farewell, in the full enjoyment of that
perfect friendship; we will not seek to know if other
vicissitudes came to try it; let us lose sight of them now, and
believe, that, retired from the strife and noise of the world,
they passed together the remainder of their quiet lives, busied
in the acquirement of heavenly wisdom, and in the practice of
those pure, simple, but sublime virtues which find in themselves
their own reward and glory.
Can we doubt that Father Sainte Foi experienced that charity,
like mercy, "is twice blessed,"
"It blesseth him that gives,
and him that takes"?
--------
{497}
From The German Of Dr. J. B. Henry.
Joseph Görres.
A Life-portrait Of
The Author Of Die Mystik.
The bells of Coblenz were tolling the Angelus at noon on January
25th, 1776, the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul, when John
Joseph Görres was born, the son of a timber merchant, of an old
Catholic family of the Rhineland. In this traditional land of
valor, beauty, poetry, and art Görres spent his childhood. Here
he made his first studies, devoting himself especially to
history, geography, and the natural sciences, which had for him a
peculiar attraction. This led him at the University of Bonn to
choose medicine as a profession. But his studies were hardly
begun than interrupted, so that Görres, who, later, had so many
disciples himself, never sat for any length of time at the feet
of a master.
The torrent of the French revolution broke over his home, and
carried the youth along on its waves. At a period so exciting,
when all order seemed to be destroyed, and when good and evil
were so strongly marked, young Görres rose above his compeers,
remarkable for his uncommon political talent, a powerful
eloquence, and a determined, persevering character. Hardly twenty
years old, he had already great weight in the clubs; and his
influence became still more widely felt by the publication of a
political paper called _The Red Letter_, which, suppressed
by the republican directory, reappeared with the title of _Puck
in Blue_; and a pamphlet called _The Political
Menagerie;_ all distinguished for their historical and
philosophical depth of thought, as well as for a vigorous and
glowing style.
At the age of twenty-four he was sent, at the head of a
deputation, in November, 1799, to Paris, to obtain from the First
Consul, in whom Görres already saw the future emperor and despot,
the cessation of the oppressive occupation of the Rhine province.
In a pamphlet entitled _Result of my Embassy to Paris in
Brumaire VIII._, A.D. 1800, he gave a full account of his
mission; but expressed a complete change in his political
opinions, after he had clearly perceived the abyss in which the
French revolution ended; and he never after this returned to the
errors of his youth.
When, at a later date, Görres stood forth as the champion of the
rights and freedom of the Catholic Church, his enemies reproached
him with having proved a traitor to the cause of liberty, which
he had defended in his youth, and tried to represent him
sometimes as a revolutionist, and then again as a man of weak,
inconsequent, and vacillating character. He was thus severely
blamed for an enthusiastic aberration of youth, into which not
only Schiller but even the grave and aged Klopstock, as well as
many other distinguished Germans of the time, had fallen.
{498}
It was a time of such confusion that even the foundations of the
earth quaked and the stars from heaven fell. The glorious edifice
of the German empire, encircled with the halo of a thousand years
of glory, had crumbled in a day; the emperor became a mere
shadow; and the nobility, corrupted by despotism, became as
immoral as in the days of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. Religious life
was torpid; and religious indifference, through the influence of
both the French and German press, through liberalism and the aid
of the illuminati, had gained the mastery over not only the
Protestant but the Catholic mind. Even an Emperor, Joseph II.,
had placed himself at the head of the most shallow liberals; the
principal churchmen sought even to surpass him; in short, so
great was the decay and blindness of those who should have been
the mainstay of the old Christian order, that God could choose no
gentler means of chastising the universal iniquity, than by
letting the fires of the mad revolution have full scope. How can
we be astonished, therefore, that a youth like Görres should have
been carried away with the spirit of the age? But even then he
displayed that straightforwardness and purity of character which
always distinguished him. In the latter half of his revolutionary
life, he had only sought to serve the welfare of the Rhine
province, by his struggle against the oppressions of the French
generals and officials who persecuted him as well as his country.
But Görres was certainly not blamed most for having doffed his
bonnet to the spirit of the revolution; but because, as Paul was
changed from a jealous Pharisee into an apostle, the young
Jacobin became the great defender of the church and Christian
ideas.
Görres gave up politics in the beginning of his twenty-fifth
year, and devoted himself exclusively to science and art for a
period of ten years. He occupied the chair of natural history and
science, in a college at Coblenz, and published during this time
many works, the product of his restless activity. Then came to
light his _Aphorisms on Art_, (A.D. 1802;) _Aphorisms on
Organic Laws_, (1803;) _Exposition of Physiology_,
(1805;) _Aphorisms on Organology_, (1805;) and his book on
_Faith and Science_, (1806;) writings composed under the
influence of the Schelling natural philosophy. Görres had not yet
reached a full and clear knowledge of Christian truth. In the
year 1806 he went on vacation to Heidelberg, where he gave
lectures on natural philosophy, metaphysics, and literature in
the university. Here he was also led more deeply into a study
that exercised great influence on his later development. He
studied the Christian middle age of Germany from an aesthetic and
poetic point of view. He was led in this direction by his
personal acquaintance and friendship with two men, Clement
Brentano and Achim von Arnim, who have deserved highly of their
country for having awakened the muse of German romantic poetry
from her slumbers.
The reformation separated one half of Germany from the past; and
the rationalism of the eighteenth century completed the
separation. The German people were accustomed to despise, as a
period of darkness and barbarism, the most glorious age in their
history, when they were the first nation of the earth; when
Albert the Great taught divine philosophy, Wolfram of Eschenbach
wrote poetry, and Ervinius of Steinbach built cathedrals. This
entire schism of German consciousness from the past had much to
do in causing that deplorable decay of national feeling and
unity. The corruption had reached its height in the eighteenth
century, and Germany became the spoil and the contempt of the
foreigner.
{499}
In order that fatherland should be politically free, the German
conscience must be aroused. Nothing could have more power, in
this respect, than the revival of the hitherto despised
Christian-German middle age and its glorious ballad poetry. For
this purpose the _Pilgrim_, a journal, was started by Arnim,
Brentano, and Görres. The undertaking failed for the want of
cooperation; but produced fruit at a later period. Görres was
more successful in obtaining his purpose in the year 1807 by his
_German Books for the People_, in which he held up to the
eyes of his contemporaries the mirror of the middle ages.
Plunging his mind more and more deeply into the Christian middle
age, his comprehensive intellect turned its attention to another
domain of history, namely, to the primeval times of the East.
After his return to Coblenz, in 1808, appeared in two volumes,
his _Mythology of the Asiatic World_, a work of great
importance, which influenced considerably the ideas of both
Creuzer and Schelling. At the same time he explained northern
mythology, as contained in the Edda; cultivated the German
mediaeval muse, and enriched the literature of the Nibelung Song,
by hitherto undiscovered fragments.
While Görres was thus engaged, a great change had taken place in
France. The absolutism and godlessness of the revolution
naturally begot the unlimited despotism of Napoleon. His was not
the tyranny of mere brute force, as in the barbaric times, but a
despotism engendered by modern civilization and enlightened
egotism. Napoleon made all the forces of the revolution subserve
his will, and with them conquered all the degenerate nations of
Europe; for the corruption and infidelity of the age of Louis
XIV. and Louis XV., which caused the revolution, were more or
less extended and felt in the neighboring nations in the
eighteenth century. Hence, France was to be punished, first by
her own hands, and, through her, the other peoples were to be
chastised.
Since Christianity had destroyed the universal monarchy of Rome,
God had never allowed another to arise and destroy the autonomy
of nations, and with it the independence of the church; for both
are inseparable. What was the empire Napoleon tried to found but
the same work which the Hohenstaufens failed in accomplishing;
what was it else but an attempt to revive the old Roman pagan
sovereignty of the world? His work seemed completed; the outside
power of all the states of the continent seemed broken; within,
minds were enslaved, and, under the appearance of liberal forms,
freedom was destroyed; the sciences, the whole instruction of
youth moulded, on military principles, to aid the imperial power;
religion even became the handmaid of worldly majesty, and a mere
affair of policy; the pope himself, the last refuge of religious
liberty, was in chains, for refusing to become the court chaplain
of the new Caesar.
Thus stood matters, when the spirit of God, breathing over the
earth, destroyed the enchanter who had chained victory to his car
of triumph, and awaked the nations from the slumber of death.
That was a grand period in history, when the nations arose, and
above all Germany--Germany that had been the most enslaved and
dishonored, because she had betrayed, disgraced, and sold
herself. Peoples broke their gyves on the head of the conqueror.
The man who, at this time above all his contemporaries, felt the
chains of slavery in his very soul, and in whose heart the flames
of patriotism burned most brightly; whose genius made him the
spokesman, herald, and prophet of liberty against French
despotism, was Joseph Görres.
{500}
In the year 1814 he left his retirement, and, conscious of his
vocation by the spirit that quickened him, he spoke out for all
in the name of God and fatherland. He edited the _Mercury of
the Rhine_, a journal which has never been equalled since. As
Menzel observes, he wrote it, not with ink, but with fire; and in
a short time this newspaper, full of Görres' best essays, became
universally received as the vehicle of public opinion. Napoleon
himself felt the influence of this powerful journal, and called
the man at Coblenz the fifth of the allied powers against him. It
was in the _Mercury of the Rhine_ that Görres wrote the
"Proclamation to the Peoples of Europe," which he puts into the
mouth of Napoleon after the escape from Elba. In this
proclamation the character of the great soldier is personified
with a creative power hardly surpassed by any production of
Shakespeare's genius. [Footnote 50]
[Footnote 50: At the end of this fictitious proclamation
Napoleon is made to express himself thus: "I have conquered
the revolution, and then devoured and assimilated it to
myself, and worked through it and by its forces. But now,
tired out, I give it back to you uninjured, and spew it out
upon you. And you will continue in the condition in which I
found you; for my spirit rests upon you, though my body may
be absent." After a period of fifty-three years these words
seem still prophetic.]
It was not enough, then, to crush the Napoleonic tyranny; but it
was also necessary to renovate the European states, especially
Germany, with an infusion of Christian and national principles;
and thus connect, in an enduring relation, the rights of princes
and the nobility with the liberties of the people. It was then
the conviction of many, and of the best men, that the unity, the
freedom, and the greatness of Germany could be placed on a solid
foundation only by a reinstallment of the old empire, under which
Germany had existed and flourished for a thousand years. Of this
conviction Görres wrote in the year 1819: "A glance at the
history of the past shows us that Germany was the true guardian
and refuge of Christianity, and a bulwark against internal and
external enemies, only when its stirring, living variety was made
unity under the direction of a sole emperor. It therefore becomes
almost an instinct with many, that the stone which the builders
rejected should become the head of the corner; that the old ideas
should be revived, quickened with an infusion of young blood, and
accommodated to the march of progress." Some of the ablest men
agreed with Görres in favor of a revival of the old Roman empire,
modified according to modern notions.
This was the ideal for the realization of which Görres strove
with all the power of his genius and eloquence; while at the same
time he attacked with vigor the egotism and meanness of selfish
politics wherever he met them. On this account, as the most
independent and yet the most conservative publicist of his time,
he came into collision with both statesmen and governments. Hence
the _Mercury of the Rhine_ was suppressed; but Görres, in a
pamphlet called the _Future Condition of Germany_, still
argued for the reestablishment of the old empire. In 1817, during
the famine, he went from Heidelberg to his own home, where he
became president of a relief society, and thus was a benefactor
of the Rhine province. At the same time he found leisure to
publish _Old German Ballads and Classic Poetry._ Appointed
director of public instruction by Justus Grüner, governor of the
middle countries of the Rhine, he was soon removed from his
position by the Prussian government and offered a large pension
if he would agree to write nothing hostile to the existing order.
{501}
But money and personal interest never had the slightest influence
over Görres. By an address to the city and province of Coblenz;
and more especially by a pamphlet published in 1820, on
_Germany and the Revolution_, he drew on himself the hatred
of the prime minister Hardenberg, escaped imprisonment in a
fortress only by flight, and not being able to succeed in
obtaining a trial by the ordinary civil judges, he never more
returned to his birthplace.
He spent almost a year in Strasburg, where he occupied his
leisure, hours in translating from the Persian the epic poem of
Shah Nameh of Ferdusi. It is called _The Heroes of Ivan;_
and was published in two volumes in 1820. From Strasburg he went
to Switzerland which he travelled on foot; and from the Alpine
summits he studied and looked down upon the past and present of
Europe, and saw with a prophet's eye the history of its future.
He wrote in twenty-seven days the fruits of his meditations on
European society, and printed them under the title of _Europe
and the Revolution_. This was in 1821. Finding that all
efforts to have the decree against him revoked by Hardenberg were
vain, he wrote in 1822 his work on _The Condition and Affairs
of the Rhine Province;_ and gave a full account of his
thoughts, hopes, and resignation in another work written on the
eve of the Congress of Verona in 1822, entitled _The Holy
Alliance and the People in the Congress of Verona._ After this
he resided in Strasburg.
It cannot be denied that Görres had been carried away in his
youth by the spirit of the French revolution; and that his faith,
if not entirely destroyed, was then of a very uncertain and
slippery character. Still, we never find in him that poisonous
hate and contempt for religion and the church, which the spirit
of sect is apt to infuse into its votaries, and which renders
their minds almost impervious to truth. He was also saved by God
from moral corruption. We even perceive in his early writings
traces of that deep religious feeling which he had imbibed with
his mother's milk, and of love for the religion of his race and
fathers. In the _Mercury of the Rhine_ he often raised his
voice in defence of the rights and interests of the abused
Catholic Church. When he began to study more closely the dogmas
and history of Christianity, he learned to appreciate it better,
and grew less confident in the reigning German philosophy, which
had captivated his youth. It was not the triumph of his system,
but of truth that he sought with all the love of his heart, and
the force and clearness of his penetrating genius. When he found
truth, no one could be a more ardent and able champion of it.
There was no half-way in his character. He trampled on human
respect. Undoubtedly it was at Strasburg that he became
thoroughly catholicized. Maria Görres, the heiress of her
father's talents, thus beautifully and appropriately writes of
his religious life: "As in the legend of St. Christopher, he
would obey only the strongest; so can it be truly said of my
father that he was the slave of truth and of truth alone. With
great rectitude of heart he strove ever to attain it, and came
nearer to it as he increased in years; new prospects of it, and
new insights into it, developing gradually before his mind's eye.
Principles were not for him the limits of science, but secure
foundations on which he could build further without fear or
deceit. He never wanted to systematize truth; but rather to make
systems subservient to it.
{502}
Hence he never thought that his own discoveries were absolute
truths, or that dogmas were erroneous because they did not chime
with the result of his investigations; but sought the fault in
his own work, renewed his arduous studies until he found them
agreeing with the received doctrines, and thus discovered where
his error lay." [Footnote 51]
[Footnote 51: Görres, _Politische Schriften_,
Bd. i. p. 9 of the Preface.]
When Görres acknowledged the Catholic Church to be the church of
the living God, it was in a state of slavery and abasement in
Germany; where it was the object of a hateful and shallow
persecution fomented by Vossius, especially since the conversion
of Count Frederic Leopold Stolberg, and since the celebration of
the Reformation Jubilee in 1817.
In the year 1820, two young professors in the episcopal seminary
at Mayence, urged by an earnest faith and supernatural courage,
started _The Catholic_, a magazine intended to defend the
almost defenceless church from external attacks and internal
dangers which were threatened by the introduction of false
science into the Catholic mind. To escape the illiberal
opposition and censure of Prussia, _The Catholic_ was
published for some time at Strasburg, where Görres, then in
exile, wrote much for it in the year 1826. With his invincible
humor and sarcasm he lashed the authors of the stories told about
the formulas of excommunication in the church, exploded the
_Monita Secreta_ of the Jesuits, and scourged the
contemptible prejudices and falsehoods brought to bear against
catholicity. He raised the cry of freedom for the church; showed
her influence on the hearts of the people; portrayed in striking
colors the internal truth and moral rectitude of Catholic
principles, and taught Catholics to respect themselves, to trust
in their cause, to despise the hollow phrases of the sham
liberals, and fight their adversaries with that security which
truth alone can give to its champions.
In the mean time a favorable change took place in his external
relations. King Louis of Bavaria, a prince of great talents,
devoted to the church and fatherland, appointed Görres professor
of history in the University of Munich, A.D. 1827. Here he became
the centre of that group of distinguished Catholic thinkers whom
the king had gathered together, in order to create a powerful and
free development of the hitherto debased and despised spirit of
Catholicism. The efforts of Görres and his friends and colaborers
in Munich form a brilliant epoch in the history of the revival of
catholic life in Germany. It was for him the glorious evening of
an eventful life of battle.
The patriotic hopes and ideas of his early life were more and
more baffled, and he at last saw that any mere political efforts
are fruitless; for the decay of peoples and states is not caused
so much by political degradation, as by religious and moral
corruption. The more he dived into the history of mankind, the
more clearly did he perceive that Christianity, which brings
redemption to the individual and true freedom to the children of
God, is the only source of a people's salvation. When living
Christian faith becomes a stranger in the public and private life
of citizens; when self-interest and worldly wisdom take the place
of Christian charity and justice, then will the interest of the
ruler and the subject, of the church and state, of private wealth
and corporations, which should all conspire to the common weal,
collide, become hostile, and engender confusion and revolution.
{503}
Görres learned by experience that, since religion had lost its
authority, and the Gospel ceased to command respect, the civil
power had also lost force, and the liberty of the people had
become unstable and undefined, so that Europe wavered with
feverish restlessness between despotism and anarchy, revolution
and reaction. Men in this doubtful conflict b the egotism of
princes and the egotism of subjects, become wrapped up in the
natural and earthly, and supernatural.
Investigating the causes of this decline of Christianity, Görres
discovered that the faith of Christ is not a dead letter, but a
thing endowed with divine life; and as political and social life
has stability and force only in the state, so Christian life is
only in the church, the kingdom founded by Christ; and as a sound
social system depends on the autonomy and freedom of the state,
so religious life rests on the liberty of the church. Hence the
chief cause of the decay of religion is in the dependence and
subjection of the church to the state. The eighteenth century,
that age of tyranny and unbelief, had enslaved the church; the
revolution and Napoleon made the slavery complete. True, the
animus of the war of freedom was a religious as well as a
national one; the Holy Alliance, formed in the name of the
Trinity, proclaimed Christianity as the groundwork of politics
and popular rights; but this religious enthusiasm of 1813 and
1814, not resting on the solid basis of faith, being rather a
vague feeling than a conviction, soon cooled off, and the
Christian principles of the Holy Alliance were only written on
paper, not on the hearts and minds of the high contracting
parties. In reality, religion and church remained in the
oppressed and debased condition in which Josephism and
Napoleonism had placed them. Educated the school of the 18th
century, and under Napoleonic influence, statesmen, even after
the restoration, continued to mistrust the church, to keep her in
the leading-strings of high policy, and repress every one of her
free motions. To cap the climax of evil, the church herself,
especially in Germany, was so poor and powerless, that she could
make no valid opposition to the insulting guardianship of the
state; and even churchmen were found weak and selfish enough to
become the willing tools of the civil government in destroying
their own rights. The curse and plague of the church has ever
been cowardly or renegade churchmen. This enslavement of the
church was most oppressive and dangerous in those districts of
Germany which had been governed by catholic, and, as long as the
empire lasted, by spiritual lords, but were now controlled by
Protestant rulers. These, accustomed to Protestant teaching,
which admitted an unlimited civil surveillance in ecclesiastical
affairs, were only too willing to exercise their power over the
Catholic Church. They wished and hoped to sever her connection
with Rome; change her into a national church, and, uniting her
with Lutherans and other sectaries, form one state church. Such a
thought will not appear strange to us, if we consider that
religious indifference reigned supreme, particularly among the
educated classes. A fierce battle, not with the material sword,
but with the weapons of faith and talent, was to be fought in
order to free the church from the shackles of state control. The
standard-bearer in this great conflict was, again, Joseph Görres.
{504}
The 11th of November, 1837, marks the turning-point of the career
of the modern church in Germany. From that date it revived and
began to be independent. To Clement Augustus von
Dröste-Vischering, the great and pious Archbishop of Cologne,
belongs the glory of opening the battle, and of bearing the first
brunt of the onslaughts of the state. The civil government wished
him, in contradiction to the laws of the church, to impart her
blessing to mixed marriages; and also to give over the chairs of
theology and the education of the young clergy to the Hermesians,
whose coryphaeus, Hermes, had invented a half-way system between
faith and rationalism. Clement Augustus, the Athanasius of our
times, unarmed and alone, bravely entered the lists against the
spirit of indifferentism and the whole power of the Prussian
government. But Gregory XVI., in his memorable allocution of
December 10th, 1837, made the cause of the archbishop his own;
for it was the cause of religion, and the church. The Catholics
of the Rhine province, awakened from their slumbers, rallied with
unexpected ardor to the support of their chief pastor. But their
cause needed the aid of the press, and Görres was the man to
wield that power in their defence. He who had been standing so
long on the watch-tower, observing and noting the signs of the
times, saw that the moment had arrived to strike a blow for the
liberty of the church. In January, 1838, appeared his
_Athanasius_. It fell like a thunderbolt from an unclouded
sky among all those who had expected, with the power of the state
and an enlightened press, to make short work of the mediaeval
archbishop. It came like a ray of divine light into the minds of
the despised and intimidated Catholics, a ray that shone in their
hearts, and enkindled in them faith and courage. There now arose
in Germany a powerful catholic public opinion, which enforced
respect from its adversaries. In vain did opponents swarm.
Pietists, Hegelians, politicians, jurists, professors, and
journalists wrote against _Athanasius_, which was spread
over all Germany by four large editions. Görres answered the
critics of _Athanasius_ by another work, called _Die
Triarier_, printed in 1838, and which achieved the spiritual
victory of his first book.
The further history of this cause is known. The innocence of the
archbishop and the right of the church were acknowledged; and the
noble ruler, who then sat on the Prussian throne, confessed the
justice of the principles which Görres had so ably explained and
defended. The battle between Protestantism and Catholicity for
the future should be on even footing; carried on no longer by
force or cunning, but by spiritual weapons alone. This is all
that truth requires to disarm her enemies--a fair field and no
treachery. At the same time with the _Athanasius_ of Görres,
catholic public opinion found a vehicle in the
_Historisch-politische Blätter_, edited at Munich. Görres
was its chief of staff. His last article in this magazine, which
exercised the greatest influence throughout Germany, and which
still flourishes, appeared in the January number of 1848, shortly
before his death.
Freedom of the church is the condition of its beneficent and
working life, but not the life itself. Faith is the basis of
religious and church life; faith in the supernatural ideas and
facts of revelation, whose centre is Christ, the incarnate Son of
God and Redeemer of the world. This faith seemed to have
disappeared with the freedom of the church. Protestantism, which
began by denying the church, logically ended with a denial of the
existence of Christ. Strauss wrote his _Life of Jesus_ with
this intention.
{505}
Even among the Catholics, indifferentism, rationalism, and
infidelity had made ravages, and men asked, Where was the faith
of the Catholic populations? A striking answer to this question
was the Pilgrimage to Trier; the extraordinary spectacle of over
a million of free men attesting their living belief in Christ the
Son of God; a proof that the Catholic people despised sham
liberalism and sham enlightenment, set revolutions at defiance,
and professed the same faith as in the days of their fathers.
This was the meaning of that remarkable event, which Görres
explains in his last published pamphlet, called the _Pilgrimage
to Trier._
Görres now ceased to be a publicist. He had written countless
works; he had aided truth with word and work. No one had done
more. No one had seen so clearly into the future. He had attacked
selfishness in high and low. His enemies were countless. No man
received so much abuse as he; no one was the object of greater
hate and more fierce persecution. _Yet you will seek in vain
for one word of invective against his adversaries in any of his
works. His blood boils; his words rush; his lips quiver; his pen
runs nervously along the paper; his sentences glow and thrill in
defence of truth; but he is never abusive or personal._ He
chastises wickedness, carves iniquity with the knife of satire,
and scourges folly by his wit; but in the midst of the battle he
has ever a friendly hand to stretch out to his opponent. Would
that all our modern journalists might take a lesson from him in
this respect!
Viewing things from the standpoint of divine providence, and
having no desire but that of seeing the divine plans realized, he
was always tranquil in the midst of storms and confusion. His
writings as a publicist are consequently not merely ephemeral, or
of passing importance but contain the most profound views on the
relations of church and state, on the dogmas of religion, the
principles of philosophy, politics, and history.
But the influence of Görres was not confined to mere journalism;
he studied and developed science and art. Görres possessed
immense knowledge; yet little of it was school learning. He had
aided to free his fatherland and the church; he also helped to
free science and art from their shackles. The learned almost
despised the supernatural. The lives of the saints were looked on
as so many myths; their miracles absurd; and everything that was
not rational or natural was considered as the result of
superstition and ignorance. In order to counteract this tendency
of the age, and bring out boldly the belief in the supernatural,
Görres wrote in 1826, his _St. Francis, a Troubadour;_ in
1827, _Emmanuel Swedenborg, his Visions, and Relation to the
Church;_ an introduction to Diepenbrock's edition of the works
of Blessed Henry Suso; and in 1842, his greatest work, in five
volumes, entitled _Christian Mysticism_.
The foundation and source of all mystic theology is the
incarnation of God, the union of the divine with the human, in
order that the latter should be united with the divine. But what
took place in Christ is not merely a passing event, but a living,
enduring act of God; who continues the incarnation in the most
holy sacrament of the altar, the mystery of mysteries; through
which the wonderful life and works of Christ, according to his
promise, are continued in the saints of his church. Hence come
the supernatural phenomena of visions and ecstasies in the
corporal and spiritual life of the saints.
{506}
Görres sought to give not a bare, dry history of those marvels,
but to explain and prove them scientifically. But, as to the
kingdom of the good, of grace, and of the celestial, there is
opposed a kingdom of evil, which is controlled by the fallen
angels; Görres has also endeavored in his _Mystik_ to render
intelligible this _night-side_ of the supernatural.
"As the eyes of the Spaniards," he writes in the beginning of
this wonderful book, "on crossing the ocean, whose dangers,
unconquered for so many centuries, they had braved and escaped,
were struck with admiration and astonishment at the spectacle of
a new world, whose chains of mountains, mighty lakes, and rivers
murmuring with strange voices, primeval forests, unaccustomed
flowers, birds, beasts, and another race of men speaking a
hitherto unheard language, greeted their arrival; so will it
happen to the majority of those who cast a glance over the
marvellous world, which is here exposed to their vision; and
whose existence and comprehensibility have been unknown to them
by their own fault, and through the neglect and calumny of
others; just as the Atlantis of the ancients had been well-nigh
forgotten through the inattention of mankind. I call it a world
of marvels, and, as no one will contradict this assertion, I
further ask, When has a book appeared in these later days, which,
leaving higher considerations aside, has, in the interests of
science alone, sought to explain such a variety of the most
remarkable and important events; facts, acts, and experiences
which give us an insight into the interior recesses of the soul;
which lay open its most hidden nature, and throw the greatest
light on metaphysiology and metapsychology? These materials have
lain scattered about publicly, yet no one has thought it worth
while to stoop down and collect them. In vain has the rich
harvest presented its nodding ears, no one would take the trouble
to apply the sickle. For the learned put their heads together and
decided that the miraculous phenomena were all false, mere
jugglery, or the hallucinations of superstitious imaginations;
and that it would be ridiculous and contemptible in any one even
to give them a thought."
Another remarkable writing of Görres is his introduction to the
_Life of Christ_, composed against Strauss by Sepp. His
historical works while occupying the chair of professor of
history were few. In 1830, appeared his _Basis, Connection,_
and _Chronology of the History of the World;_ in 1844, he
printed _The Sons of Japhet and their Common Origin in
Armenia,_ in which he tried to clear up the difficulties of
the Mosaic account of the races of men; and in 1845, came forth
from the press, _The Three Roots of the Celtic Race in Gaul,
and their Immigrations._ He had conceived the idea of
composing a universal history; but he never accomplished this
intention.
Wolfgang Menzel, one of the ablest of German critics, in his
_History of Literature,_ p. 157, thus ably judges the
character of Görres as a writer: "I know not what better
expresses the character of his mind than to compare it to the
Strasburg Minster or the Cathedral of Cologne. It is said that
Winckelmann was an interior artist, and Tieck an internal
tragedian; so Görres may be called an interior architect. At
least all his writings, by their logical design and their
gorgeous ornaments of imagination, remind us of the art of
Ervinius. In all his works of natural philosophy, of mythology,
politics, and history, we perceive the deep feeling and reverie
of the Gothic mason.
{507}
Görres's works are to be aesthetically regarded as churches
wonderfully planned, thoroughly executed from deep foundations to
spire-top; rich and finished masterpieces; but entirely distinct
and different from other creations of the human mind by their
Christian, holy, and ecclesiastical character. Hence arises their
unpopularity in our time. Those who are able to understand and
love art, as a rule, admire only the superficial, and are
incapable of fathoming the depth of a work of Görres, and
comprehending, in all its grandeur and vastness, his spiritual
architecture. Even persons who have genius enough to think deeply
are inspired by too profane a spirit to contemplate properly and
feel the force of Görres' writings, which the incense of the holy
of holies is ever wreathing with its delicious aroma. The
literati, therefore, call him bombastic; and the philosophists
say he is mystical; and thus one of the richest and deepest
intellects of the nation remains a stranger to them, if not
actually an object of their contempt." Thus Menzel.
The last observation is not, however, entirely true. As Catholic
Germany awakes from its lethargy, and rises gradually higher over
the materialism and frivolity of the present, bringing with it
again into notice the lofty and eternal ideas of religion and
history, recalling the glories of its artistic days, attested by
its grand monasteries and cathedrals, the fame of Görres will
grow, his merits be disclosed, his mind and services be better
appreciated. Men will say of him in the future what he himself
has written of the architect of the Cathedral of Cologne in his
little book on _The Cathedral of Cologne and the Minster of
Strasburg:_ "The Cathedral of Cologne is the work of one of
the greatest minds that ever left a trace of its power on earth.
The dizzy height of the building, which we cannot contemplate
without awe, gives us an idea of the profundity of the genius
that planned it. In the conceiver of such a work were
harmoniously blended the most singular and exceptional mental
faculties. A creative imagination, productive as nature, which
takes pleasure in the generation of manifold forms of being;
power of intellect, which penetrates the very essence of things,
and comprehends the whole ideal realm without effort; a clearness
of apprehension, which, like a flash, lays bare the darkest
objects; a reason which grasps the relation of things with
perspicuity; arranging with ease their synthetic and analytic
connections; finally, a deep feeling and sentiment of the
beautiful, of the most pure and exalted character; all united to
make their possessor capable for his undertaking. Besides, had he
succeeded in completing it, he must have possessed a persevering
will, a most extensive technical knowledge of the arts and
trades; and an amount of practical knowledge which alone would
make him an extraordinary genius." Görres, in thus describing the
architect of the Cologne Cathedral, leaves us his own portrait.
The private life of Görres was free from blame; and in this
regard he is a model among so many distinguished men, who are not
always free from reproach in their domestic relations. Even his
youth was marked by no follies. His domestic life was pure, and
he brought up his children not only with a high intellectual
training, but also in the fear of God and in the principles of
Christian morality.
{508}
His house was the picture of a German farmer's. It was open to
every good man, and closed only to the wicked and false. Its
master was pleasant, jovial, and fond of gayety and innocent
amusement. Görres was not a mere theoretical Catholic; but a true
son of the church in his practical conduct, full of piety and
Christian charity. He was generous to the poor and needy. He
feared God, loved the church, and obeyed the pope. He was
edifying at divine service, assisted daily at the holy sacrifice,
and received holy communion frequently.
He was a short, thick-set man, able to bear labor and fatigue.
Always healthy, he had hardly ever spent a day in bed. He had a
broad brow and brilliant eyes. His hair was auburn, streaked with
grey in his old age, hanging loosely about his head, so that
Clement Brentano compared his appearance to that of an old lion
shaking and pulling his mane caught in the bars of his cage.
Görres died as he had lived, well, pious, and happy. It is a
remarkable fact, that great men have at last often to undergo
great trials. Moses died before entering the promised land; Peter
and Paul, in the midst of a fierce persecution excited against
the young church they had founded; St. Augustine, while African
Christianity was being destroyed by the Vandals; Gregory VII.,
dying, exclaimed, "I have loved justice and hated iniquity,
therefore do I die in exile." In our time, O'Connell saw his
beloved island a prey to famine, while he breathed his last far
away from her. Görres, too, saw all that he had contended for
well-nigh ruined, and the labor of years appeared to be in vain.
Eight days before his death, he took to his bed, and received the
blessed Eucharist. On January 25th, 1848, his children and
friends celebrated his seventy-second birthday. He received holy
communion again two days before his departure, which took place
on January 29th, at half-past six in the morning, whilst his
children and friends knelt at his bedside repeating the Litany
for the dying; and while his friend and pupil, Professor
Haneberg, was saying Mass for him. A letter, written just after
his death by an eye-witness, contains this passage: "The corpse
was beautiful. It became like alabaster. The head, face, and
broad brow were calm, clear, and peaceful, as if freed from the
cares of this life, and awaiting the resurrection of the just."
Thus died, uttering holy sentiments, one of the greatest
intellects of this or any other age.
An extraordinary remark of Görres, just before his death, is
preserved. His mind wandered among the scenes of his former
studies, and, recalling the dead nations of history, he said,
"_Let us pray for the peoples that are no more!_"
Görres has been frequently called the O'Connell of Catholic
Germany. There is some truth in the parallel. It is true he could
not address a hundred thousand of his countrymen from the
rostrum; yet his _Mercury of the Rhine_ and his
_Athanasius_ could effect as much as his living voice. He
was not, like O'Connell, the recognized leader of his people; yet
all good men regarded him as their master; and all who had
witnessed his patriotism in 1814, and his faith in 1837, trusted
him as Ireland did her O'Connell. O'Connell's work was indeed
more rapid and exciting in the present; but more efficacious in
the future was what Görres had done, and more fruitful the seed
which he planted.
{509}
Görres had not to free the Catholics of Germany from a yoke, such
as England had put over the neck of her sister isle; still he was
a real liberator, a liberator of Germans from foreign manners;
for every nation is ordained of God, and it is a shame and a
disgrace, by aping foreign manners, to deny the fatherland to
which we belong by speech and nativity; a liberator of the church
from state tutelage, which injured the civil as well as the
ecclesiastical power; a liberator of the sciences from the
shackles of rationalism and infidelity; a liberator of the
catholic spirit and of catholic self-consciousness from the
slumber of indifferentism and the chains of the spirit of the
age; an agitator and excitator was he in the cause of truth and
virtue; he dragged Catholic Germany out of the miry dungeon of
pusillanimity, taught her self-respect, and made the blood, which
had been stagnant, flow again in her veins. As O'Connell loved
his country, his church, and liberty, so did Görres; especially
that true liberty which is as distinct from the false as God is
from idols. May Germany and the church never want geniuses like
Görres in their need; and may God send a shower of such men to
our own United States!
--------
Nature And Grace.
In the article on _Rome and the World_ in the Magazine for
November last, it was shown that there is an irrepressible
conflict between the spirit which dominates in the world and that
which reigns in the church, or the antagonism which there is and
must be between Christ and Satan, the law of life and the law of
death; and every one who has attempted to live in strict
obedience to the law of God has found that he has to sustain an
unceasing warfare between the spirit and the flesh, between the
law of the mind and the law in the members. We see the right, we
approve it, we resolve to do it, and do it not. We are drawn away
from it by the seductions of the flesh, our appetites, passions,
and carnal affections, so that the good we would do, we do not,
and the evil we would not, that we do. This, which is really a
struggle in our own bosom between the higher nature and the
lower, is sometimes regarded as a struggle between nature and
grace, and taken as a proof that our nature is evil, and that
between it and grace there is an inherent antagonism which can be
removed only by the destruction either of nature by grace, or of
grace by nature. Antagonism there certainly is between the spirit
of Christ and the spirit of the world, and in the bosom of the
individual between the spirit and the flesh. This antagonism must
last as long as this life lasts, for the carnal mind is not
subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be; but this
implies no antagonism between the law of grace and the law of
nature; for there is, as St. Paul assures us, "no condemnation to
them who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not according to the
flesh." (Rom. viii. 1.) Nor does this struggle imply that our
nature is evil or has been corrupted by the fall; for the Council
of Trent has defined that the flesh indeed inclines to sin, but
is not itself sin. It remains even after baptism, and renders the
combat necessary through life; but they who resist it and walk
after the spirit are not sinners, because they retain it, feel
its motions, and are exposed to its seductions.
{510}
All evil originates in the abuse of good, for God has never made
anything evil. We have suffered and suffer from original sin; we
have lost innocence, the original righteousness in which we were
constituted, the gifts originally added thereto, or the integrity
of our nature--as immunity from disease and death, the subjection
of the body to the soul, the inferior soul to the higher--and
fallen into a disordered or abnormal state; but our nature has
undergone no entitative or physical change or corruption, and it
is essentially now what it was before the fall. It retains all
its original faculties, and these all retain their original
nature. The understanding lacks the supernatural light that
illumined it in the state of innocence; but it is still
understanding, and still operates and can operate only _ad
veritatem;_ free-will, as the Council of Trent defines, has
been enfeebled, attenuated, either positively in itself by being
despoiled of its integrity and of its supernatural endowment, or
negatively by the greater obstacles in the appetites and passions
it has to overcome; but it is free-will still, and operates and
can operate only _propter bonitatem_. We can will only good,
or things only in the respect that they are good, and only for
the reason they are good. We do not and cannot will evil as evil,
or for the sake of evil. The object and only object of the
intellect is truth, the object and only object of the will is
good, as it was before the prevarication of Adam or original sin.
Even our lower nature, _concupiscentia_, in which is the
_fomes peccati_, is still entitatively good, and the due
satisfaction of all its tendencies is useful and necessary in the
economy of human life. Food and drink are necessary to supply the
waste of the body and to maintain its health and strength. Every
natural affection, passion, appetite, or tendency points to a
good of some sort, which cannot be neglected without greater or
less injury; nor is the sensible pleasure that accompanies the
gratification of our nature in itself evil, or without a good and
necessary end. Where, then, is the evil, and in what consists the
damage done to our nature by original sin? The damage, aside from
the _culpa_, or sin and consequent loss of communion with
God, is in the disorder introduced, the abnormal development of
the flesh or the appetites and passions consequent on their
escape from the control of reason, their fall under Satanic
influence, and the ignoble slavery, when they became dominant, to
which they reduce reason and free-will as ministers of their
pleasure. All the tendencies of our nature have each its special
end, which each seeks without respect for the special ends of the
others; and hence, if not restrained by reason within the bounds
of moderation and sobriety, they run athwart one another, and
introduce into the bosom of the individual disorder and anarchy,
whence proceed the disorder and anarchy, the tyranny and
oppression, the wars and fightings in society. The appetites and
passions are all despotic and destitute of reason, each seeking
blindly and with all its force its special gratification; and the
evil is in the struggle of each for the mastery of the others,
and in their tendency to make reason and free-will their
servants, or to bring the superior soul into bondage to the
inferior, as is said, when we say of a man, "He is the slave of
his appetites," or "the slave of his passions," so that we are
led to prefer a present and temporary good, though smaller, to a
distant future and eternal beatitude, though infinitely greater.
{511}
Hence, under their control we not only are afflicted with
internal disorder and anarchy, but we come to regard the pleasure
that accompanies the gratification of our sensitive appetites and
passions as the real and true end of life. We eat and drink, not
in order to live, but we live in order to eat and drink. We make
sensual pleasure our end, the motive of our activity and the
measure of our progress. Hence we are carnal men, sold under sin,
follow the carnal mind, which is antagonistic to the spiritual
mind, or to reason and will, which, though they do in the carnal
man the bidding of the flesh, never approve it, nor mistake what
the flesh craves for the true end of man.
The antagonism here is antagonism between the spirit and the
flesh, not an antagonism between nature and grace--certainly not
between the law of nature and the law of grace. The law of nature
is something very different from the natural laws of the
physicists, which are simply physical laws. Transcendentalists,
humanitarians, and naturalists confound these physical laws with
what theologians call the natural law as distinguished from the
revealed law, and take as their rule of morals the maxim, "Follow
nature," that is, follow one's own inclinations and tendencies.
They recognize no real difference between the law of obedience
and the law of gravitation, and allow no distinction between
physical laws and moral law. Hence for them there is a physical,
but no moral order. The law of nature, as recognized by
theologians and moralists, is a moral law, not a physical law, a
law which is addressed to reason and free-will, and demands
motives, not simply a mover. It is called natural because it is
promulgated by the Supreme Lawgiver through natural reason,
instead of supernatural revelation, and is, at least in a
measure, known to all men; for all men have reason, and a natural
sense of right and wrong, and, therefore, a conscience.
Natural reason is able to attain to the full knowledge of the
natural law, but, as St. Thomas maintains, only in the
_élite_ of the race. For the bulk of mankind a revelation is
necessary to give them an adequate knowledge even of the precepts
of the natural law; but as in some men it can be known by reason
alone, it is within the reach of our natural faculties, and
therefore properly called natural. Not that nature is the source
from which it derives its legal character, but the medium of its
promulgation.
The law of grace or the revealed law presupposes the natural
law--_gratia supponit naturam_--and however much or little
it contains that surpasses it, it contains nothing that
contradicts, abrogates, or overrides it. The natural law itself
requires that all our natural appetites, passions, and tendencies
be restrained within the bounds of moderation, and subordinated
to a moral end or the true end of man, the great purpose of his
existence; and even Epicurus, who makes pleasure the end of our
existence, our supreme good, requires, at least theoretically,
the lower nature to be indulged only with sobriety and
moderation. His error is not so much in the indulgence he allowed
to the sensual or carnal nature, which he was as well aware as
others, needs the restraints of reason and will, as in placing
the supreme good in the pleasure that accompanies the
gratification of nature, and in giving as the reason or motive of
the restraint, not the will of God, but the greater amount and
security of natural pleasure. The natural law not only commands
the restraint, but forbids us to make the pleasure the supreme
good, or the motive of the restraint.
{512}
It places the supreme good in the fulfilment of the real purpose
of our existence, makes the proper motive justice or right, not
pleasure, and commands us to subordinate inclination to duty as
determined by reason or the law itself. It requires the lower
nature to move in subordination to the higher, and the higher to
act always in reference to the ultimate end of man, which, we
know even from reason itself, is God, the final as well as the
first cause of all things. The revealed law and the natural law
here perfectly coincide, and there is no discrepancy between
them. If, then, we understand by nature the law of nature,
natural justice and equity, or what we know or may know naturally
is reasonable and just, there is no contrariety between nature
and grace, for grace demands only what nature herself demands.
The supposed war of grace against nature is only the war of
reason and free-will against appetite, passion, and inclination,
which can be safely followed only when restrained within proper
bounds. The crucifixion or annihilation of nature, which
Christian asceticism enjoins, is a moral, not a physical
crucifixion or annihilation; the destruction of pleasure as our
motive or end. No physical destruction of anything natural, nor
physical change in anything natural, is demanded by grace or
Christian perfection. The law of grace neither forbids nor
diminishes the pleasure that accompanies the satisfaction of
nature; it only forbids our making it our good, an end to be
lived for. When the saints mortify the flesh, chastise the body,
or sprinkle with ashes their mess of bitter herbs, it is to
maintain inward freedom, to prevent pleasure from gaining a
mastery over them, and becoming a motive of action, or perhaps
oftener from a love of sacrifice, and the desire to share with
Christ in his sufferings to redeem the world. We all of us, if we
have any sympathies, feel an invincible repugnance to feasting
and making merry when our friends, those we tenderly love, are
suffering near us, and the saints see always the suffering
Redeemer, Christ in his agony in the garden and on the cross,
before their eyes, him whom they love deeply, tenderly, with the
whole heart and soul.
But though the law of nature and the law of grace really
coincide, we have so suffered from original sin, that we cannot,
by our unassisted natural strength, perfectly keep even the law
of nature. The law of nature requires us to love God with our
whole heart and with our whole soul, and with all our strength
and with all our mind, and our neighbor as ourselves. This law,
though not above our powers in integral nature, is above them in
our fallen or abnormal state. Grace is the supernatural
assistance given us through Jesus Christ to deliver us from the
bondage of Satan and the flesh, and to enable us to fulfil this
great law. This is what is sometimes called medicinal grace; and
however antagonistic it may be to the moral disorder introduced
by original sin and aggravated by actual sin, it is no more
antagonistic to nature itself than is the medicine administered
by the physician to the body to enable it to throw off a disease
too strong for it, and to recover its health. What assists
nature, aids it to keep the law and attain to freedom and normal
development, cannot be opposed to nature or in any manner hurtful
to it.
Moreover, grace is not merely medicinal, nor simply restricted to
repairing the damage done by original sin. Where sin abounded,
grace superabounds.
{513}
Whether, if man had not sinned, God would have become incarnate
or not is a question which we need not raise here, any more than
the question whether God could or could not, congruously with his
known attributes, have created man in what the theologians call
the state of pure nature, as he is now born, _seclusa ratione
culpae et paenae_, and therefore for a natural beatitude; for
it is agreed on all hands that he did not so create him, and that
the incarnation is not restricted in its intention or effect to
the simple redemption of man from sin, original or actual, and
his restoration to the integrity of his nature, lost by the
prevarication of Adam. All schools teach that as a matter of fact
the incarnation looks higher and farther, and is intended to
elevate man to a supernatural order of spiritual life, and to
secure him a supernatural beatitude, a life and beatitude to
which his nature alone is not adequate.
Man regarded in the present decree of God has not only his origin
in the supernatural, but also his last end or final cause. He
proceeds from God as first cause, and returns to him as final
cause. The oriental religions, the Egyptian, Hindu, Chinese, and
the Buddhist, etc., all say as much, but fall into the error of
making him proceed from God by way of emanation, generation,
formation, or development, and his return to him as final cause,
absorption in him, as the stream in the fountain, or the total
loss of individuality, which, instead of being perfect beatitude
in God, is absolute personal annihilation. But these religions
have originated in a truth which they misapprehend, pervert, or
travesty. Man, both Christian faith and sound philosophy teach
us, proceeds from God as first cause by way of creation proper,
and returns to him as final cause without absorption in him or
loss of individuality. God creates man, not indeed an
independent, but a substantive existence, capable of acting from
his own centre as a second cause; and however intimate may be his
relation with God, he is always distinguishable from him, and can
no more be confounded with him as his final cause than he can be
confounded with him as his first cause. Not only the race but the
individual man returns to God, and finds in him his supreme good,
and individually united to him, through the Word made flesh,
enjoys personally in him an infinite beatitude.
God alike as first cause and as final cause is supernatural. And
man therefore can neither exist nor find his beatitude without
the intervention of the supernatural. He can no more rise to a
supernatural beatitude or beatitude in God without the
supernatural act of God, than he could begin to exist without
that act. The natural is created and finite, and can be no medium
of the infinite or supernatural. Man, as he is in the present
decree of God, cannot obtain his end, rise to his supreme good or
beatitude, without a supernatural medium. This medium in relation
to the end, or in the teleological order, is the Word made flesh,
God incarnate, Jesus Christ, the only mediator between God and
men. Jesus Christ is not only the medium of our redemption from
sin and the consequences of the fall, but of our elevation to the
plane of a supernatural destiny, and perfect beatitude in the
intimate and eternal possession of God, who is both our good and
the Good in itself. This is a higher, an infinitely greater good
than man could ever have attained to by his natural powers even
in a state of integral nature, or if he had not sinned, and had
had no need of a Redeemer; and hence the apostle tells us where
sin abounded grace superabounded, and the church sings on Holy
Saturday, _O felix culpa_. The incarnate Word is the medium
of this superabounding good, as the Father is its principle and
the Holy Ghost its consummator.
{514}
Whether grace is something created, as St. Thomas maintains, and
as would seem to follow from the doctrine of infused virtues
asserted by the Council of Trent, or the direct action of the
Holy Ghost within us, as was held by Petrus Lombardus, the Master
of Sentences, it is certain that the medium of all grace given to
enable us to attain to beatitude is the Incarnation, and hence is
termed by theologians _gratia Christi_, and distinguishable
from the simple _gratia Dei_, which is bestowed on man in
the initial order, or order of genesis, commonly the natural
order, because its explication is by natural generation, and not
as the teleological order, by the election of grace. The grace of
Christ by which our nature is elevated to the plane of the
supernatural, and enabled to attain to a supernatural end or
beatitude, cannot be opposed to nature, or in any sense
antagonistic to nature. Nature is not denied or injured because
its author prepares for it a greater, an infinitely greater than
a natural or created good, to which no created nature by its own
powers, however exalted, could ever attain. Men may doubt if such
a good remains for those who love our Lord Jesus Christ and by
his grace follow him in the regeneration, but nobody can pretend
that the proffer of such good, and the gift of the means to
attain it, can be any injury or slight to nature.
There is no doubt that in the flesh which resists grace, because
grace would subordinate it to reason and free-will, but this,
though the practical difficulty, is not the real dialectic
difficulty which men feel in the way of accepting the Christian
doctrine of grace. Men object to it on the ground that it
substitutes grace for nature, and renders nature good for nothing
in the Christian or teleological order--the order of return to
God as our last end or final cause. We have anticipated and
refuted this objection in condemning the pantheistic doctrine of
the orientals, and by maintaining that the return to God is
without absorption in him, or loss of our individuality or
distinct personality.
The beatitude which the regenerate soul attains to in God by the
grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is the beatitude of that very
individual soul that proceeds, by way of creation, from God. The
saints by being blest in God are not lost in him, but retain in
glory their original human nature and their identical personal
existence. This the church plainly teaches in her _cultus
sanctorum_. She invokes the saints in heaven, and honors them
as individuals distinct from God, and as distinct personalities;
and hence, she teaches us that the saints are sons of God only by
adoption, and, though living by and in the Incarnate Word, are
not themselves Christ, or the Word made flesh. In the
Incarnation, the human personality was absorbed or superseded by
the divine personality, so that the human nature assumed had a
divine but no human personality. The Word assumed human nature,
not a human person. Hence the error of the Nestorians and
Adoptionists, and also of those who in our own times are willing
to call Mary the mother of Christ, but shrink from calling her
[Greek text], or the Mother of God. But in the saints, who are
not hypostatically united to the Word, human nature not only
remains unchanged, but retains its human personality; and the
saints are as really men, as really human persons in glory, as
they were while in the flesh, and are the same human persons that
they were before either regeneration or glorification.
{515}
The church, by her _cultus sanctorum_, teaches us to regard
the glorified saints as still human persons, and to honor them as
human persons, who by the aid of grace have merited the honor we
give them. We undoubtedly honor God in his saints as well as in
all his works of nature or of grace; but this honor of God in his
works is that of _latria_, and is not that which is rendered
to the saints. In the _cultus sanctorum_, we not only honor
him in his works, but we also honor the saints themselves for
their own personal worth, acquired not, indeed, without grace,
but still acquired by them, and is as much theirs as if it had
been acquired by their unassisted natural powers; for our natural
powers are from God as first cause, no less than grace itself,
only grace is from him through the Incarnation. You say, it is
objected, that grace supposes nature, _gratia supponit
naturam_, yet St. Paul calls the regeneration a new creation,
and the regenerated soul a new creature. Very true; yet he says
this not because the nature given in generation is destroyed or
superseded in regeneration, but because regeneration no more than
generation can be initiated or sustained without the divine
creative act; because generation can never become of itself
regeneration, or make the first motion toward it. Without the
divine regenerative act we cannot enter upon our teleological or
spiritual life, but must remain for ever in the order of
generation, and infinitely below our destiny, as is the case with
the reprobate or those who die unregenerate. But it is the person
born of Adam that is regenerated, that is translated into the
kingdom of God's dear Son, and that is the recipient of
regenerating, persevering, and glorifying grace. This is the
point we insist on; for, if so, the objection that grace destroys
or supersedes nature is refuted. The whole of Catholic theology
teaches that grace assists nature, but does not create or
substitute a new nature, as is evident from the fact that it
teaches that in regeneration even we must concur with grace, that
we can resist it, and after regeneration lose all that grace
confers, apostatize from the faith, and fall even below the
condition of the unregenerate. This would be impossible, if we
did not retain our nature as active in and after regeneration. In
this life it is certain that regeneration is a moral, a
spiritual, not a physical change, and that our reason and will
are emancipated from the bondage of sin, and are simply enabled
to act from a higher plane and gain a higher end than it could
unassisted; but it is the natural person that is enabled and that
acts in gaining the higher end. Grace, then, does not in this
life destroy or supersede nature, and the authorized
_cultus_ of the saints proves that it does not in the
glorified saint or life to come.
The same conclusion follows from the fact that regeneration only
fulfils generation. "I am not come," said our Lord, "to destroy,
but to fulfil." The creative act, completed, as to the order of
procession of existences from God, in the Incarnation or
hypostatic union, which closes the initial order and institutes
the teleological, includes both the procession of existences from
God and their return to him. It is completed, fulfilled, and
consummated only in regeneration and glorification. If the nature
that proceeds from God is changed or superseded by grace, the
creative act is not fulfilled, for that which proceeds from God
does not return to him.
{516}
The initial man must himself return, or with regard to him the
creative act remains initial and incomplete. In the first order,
man is only initial or inchoate, and is a complete, a perfect man
only when he has returned to God as his final cause. To maintain
that it is not this initial man that returns, but, if the
supposition be possible, another than he, or something
substituted for him, and that has not by way of creation
proceeded from God, would deny the very purpose and end of the
Incarnation, and the very idea of redemption, regeneration, and
glorification, the grace of Christ, and leave man without any
means of redemption or deliverance from sin, or of fulfilling his
destiny--the doom of the damned in hell. The destruction or
change of man's nature is the destruction of man himself, the
destruction of his identity, his human personality; yet St. Paul
teaches, Rom. viii. 30, that the persons called are they who are
redeemed and glorified: "Whom he predestinated, them also he
called; and whom he called, them also he justified; and whom he
justified, them also he glorified."
We can, indeed, do nothing in relation to our end without the
grace of Christ; but, with that grace freely given and
strengthening us, it is equally certain that we can work, and
work even meritoriously, or else how could heaven be promised us
as a reward? Yet it is so promised: "He that cometh to God must
believe that he is, and is the rewarder of them that seek him."
(Heb. xi. 6.) Moses "looked to the reward;" David had respect to
the divine "retributions;" and all Christians, as nearly all
heathen, believe in a future state of rewards and punishments. We
are exhorted to flee to Christ and obey him that we may escape
hell and gain heaven. The grace by which we are born again and
are enabled to merit is unquestionably gratuitous, for grace is
always gratuitous, _omnino gratis_, as say the theologians,
and we can do nothing to merit it, no more than we could do
something to merit our creation from nothing; but though
gratuitous, a free gift of God, grace is bestowed on or infused
into a subject already existing in the order of generation or
natural order, and we can act by it, and can and do, if faithful
to it, merit heaven or eternal life. Hence says the apostle,
"Work out your salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God
that worketh in you both to will and to do, or to accomplish."
(Philip, ii. 12.) But this no more implies that the willing and
doing in the order of regeneration are not ours than that our
acting in the order of nature is not ours because we can even in
that order act, whether for good or for evil, only by the divine
concurrence.
The heterodox confound the gift of grace by which we are able to
merit the reward with the reward itself; hence they maintain,
because we can merit nothing without grace, that we can merit
nothing even with it, and that we are justified by faith alone,
which is the free gift of God, conferred on whom he wills, and
that grace is irresistible, and once in grace we are always in
grace. But St. James tells us that we are "justified by our
works, and not by faith only, for faith without works is dead."
(St. James ii. 14-25.) Are we who work by grace and merit the
reward the same _we_ that prior to regeneration sinned and
were under wrath? Is it we who by the aid of grace merit the
reward, or is it the grace in us? If the grace itself, how can it
be said that we are rewarded? If the reward is given not to us
who sinned, but to the new person or new nature into which grace
is said to change us, how can it be said that _we_ either
merit or are rewarded?
{517}
Man has his specific nature, and if you destroy or change that
specific nature, you annihilate him as man, instead of aiding his
return to God as his final cause. The theologians treat grace not
as a new nature or a new faculty bestowed on nature, but as a
_habitus_, or habit, an infused habit indeed, not an
acquired habit, but none the less a habit on that account, which
changes not, transforms not nature, but gives it, as do all
habits, a power or facility of doing what without it would exceed
its strength. The subject of the habit is the human soul, and
that which acts by, under, or with the habit is also the human
soul, not the habit. The soul, as before receiving it, is the
actor, but it acts with an increased strength, and does what
before it could not; yet its nature is simply strengthened, not
changed. The general idea of _habit_ must be preserved
throughout. The personality is not in the habit, but in the
rational nature of him into whom the habit is infused by the Holy
Ghost. In our Lord there are the two natures; but in him the
divine personality assumes the human nature, and is always the
subject acting, whether acting in the human nature or in the
divine. In the regenerated there are also the human and the
divine; but the human, if I may so speak, assumes the divine, and
retains from first to last its own personality, as is implied in
the return to God without absorption in him or loss of personal
individuality, and in the fact that, though without grace, we
cannot concur with grace, yet by the aid of grace we can and must
concur with it the moment we come to the use of reason, or it is
not effectual. The sacraments are, indeed, efficacious _ex
opere operato_, not by the faith or virtue of the recipient,
but only in case the will, as in infants, opposes no obstacle to
the grace they signify. Yet even in infants the concurrence of
the will is required when they come to the use of reason, and the
refusal to elicit the act loses the habit infused by baptism. The
baptized infant must concur with grace as soon as capable of a
rational act.
The heterodox who are exclusive supernaturalists, because we
cannot without grace concur with grace, deny that the concurrence
is needed, and assert that grace is irresistible and overcomes
all resistance, and, as _gratia victrix_, subjects the will.
Hence they hold that, in faith, regeneration, justification,
sanctification, nature does nothing, and all that is done is done
by sovereign grace even in spite of nature; but the fact on which
they rely is not sufficient to sustain their theory. The
schoolmen, for the convenience of teaching, divide and subdivide
grace till we are in danger of losing sight of its essential
unity. They tell us of prevenient grace, or the grace that goes
before and excites the will of assisting grace, the grace that
aids the will when excited to elect to concur with grace; and
efficacious grace, the grace that renders the act of concurrence
effectual. But these three graces are really one and the same
grace, and the _gratia praeveniens_, when not resisted,
becomes immediately _gratia adjuvans_, and aids the will to
concur with grace, and, if concurred with, it becomes, _ipso
facto_ and immediately, _gratia efficax_. It needs no
grace to resist grace, and none, it would seem to follow from the
freedom of the will, _not_ to resist it. Freedom of the
will, according to the decision of the church in the case of the
_gratia victrix_ of the Jansenists, implies the power to
will the contrary, and, if free to resist it, why not free not to
resist?
{518}
There is, it seems to us, a real distinction between not willing
to resist and willing to concur. Nothing in nature compels or
forces the will to resist, for its natural operation is to the
good, as that of the intellect is to the true. The grace excites
it to action, and, if it do not will to resist, the grace is
present to assist it to elect to comply. If this be tenable, and
we see not why it is not, both the aid of grace and the freedom
and activity of the will are asserted, are saved, are harmonized,
and the soul is elevated into the order of regeneration without
any derogation either from nature or from grace, or lesion to
either.
We are well aware of the old question debated in Catholic
schools, whether grace is to be regarded as _auxilium quod_
or as _auxilium quo_; but it is not necessary either to
inquire what was the precise sense of the question debated, or to
enter into any discussion of its merits, for both schools held
the Catholic faith, which asserts the freedom of the will, and
both held that grace is _auxilium_, and therefore an aid
given to nature, not its destruction, nor its change into
something else. The word _auxilium_, or aid, says of itself
all that we are contending for. St. Paul says, indeed, when
reluctantly comparing his labors with those of the other
apostles, that he had labored more abundantly than they all, but
adds, "Yet not I, but the grace of God with me." But he
recognizes himself, for he says, "grace with _me_;" and his
sense is easily explained by what he says in a passage already
quoted, namely, "Work out your own salvation; for it is God that
worketh in you to will and to do," or to accomplish, and also by
what he says in the text itself, (1 Cor. xv. 1,) "By the grace of
God, I am what I am;" which has primary reference to his calling
to be an apostle. God by his grace works in us to will and to do,
and we can will or do nothing in relation to our final end, as
has been explained, without his grace; but, nevertheless, it is
_we_ who will and do. Hence St. Paul could say to St.
Timothy, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith. For the rest, there is laid up for me a
crown of justice, which the Lord, the just Judge, will render to
me at that day: and not to me only, but to them also who love his
coming." (2 Tim. iv. 7, 8.) Here St. Paul speaks of himself as
the actor and as the recipient of the crown. St. Augustine says
that God, in crowning the saints, "crowns his own gifts," but
evidently means that he crowns them for what they have become by
his gifts; and, as it is only by virtue of his gifts that they
have become worthy of crowns, their glory redounds primarily to
him, and only in a subordinate sense to themselves. There is, in
exclusive supernaturalists and exaggerated ascetics, an
unsuspected pantheism, no less sophistical and uncatholic than
the pantheism of our pseudo-ontologists. The characteristic mark
of pantheism is not simply the denial of creation, but the denial
of the creation of substances capable of acting as second causes.
In the order of regeneration as in the order of generation we are
not indeed primary, but are really secondary causes; and the
denial of this fact, and the assertion of God as the direct and
immediate actor from first to last, is pure pantheism. This is as
true in the order of regeneration as in the order of generation,
though in the order of grace it is thought to be a proof of
piety, when, in fact, it denies the very subject that can be
pious. Count de Maistre somewhere says, "The worst error against
grace is that of asserting too much grace."
{519}
We must exist, and exist as second causes, to be the recipients
of grace, or to be able even with grace to be pious toward God,
or the subject of any other virtue. In the regeneration we
_do_ by the aid of grace, but we are, nevertheless, the
doers, whence it follows that regeneration no more than
generation is wholly supernatural. Regeneration supposes
generation, takes it up to itself and completes it, otherwise the
first Adam would have no relation to the second Adam, and man
would find no place in the order of regeneration, which would be
the more surprising since the order itself originates in the
Incarnation, in the God-Man, who is its Alpha and Omega, its
beginning and end.
Many people are, perhaps, misled on this subject by the habit of
restricting the word _natural_ exclusively to the procession
of existences from God and what pertains to the initial order of
creation, and the word _supernatural_ to the return of
existences to God as their last end, and the means by which they
return or attain that end and complete the cycle of existence or
the creative act. The procession is initial, the return is
teleological. The initial is called natural, because it is
developed and carried on by natural generation; the teleological
is called supernatural, because it is developed and carried on by
grace, and the election by grace takes the place of hereditary
descent. This is well enough, except when we have to deal with
persons who insist on separating--not simply distinguishing, but
separating, the natural and the supernatural, and on denying
either the one or the other. But, in reality, what we ordinarily
call the natural is not wholly natural, nor what we call the
supernatural is wholly supernatural. Strictly speaking, the
supernatural is God himself and what he does with no other medium
than his own eternal Word, that is, without any created medium,
or agency of second causes; the natural is that which is created
and what God does through the medium of second causes or created
agencies, called by physicists natural laws. Thus, creation is a
supernatural fact, because effected immediately by God himself;
generation is a natural fact, because effected by God mediately
by natural laws or second causes; the hypostatic union, or the
assumption of flesh by the Word, which completes the creative act
in the initial order and institutes the teleological or final
order, is supernatural; all the operations of grace are
supernatural, though operations in and with nature; the
sacraments are supernatural, for they are effective _ex opere
operato_, and the natural parts are only signs of the grace,
not its natural medium. The water used in baptism is not a
natural medium of the grace of regeneration; it is made by the
divine will the sign, though an appropriate sign, of it; the
grace itself is communicated by the direct action of the Holy
Ghost, which is supernatural. Regeneration, as well as its
complement, glorification, is supernatural, for it cannot be
naturally developed from generation, and regeneration does not
necessarily carry with it glorification; for it does not of
itself, as St. Augustine teaches, insure the grace of
perseverance, since grace is _omnino gratis_, and only he
that perseveres to the end will be glorified. Hence, even in the
teleological order, the natural, that is, the human, reason and
will have their share, and without their activity the end would
not and could not be gained.
{520}
Revelation demands the active reception of reason, or else it
might as well be made to an ox or a horse as to a man; and the
will that perseveres to the end is the human will, though the
human will be regenerated by grace. Wherever you see the action
of the creature as second cause you see the natural, and wherever
you see the direct action of God, whether as sustaining the
creature or immediately producing the effect, you see the
supernatural.
The fact that God works in us to will and to do, or that we can
do nothing in the order of regeneration without grace moving and
assisting us, no more denies the presence and activity of nature
than does the analogous fact that we can do nothing even in the
order of generation without the supernatural presence and
concurrence of the Creator. We are as apt to forget that God has
any hand in the action of nature as we are to deny that where God
acts nature can ever coöperate; we are apt to conclude that the
action of the one excludes that of the other, and to run either
into Pelagianism on the one hand, or into Calvinism or Jansenism
on the other; and we find a difficulty in harmonizing in our
minds the divine sovereignty of God and human liberty. We cannot,
on this occasion, enter fully into the question of their
conciliation. Catholic faith requires us to assert both, whether
we can or cannot see how they can coexist. We think, however,
that we can see a distinction between the divine government of a
free active subject and of an inanimate and passive subject. God
governs each subject according to the nature he has given it;
and, if he has given man a free nature, his government, although
absolute, must leave human freedom intact, and to man the
capacity of exercising his own free activity, without running
athwart the divine sovereignty. How this can be done, we do not
undertake to say.
But be this as it may, there is no act even in the natural order
that is or can be performed without the assistance of the
supernatural; for we are absolutely dependent on the creative act
of God in everything, in those very acts in which we act most
freely. The grace of God is as necessary as the grace of Christ.
God has not created a universe, and made it, when once created,
capable of going alone as a self-moving machine. He creates
substances, indeed, capable of acting as second causes; but these
substances can do nothing, are nothing as separated from the
creative act of God that produces them, upholds them, is present
in them, and active in all their acts, even in the most free
determinations of the will. Without this divine presence, always
an efficient presence, and this divine activity in all created
activities, there is and can be no natural activity or action,
any more than, in relation to our last end, there can be the
first motion toward grace without grace. The principle of action
in both orders is strictly analogous, and our acting with grace
or by the assistance of grace in the order of regeneration is as
natural as is our acting by the divine presence and concurrence
in the order of generation. The human activity in either order is
equally natural, and in neither is it possible or explicable
without the constant presence and activity of the supernatural.
The two orders, the initial and the teleological, then, are not
antagonistical to each other, are not based on two mutually
destructive principles, but are really two distinct parts, as we
so often say, of one dialectic whole.
{521}
The Holy Scriptures, since God is _causa eminens_, the cause
of causes, the first cause operative in all second causes, speak
of God as doing this or that, without always taking special note
of the fact that, though he really does it, he does it through
the agency of second causes or the activity of creatures. This is
frequently the case in the Scriptures of the Old Testament, and
sometimes, though less frequently, in the New Testament, though
never in either without something to indicate whether it is the
direct and immediate or the indirect and mediate action of God
that is meant. Paying no attention to this, many overlook the
distinction altogether, and fall into a sort of pantheistic
fatalism, and practically deny the freedom and activity of second
causes, as is the case with Calvin when he declares God to be the
author of sin, which on his own principles is absurd, for he
makes the will of God the criterion of right, and therefore
whatever God does must be right, and nothing that is right can be
sin. On the other hand, men, fixing their attention on the agency
of second causes, overlook the constant presence and activity of
the first cause, treat second causes as independent causes, or as
if they were themselves first cause, and fall into pure
naturalism, which is only another name for atheism. The universe
is not a clock or a watch, but even a clock or a watch generates
not its own motive power; the maker in either has only so
constructed it as to utilize for his purpose a motive power that
exists and operates independently both of him and of his
mechanism.
Men speak of nature as supernaturalized in regeneration, and
hence assume that grace transforms nature; but in this there must
be some misunderstanding or exaggeration. In regeneration we are
born into the order of the end, or started, so to speak, on our
return to God as our final cause. The principle of this new
birth, which is grace, and the end, which is God, are
supernatural; but our nature is not changed except as to its
motives and the assistance it receives, though it receives in
baptism an indelible mark not easy to explain. This follows from
the Incarnation. In the Incarnation our nature is raised to be
the nature of God, and yet remains human nature, as is evident
from the condemnation by the church of the monophysites and the
monothelites. Catholic faith requires us to hold that the two
natures, the human and the divine, remain for ever distinct in
the one divine person of the Word. Some prelates thought to save
their orthodoxy by maintaining that, after his resurrection, the
two natures of our Lord became fused or transformed into one
theandric nature; but they did not succeed, and were condemned
and deposed. The monothelites asserted that there was in Christ
two natures indeed, but only one will, or that his human will was
absorbed in the divine. But they also were condemned as heretics.
Our Lord, addressing the Father, says, "Not my will, but thine be
done," thus plainly implying a human will distinct from, though
not contrary to, the divine will. Can we suppose that the grace
of regeneration or even of glorification works a greater change
of nature in us than the grace of union worked in our nature as
assumed by the Word? If human nature and human will remain in
Christ after the hypostatic union, so that to regard him after
his resurrection as having but one will or one theandric nature
is a heresy, how can we hold without heresy that grace, which
flows from that union, either destroys our nature or transforms
it into a theandric or supernaturalized nature?
{522}
Let us understand, then, that grace neither annihilates nor
supersedes or transforms our nature. It is our nature that is
redeemed or delivered from the bondage of sin, our nature that is
translated from the kingdom of dark into the kingdom of light,
our nature that is reborn, that is justified, that by the help of
grace perseveres to the end, that is rewarded, that is glorified,
and enters into the glory of our Lord. It then persists in
regeneration and glorification as one and the same human nature,
with its human reason, its human will, its human personality, its
human activity, only assisted by grace to act from a supernatural
principle to or for a supernatural end. The assistance is
supernatural, and so is the end; but that which receives the
assistance, profits by it, and attains the end, is human nature,
the man that was born of Adam as well as reborn of Christ, the
second Adam.
We have dwelt long, perhaps to tediousness, upon this point,
because we have wished to efface entirely the fatal impression
that nature and grace are mutually antagonistic, and to make it
appear that the two orders, commonly called the natural and the
supernatural, are both mutually consistent parts of one whole;
that grace simply completes nature; and that Christianity is no
anomaly, no after-thought, or succedaneum, in the original design
of creation.
The heterodox, with their doctrine of total depravity, and the
essential corruption or evil of nature, and their doctrine,
growing out of this assumed depravity or corruption, of
irresistible grace, and the inactivity or passivity of man in
faith and justification, obscure this great fact, and make men
regard nature as a failure, and that to save some God had to
supplant and create a new nature in its place. A more immoral
doctrine, or one more fatal to all human activity, is not
conceivable, if it could be really and seriously believed and
acted on prior to regeneration, which is impossible. The
heterodox are better than their system. The system teaches that
all our works before regeneration are sins; even our prayers are
unacceptable, some say, an abomination to the Lord, and
consequently, there is no use in striving to be virtuous. After
regeneration there is no need of our activity, for grace is
inamissible, and if really born again, sin as much as we will,
our salvation is sure, for the sins of the regenerated are not
reputed to them or counted as sins. There is no telling how many
souls this exclusive and exaggerated supernaturalism (which we
owe to the reformers of the sixteenth century) has destroyed, or
how many persons it has deterred from returning to the Catholic
Church by the common impression, that, since she asserts original
sin and the necessity of grace, she holds and teaches the same
frightful system. Men who are able to think, and accustomed to
sober reflection, find themselves unable to embrace Calvinism,
and, confounding Calvinism with Christianity, reject Christianity
itself, and fall into a meagre rationalism, a naked naturalism,
or, worst of all, an unreasoning indifferentism; yet there is no
greater mistake than to suppose that the church holds it or has
the slightest sympathy with it. We have wished to mark clearly
the difference between it and her teaching. Christian asceticism,
when rightly understood, is not based on the assumption that
nature is evil, and needs to be destroyed, repressed, or changed.
It is based on two great ideas, liberty and sacrifice.
{523}
It is directed not to the destruction of the flesh or the body,
for in the creed we profess to believe in the "resurrection of
the flesh." Our Lord assumed flesh in the womb of the Virgin; he
had a real body, ascended into heaven with it, and in it sitteth
at the right hand of the Father Almighty. He feeds and nourishes
us with it in Holy Communion; and it is by eating his flesh and
drinking his blood that our spiritual life is sustained and
strengthened. Our own bodies shall rise again, and, spiritualized
after the manner of Christ's glorious body, shall, reunited to
the soul, live for ever. We show that this is our belief by the
honor we pay to the relics of the saints. This sacred flesh,
these sacred bones, which we cherish with so much tender piety,
shall live again, and reenter the glorified body of the saint.
Matter is not evil, as the Platonists teach, and as the false
asceticism of the heathen assumes, and with which Christian
asceticism has no affinity, though many who ought to know better
pretend to the contrary. The Christian ascetic aims, indeed, at a
moral victory over the flesh, labors by the help of grace to
liberate the soul from its bondage, to gain the command of
himself, to be at all times free to maintain the truth, and to
keep the commandments of God; to bring his body into subjection
to the soul, to reduce the appetites and passions under the
control of his reason and will, but never to destroy them or in
any manner to injure his material body. Far less does he seek to
abnegate, destroy, or repress either will or reason, in order to
give grace freer and fuller scope; he only labors to purify and
strengthen both by grace. Nature is less abnormal, purer,
stronger, more active, more energetic in the true ascetic than in
those who take no pains to train and purify it under the
influence of divine grace.
The principle of all sacrifice is love. It was because God so
loved men that he gave his only-begotten Son to die for them that
they might not perish, but have everlasting life. It was love
that died on the cross for our redemption. Nothing is hard or
difficult to love, and there is nothing love will not do or
sacrifice for the object loved. The saint can never make for his
Lord a sacrifice great enough to satisfy his love, and gives up
for him the most precious things he has, not because they are
evil or it would be sin in him to retain them; not because his
Lord needs them, but because they are the most costly sacrifice
he can make, and he in making the sacrifice can give some proof
of his love. The chief basis of monastic life is sacrifice. The
modern notion that monastic institutions were designed to be a
sort of hospital for infirm souls is essentially false. As a
rule, a virtue that cannot sustain itself in the world will
hardly acquire firmness and strength in a monastery. The first
monks did not retire from the world because [it was] unfit to
live in it, but because the world restrained their liberty, and
because it afforded them no adequate field for the heroic
sacrifices to which they aspired. Their austerities, which we so
little robust as Christians, accustomed to pamper our bodies, and
to deny ourselves nothing, regard as sublime folly, if not with a
shudder of horror, were heroic sacrifices to the Spouse of the
soul, for whom they wished to give up everything but their love.
They rejoiced in affliction for his sake, and they wished to
share, as we have already said, with him in the passion and cross
which he endured for our sake, so as to be as like him as
possible.
{524}
There are saints to-day in monasteries, and out of monasteries in
the world, living in our midst, whom we know not or little heed,
who understand the meaning of this word _sacrifice_, and
make as great and as pure sacrifices, though perhaps in other
forms, and as thoroughly forego their own pleasure, and as
cheerfully give up what costs them the most to give up, as did
the old Fathers of the Desert. But, if we know them not, God
knows them and loves them.
Yet we pretend not to deny that many went into monasteries from
other motives, from weakness, disappointed affection, disgust of
the world, and some to hide their shame, and to expiate by a life
of penance their sins; but, if the monastery often sheltered such
as these, it was not for such that it was originally designed. In
process of time, monastic institutions, when they became rich,
were abused, as often the priesthood itself, and treated by the
nobles as a provision for younger sons or portionless daughters.
We may at times detect in ascetics an exaggeration of the
supernatural element and an underrating if not a neglect of the
natural, we may find, chiefly in modern times, a tendency amongst
the pious and devout to overlook the fact that manliness,
robustness, and energy of mind and character enter as an
important element in the Christian life; but the tendency in this
direction is not catholic, though observed to some extent among
Catholics. It originates in the same causes that originated the
Calvinistic or Jansenistic heresy, and has been strengthened by
the exaggerated assertion of the human and natural elements
caused by the reaction of the human mind against an exclusive and
exaggerated supernaturalism. The rationalism and humanitarianism
of the last century and the present are only the reaction of
human nature against the exaggerated supernaturalism of the
Reformers and their descendants, the Jansenists, who labored to
demolish nature to make way for grace, and to annihilate man in
order to assert God. Each has an element of truth, but, neither
having the whole truth, each makes war on the other, and
alternately gains a victory and undergoes a defeat. Unhappily,
neither will listen to the church who accepts the truth and
rejects the exclusiveness of each, and harmonizes and completes
the truth of both in the unity and catholicity of the faith once
delivered to the saints. The Catholic faith is the reconciler of
all opposites. These alternate victories and defeats go on in the
world outside of the church; but it would be strange if they did
not have some echo among Catholics, living, as they do, in the
midst of the combatants, and in constant literary and
intellectual intercourse with them. They create some practical
difficulties for Catholics which are not always properly
appreciated. We cannot assert the natural, rational, and the
human element of the church without helping, more or less, the
exclusive rationalists or naturalists who deny the supernatural;
and we can hardly oppose them with the necessary vigor and
determination without seeming at least to favor their opponents,
the exclusive supernaturalists, who reject reason and deny the
natural. It is this fact very likely that has kept Catholics for
the most part during the last century and the present on the
defensive; and as, during this period, the anti-supernaturalists
have been the most formidable enemy of the church, it is no
wonder if the mass of devout Catholics have shown some tendency
to exaggerate the supernatural, and been shy of asserting as
fully as faith warrants the importance of the rational and the
natural, or if they have paid less attention to the cultivation
of the human side of religion than is desirable.
{525}
Some allowance must be made for the new position in which
Catholics for a century or more have been placed, and it would be
very wrong to censure them with severity, even if we found them
failing to show themselves all at once equal to the new duties
imposed upon them. The breaking up of old governments and
institutions, founded by Catholic ancestors, the political,
social, and industrial revolutions that have been and still are
going on, must have, to some extent, displaced the Catholic mind,
and required it, so to speak, to ease itself, or to take a new
and difficult observation, and determine its future course.
Catholics to-day stand between the old, which was theirs, and
which is passing away, and the new, which is rising, and which is
not yet theirs. They must needs be partially paralyzed, and at a
momentary loss to know what course to take. Naturally
conservative, as all men are who have something to lose or on
which to rely, their sympathies are with the past, they have not
been able as yet to accept the new state of things, and convert
regrets into hopes. A certain hesitation marks their conduct, as
if in doubt whether to stand out against the new at all hazards,
and, if need be, fall martyrs to a lost cause, or to accept it
and do the best they can with it. In this country, where
Catholicity is not associated with any sort of political
institutions, and Catholics have no old civilization to retain or
any new order to resist, we, unless educated abroad, are hardly
able to appreciate the doubts, hesitations, and discouragements
of Catholics in the old world, and to make the proper allowances
if at times they seem to attach as Catholics undue importance to
the political and social changes going on around them, to be too
despondent, and more disposed to cry out against the wickedness
of the age, to fold their hands, and wait for Providence to
rearrange all things for them without their coöperation, than to
look the changes events have produced full in the face, and to
exert themselves, with the help of grace, to bring order out of
the new chaos, as their brave old ancestors did out of the chaos
that followed the irruption of the northern barbarians, and the
breaking up of the Graeco-Roman civilization. It is no light
thing to see the social and political world in which we have
lived, and with which we have been accustomed to associate the
interests of religion and society falling in ruins under our very
eyes, and we must be pardoned if for a moment we feel that all is
gone or going.
But Catholic energy can never be long paralyzed, and already the
Catholics of Europe are arousing themselves from their apathy,
recovering their courage, and beginning to feel aware that the
church depends on nothing temporary, is identified with no
political or social organization, and can survive all the
mutations of the world around her. Leading Catholics in Europe,
instead of wasting their strength in vain regrets for a past that
is gone, or in vainer efforts to restore what can no longer be
restored, are beginning to adjust themselves to the present, and
to labor to command the future. They are leaving the dead to bury
their dead, and preparing to follow their Lord in the new work to
be done for the new and turbulent times in which their lot is
cast. "All these things are against me," said the patriarch
Jacob, and yet they proved to be all for him and his family. Who
knows but the untoward events of the last century and the present
will turn out for the interests of religion, and that another
Joseph may be able to say to their authors, "Ye meant it for
evil, but God meant it for good?"
{526}
In all great political and social revolutions there must always
be a moment when men may reasonably doubt whether duty calls them
to labor to retain what is passing away, or whether they shall
suffer it to be buried with honor, and betake themselves with
faith and hope and courage to what has supplanted it. That moment
has passed in the Old World, and nothing remains but to make the
best of the present, and to labor to reconstruct the future in
the best way possible. Happily for us, the church, though she may
lose province after province, nation after nation, and be driven
to take refuge in the catacombs cannot be broken up, or her
divine strength and energy impaired. While she remains, we have
God with us, and our case can never be desperate. The church has
seen darker days than any she now experiences; civilization has
been much nearer its ruin than it is now in Europe, and Catholics
have now all the means to surmount present difficulties, which
sufficed them once to conquer the world. There is no sense in
despondency. Cannot the millions of Catholics do to-day what
twelve fishermen of Galilee did? Is the successor of Peter to-day
more helpless than was Peter himself, when he entered Rome with
his staff to preach in the proud capitol of heathendom the
crucified Redeemer? The same God that was with Peter, and gave
efficacy to his preaching, is with his successor; and we who live
to-day have, if we seek it, all the divine support, and more than
all the human means, that those Catholics had who subdued the
barbarians and laid the foundation of Christian Europe. What they
did we may do, if, with confidence in God, we set earnestly about
doing it. The world is not so bad now as it was in the first
century or in the sixth century; and there is as strong faith, as
ardent piety, in this age, as in any age that has gone before it.
Never say, "We have fallen on evil times." All times are evil to
the weak, the cowardly, the despondent; and all times are good to
the strong, the brave, the hopeful, who dare use the means God
puts into their hands, and are prepared to do first the duty that
lies nearest them.
We see many movements that indicate that our European brethren
are regaining their courage, and, counting the past, so glorious
for Catholics, as beyond recovery, are endeavoring to do what
they can in and for the present, quietly, calmly, without noise
or ostentation; and they will not need to labor long before they
will see the "truths crushed to the earth rise again," and a new
order, Phoenix-like, rising from the ashes of the old, more
resplendent in beauty and worth, more in harmony with the divine
spirit of the church, and more favorable to the freedom and
dignity of man. Truth dies never. "The eternal years of God are
hers." The Omnipotent reigns, and thus far in the history of the
church, what seemed her defeat, has proved for her a new and more
brilliant victory. The church never grows old, and we can afford
to be patient though earnest in her service. The spirit of God
never ceases to hover over the chaos, and order, though disturbed
for a time, is sure, soon or late, to reappear.
{527}
We feel that we have very inadequately discussed the great
question of nature and grace, the adequate discussion of which is
far beyond the reach of such feeble abilities and such limited
theological attainments as ours; but we have aimed to set forth
as clearly and as simply as we could what we have been taught by
our Catholic masters on the relation of the natural to the
supernatural; and if we have succeeded in showing that there is
no antagonism between nature and grace, the natural and the
supernatural, the divine sovereignty and human liberty, and that
we can be at once pious and manly, energetic as men, and humble
and devout as Christians, or if we have thrown out any
suggestions that will aid others in showing it to the
intelligence of our age, and if we have been able to speak a word
of comfort and hope to our brethren who find themselves in a
position in which it is difficult to determine how to act, our
purpose will have been accomplished, and we shall have done no
great but some slight service to the cause to which we feel that
we are devoted heart and soul. We have aimed to avoid saying
anything that could wound the susceptibilities of any Catholic
school of theology, and to touch as lightly as possible on
matters debated among Catholics. We hope we have succeeded; for
these are times in which Catholics need to be united in action as
well as in faith.
--------
Matin.
I.
Only when mounting sings the lark,
Struggling to fields of purer air
Silent her music when she turns
Back to a world of gloom and care!
II.
Only when mounting sings my heart,
Fluttering on tremulous wing to God!
Fainter the music as I fall--
Mute, when I reach the lower sod!
III.
Lark, in my heart this morn astir,
Upward to God on eager wing!
Seek for one pure, celestial draught,
Fresh from th' eternal Music-Spring!
Richard Storks Willis.
---------
{528}
A Word about the Temporal Power of the Pope.
When our Lord Jesus Christ was upon the earth, his enemies were
able to persecute him and to excite a general hatred against him,
but never able to ignore him, to make him forgotten, or to
prevent the question concerning Christ from being the
turning-point of the religious and political destiny of the
Jewish people. The efforts they made to extinguish this question
only served to extend it all over the world, and make it the
turning-point of the religious and political destinies of all
mankind.
It is the same with the Vicar of Christ. The warfare which is
waged against him never removes him out of the way of his
enemies, or causes him to be ignored by the world; but it
upheaves and convulses the whole world, political as well as
religious. Just at present it is unusually agitated, because for
some time past a crisis has seemed to be impending. We have a
word to say, in the first place, on the attitude of many persons,
professing to be Christians, who do not acknowledge the spiritual
authority of the pope, toward the party who are attempting to
wrest from him by force his temporal authority as sovereign of
Rome.
That avowed adherents of infidel socialism should disregard the
principles of right and justice does not surprise us, for they
have denied the basis of all right and justice. That a portion of
the secular press, notorious throughout the world for an utter
want of principle, should encourage every revolution which has
any prospect of success, is precisely what we might expect from
it, judging by the course it has always pursued, and the base
maxims it unblushingly avows. The mockeries and insults of this
class of writers are only echoes from the infidel press of
Europe, and would be despised by every American who believes in
the Christian religion and in decency, were they not directed
against the pope. Serious argument upon the right of the matter
might as well be addressed to a gorilla as to one of these
writers.
The case is different, however, with those who profess sound
Christian, moral, and political principles. Such persons are
grossly inconsistent with themselves when they favor and sustain
the party of Garibaldi who have sought to seize upon the Roman
territory by an armed raid, or that party in Italy and Europe who
advocate the forcible annexation of this territory to the Italian
kingdom by its government, with the aid or consent of the other
nations. They may say that the papacy is a hindrance to pure
religion and civilization. So be it. But how is it to be put
down? By argument, by moral means, in a just manner, or by
violence and injustice? Have not the Catholics of the world a
right to sustain the papal jurisdiction as a part of their
religion? Protestants, no doubt, desire to see it abolished, and
rejoice in every prospect which presents itself that the temporal
kingdom of the Pope may be wrested from him, because they think
that the loss of his spiritual supremacy will follow. But, have
they any right, on this account, to favor unjust and unlawful
attempts to wrest from him his temporal sovereignty? Is it lawful
to do evil that good may come? Does the end justify the means?
{529}
They may say, that it would be better for the Roman people to
have another government, and that they have a right, if they
please, to establish another. We do not believe they have any
more right to do this, than the people of the District of
Columbia have, to shake off the government of the United States
and establish another. But we will not argue this point, for it
is unnecessary. The Roman people have recently shown that they
prefer to remain as they are. The question is, as to the right of
dispossessing the pope of his kingdom by a force from without.
What right has the Italian kingdom to the Roman territory? Does
the pretence that the glory and advantage of Italy require it to
have Rome as a political capital justify its forcible annexation?
Then interest and might alone make right, we must bid farewell to
the hope that justice and law will ever rule in the world, and be
content that the old, barbarous reign of violence, war, and
conquest should continue for ever.
But what are we to say of a war, not levied by one king and
people against another, but waged by a band of marauders invading
a nation from another nation with which it is at peace, and which
is bound by solemn treaty to repress all such invasions?
Englishmen and Americans are loud enough in condemning
rebellions, insurrections, violations of the laws and rights of
nations, where their own countries are the aggrieved parties.
What gross and shameful inconsistency, then, is it, for them to
applaud an attack like that of the bandit Garibaldi and his horde
of robbers upon the Roman kingdom. Sympathy and encouragement
given to Mazzini, Garibaldi, and their associates, is sympathy
and encouragement to a party of atheists and socialists who are
aiming at the complete extirpation of all religion and all
established political and social order from the world.
Protestants little know to what ruin they are exposing themselves
in abetting such a party. Their treacherous allies are making use
of them as mere dupes and tools in their war upon the outward
bulwarks of the Catholic Church; knowing well that, if they have
once carried these, the slight barriers of Protestantism will
offer but a feeble and momentary resistance. The friends of
political and social order little think what a mine they are
helping to run under their own feet, in abetting socialism.
England is beginning already to reap the bitter fruit of the
seeds of sedition and revolution she has been busily sowing in
the soil of Europe. There is no knowing where the just
retribution of her unprincipled agitation will stop. We have just
as much cause to dread the irruption of infidelity and socialism
in our own country. And if it does come, those who boast so much
of their wealth, their prosperity, their superior culture and
enlightenment, and attribute this material glory to their
emancipation from Catholic ideas, will be the first victims of
the volcano that will burst under their feet. We trust no such
catastrophe will come, either in Europe or America. But if it is
averted, it will be because the pope will stand his ground; and
the event will prove that he has been the saviour not only of
religion but also of civilization.
There are also some considerations which merit the attention of
Catholics, who do acknowledge the Pope to be the Vicar of Christ,
and give him their allegiance as the Chief Ruler and Teacher of
the Church throughout the whole world.
{530}
The cause of the Catholic Church everywhere, and of every
individual Catholic as a member of the Church, is bound up with
the cause of the pope, and is identical with it. He is the head
of the entire body, not merely as having precedence of dignity
and honor over other bishops, or a merely nominal primacy, but as
the bishop of the entire Catholic Church, laity, clergy and
bishops included. He is the real head of the body, the source of
jurisdiction, the principle of unity, catholicity, and apostolic
succession, the principal organ of the intelligence and vital
force of the Church, of its infallibility in doctrine and
immortality in existence. Every blow upon the head affects
sensibly every member. Every member is bound to exert itself to
ward off all blows aimed at the head, for the preservation of its
own life. A mortal blow on the head will cause the death of the
whole body, and a stunning or seriously injurious blow on the
head will paralyze its energies. All particular churches, all
portions of Christendom, and all individual Christians, receive
their life from communion with the Church of St. Peter, the
principal See, and the Mother and Mistress of the Churches.
"Where Peter is, there is the Church." The flock fed by the
successors of St. Peter, the supreme pastor, is the only true
flock of Christ. "Feed my lambs, feed my sheep," was said to St.
Peter alone, and whoever is not fed by him, living in his
successors in the holy Roman Church, with the sound, Catholic
doctrine; whoever is not guided and governed by his pastoral
staff, is no lamb of the flock of Christ, but an alien and a lost
sheep. The most illustrious and numerous churches, the most
cultivated nations, are smitten with spiritual disease, decay,
and death, when they are severed from the unity of the See of St.
Peter. The schismatical churches of the East, once the fairest
portion of the heritage of the Lord, are a witness to this truth.
So are the countless sects with their ever-varying,
ever-multiplying heresies and divisions, in the West. We may even
see in certain parts of the Catholic Church itself, what ruinous
consequences follow from impediments placed by the civil power in
the way of the full exercise of the papal supremacy over the
bishops, clergy, and faithful. Bishops lose their independence
and authority, priests their sacerdotal dignity and influence,
and the people their Christian piety, as soon as they revolt from
their obedience to the pope; and all these are weakened in
proportion as his power to exercise his paternal solicitude and
government over them is enfeebled.
Full, hearty, and loyal allegiance to the pope is therefore an
essential part of Christian duty. It is the duty and the interest
of all Catholic Christians, bishops, priests, and laymen, to
stand by the pope, as the Vicar of our Lord Jesus Christ and
God's Vicegerent upon earth; and to make common cause with him,
as knowing that we must stand or fall together. There are special
reasons why American Catholics should appreciate this high
obligation. The American Catholic Church is to a great extent an
offshoot from the Catholic Church of Ireland. It was the pope who
sent St. Patrick into Ireland to convert that country from
heathenism to Christianity. The Irish people have always been
foremost among all other Catholics in filial reverence, devotion,
and obedience to the See of St. Peter. When all but one man in
the English hierarchy basely deserted their allegiance to the
pope in submission to the will of a tyrant, only one Irish bishop
of insignificant character imitated their example, and even he
repented before his death.
{531}
It was for their loyalty to the pope that the Irish people were
reduced to _feed on nettles_, both literally and
figuratively. The glorious archbishop O'Hurley, tortured on
Stephen's Green and hanged, the intrepid monks hurled into the
sea from the heights of Bantry, the slaughtered victims of
Drogheda and Wexford, and the rest of the noble army of Irish
martyrs and confessors, suffered and died for this doctrine of
the Catholic faith, that the Pope is the Vicar of Jesus Christ
and the supreme head of the Church upon earth. The whole Irish
nation has suffered martyrdom for three centuries, for its
unswerving fidelity to the See of Peter. It would be unworthy of
us, who have received the sacred plant of faith watered by the
blood and preserved by the heroism of this faithful nation, and
now enjoy full liberty to partake of its fruits and to propagate
it far and wide, in peace, to degenerate from the sentiments of
such noble ancestors.
Moreover, the Catholic Church in America has ever been under the
most immediate and special care of the Holy See, ever obedient
and loyal, and therefore, ever united and prosperous. Nowhere in
the world do the bishops and priests receive a greater degree of
respect and obedience from their people, or a more abundant fruit
from their labors in preaching the word and administering the
sacraments of Christ. No heresy or schism, no violent disputes,
no extensive alienation of the faithful from their pastors, none
of those internal disorders which are far more dangerous than any
outward opposition, have as yet arisen to trouble our peace. The
chief reason of this is found in the perfect and unbroken union
of our hierarchy and people with the apostolic See of St. Peter.
Were it not for this, as there is no coercive force of the state
to enforce a compulsory exterior unity like that of the Russian
Church, and no patriarchal jurisdiction of one bishop over all
the others, the decrees of national or provincial synods would
have no binding efficacy, the union of bishops with each other
would be broken, the authority of the bishops would be defied by
the clergy, of the clergy by the people, and the same
disintegration tending to final dissolution would take place
among us which we see in the surrounding sects. The same result
would inevitably take place throughout the world, if the
supremacy of the successor of St. Peter were overthrown. State
policy, and the power of kings and parliaments, are broken reeds
to lean upon. Were the church left to depend upon these, they
would soon withdraw their support, and, bereft of a principle of
internal life and unity, Christianity would resolve itself
everywhere into dust and air, never again to be revived on earth.
Peter, living in the unbroken line of his successors, is the rock
and foundation upon which the church, that is, Christianity
itself, is built; and because the gates of hell shall never
prevail against this rock, to overthrow it, therefore
Christianity shall endure to the end of the world.
The full and unimpeded exercise of the spiritual supremacy of the
pope over the Catholic Church throughout the whole world being
necessary to its well-being, the perfect independence of this
supremacy from all political power is also necessary as the
condition of its free exercise. The experience both of the past
and the present proves that the political power is always
disposed to tyrannize over the church and deprive it of its
divine right to liberty.
{532}
The only check to this domination of kings over bishops, and the
only lever by which the episcopate may be raised out of this
dependence on the civil power, is the independent power of the
Holy See. The pope must confirm the nominations to bishoprics,
and the decrees of local councils, otherwise they are null and
void. Were it not for this prerogative, which Napoleon the First
violently but unsuccessfully attempted to wrest from Pius VII.,
the king would be the real head of each national church in nearly
every Catholic state. If one of these national churches had
within its bounds the principal and supreme see of the whole
Catholic Church, the sovereign of that nation, through his power
over the nomination to that see and its administration, would
have power to exercise dominion over the Catholic Church. If the
archbishop of Paris or of Vienna had the supremacy, the emperor
of France or of Austria would be the virtual head of the Catholic
Church, as the English sovereign and the Russian sovereign are
the real heads of the English and Russian churches,
notwithstanding the nominal primacy of the archbishops of
Canterbury and of Moscow. Just so, if the pope became the subject
of a king ruling over his episcopal city of Rome. He could not
exercise his spiritual supremacy, except in dependence on the
will of the sovereign. He could not call an oecumenical council,
send a legate, receive an ambassador, issue an encyclical,
promulgate a decree, receive or send out the documents necessary
for the government of the universal church, or possess the
necessary means for the transaction of indispensable business,
without the permission of the political authority. In time of
war, his communication with the belligerents would be completely
cut off. The nomination to the sovereign pontificate would either
really, or at least in the opinion of other nations, always be
controlled by political influence, and so also would be the
confirmations or direct appointments to episcopal sees throughout
the world. Laws in regard to marriage or other matters, over
which the sovereign pontiff has direct jurisdiction, might be
passed, which he would be obliged to condemn, and yet be unable
to do so, or at least without perpetual conflicts with the civil
power. He would be continually subject to the treatment which the
Archbishop of Cologne received from the King of Prussia, and the
bishops of Italy from Victor Emmanuel, confiscation,
imprisonment, or exile. The exercise of his supremacy would
therefore become impossible. For, it could only be exercised in
dependence on the will of a monarch or a cabinet, and neither
kings, bishops, or people would ever submit to such a supremacy.
How would American Catholics like to have King Victor Emmanuel
and Ratazzi or Ricasoli dictating the affairs of the church in
this country? Our hierarchy here is, thank God! free from the
dictation of the state, and the head of our hierarchy must also
be a free and independent pope.
It is folly to imagine another and purely ideal state of things,
in which the pope might have perfect independence without
sovereignty. There is no likelihood that such a state of things
will become actual, and there would be no security for its
permanence did it ever begin to exist. Divine Providence has
given the vicar of Christ a temporal sovereignty as the security
of his independence and the bulwark of the liberty of the
universal church. The pope has solemnly declared that it is the
necessary and the bounden duty of all the members of the church,
whether kings, prelates, or people, to maintain that sovereignty
at all hazards.
{533}
To throw the whole burden of sustaining the Holy See and the
authority of the successor of St. Peter upon Divine Providence,
is both presumptuous and cowardly. Christ has promised that his
church shall last to the end of the world, and he will fulfil
this promise, if necessary, by miraculous intervention. But he
has not promised that particular nations shall not lose the
faith, or that faithlessness and cowardice shall not bring after
them their natural disastrous consequences. The glory,
prosperity, and extension of the Catholic Church depend on the
efforts of the free human will; and the providence or grace of
God will not aid us, except in proportion to our fidelity and
generosity in maintaining his cause and our own. Our confidence
that the holy Roman Church cannot be overthrown rests on the sure
foundation of that divine word, not one iota of which can fail,
even though heaven and earth may pass away. "Thou art Peter, and
upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell
shall never prevail against it." This is no warrant for our
abandoning the ground to the enemies of the church, trusting that
God will thwart their designs by miraculous intervention. But it
is an encouragement to loyalty, fidelity, and unalterable hope in
the ultimate triumph of the holy cause. It is our duty to do all
in our power to secure this triumph by our own efforts, and
having done this, we may then leave the result in the hands of
Divine Providence. We can never foresee, with certainty, through
what straits Divine Providence will permit the church to pass, or
how far it will allow the designs of her enemies to proceed
toward an apparent ultimate success. Nevertheless, there does not
appear at present so much reason to apprehend dark and disastrous
days for the church and religion, as there did during the epoch
preceding the present one. Even during the reign of the present
severely tried but indomitable chief pastor of the church, there
have been periods far more critical and threatening than the
present. Indeed, we may say that those Catholics who are
desponding and discouraged now, derive their reason for
foreboding evil more from their own timidity and impatience than
from any real external motives. The Holy See is in perpetual
conflict against powerful enemies, no doubt, and the Holy Father
sometimes threatened with a prospect of exile from Rome. Yet,
notwithstanding this, the march of events continually brings
nearer the reconciliation and pacification of Christendom, upon
the basis of a universal recognition of the independence and
inviolability of the sacred domain of the Roman Church, which God
has set apart as the seat of the successor of St. Peter. In
truth, there has often been in the past a greater need of
absolute reliance on the predictions of the divine word as the
only firm ground of hope, than at present. We are not called upon
for the same heroic exercise of faith and hope which was exacted
from our ancestors. We can look back upon the dangers and trials
through which they passed, and find in their result a reproach
for our own pusillanimity, and a support for our confidence in
the present and future triumph of the church. We are in an
invincible fortress, on an immovable rock; and yet we do not
appreciate the strength of our position as clearly as those do
who are tossing about on the turbulent sea of the surrounding
world. Although humiliating, it is yet true, that we can find no
language so well adapted to stimulate faint-hearted Catholics to
courage, as that uttered under an overawing compulsion by
adversaries or aliens to the church.
{534}
One of the most eloquent of these reluctant tributaries, carried
away by a kind of natural ecstasy, in contemplating this glorious
theme, like another Balaam blessing the tents of Israel, rises to
a kind of sublimity far above his usual flight, and seems to
speak with a catholic inspiration worthy of a Bossuet. He is
speaking of that dark era when Pius VII. ascended the chair of
St. Peter, and these are his words:
"It is not strange that in the year 1799 even sagacious
observers should have thought that at length the hour of the
Church of Rome was come: an infidel power ascendant, the pope
dying in captivity, the most illustrious prelates of France
living in a foreign country on Protestant alms, the noblest
edifices which the munificence of former ages had consecrated
to the worship of God turned into temples of victory, or into
banqueting houses for political societies, or into
Theophilanthropic chapels; such signs might well be supposed to
indicate the approaching end of that long domination. But the
end was not yet; again doomed to death, the milkwhite hind was
still fated not to die. Even before the funeral rites had been
performed over the ashes of Pius VI., a great reaction had
commenced, which, after the lapse of more than forty years,
appears to be still us progress. Anarchy had had its day; a new
order of things rose out of the confusion, new dynasties, new
laws, new titles, and amidst them emerged the ancient religion.
The Arabs have a fable that the great Pyramid was built by
antediluvian kings, and alone, of the works of men, bore the
weight of the flood. Such as this was the fate of the papacy;
it had been buried under the great inundation, but its deep
foundations had remained unshaken, and, when the waters abated,
it appeared alone amid the ruins of a world which had passed
away. The republic of Holland was gone, the empire of Germany,
and the great council of Venice, and the Helvetian League, and
the house of Bourbon, and the parliaments and aristocracy of
France. Europe was full of young creations; a French empire, a
kingdom of Italy, a confederation of the Rhine; nor had the
late events affected only territorial limits and political
institutions; the disposition of property, the composition and
spirit of society, had, through a great part of Catholic
Europe, undergone a complete change; but _the unchangeable
church was still there._"
The unchangeable church was still there, when Pius VII. was
restored to his episcopal city, where his successors, one after
the other, ascended the throne of St. Peter, and when Macaulay
wrote the words we have quoted. It is still there, now, after all
the commotions of the last twenty years; there it will be until
the day prefixed by the Creator for the end of all human
institutions. We may apply to it, in a more elevated and
spiritual sense, the words of the poet
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Colisaeum, Rome shall fall;
_And when Rome falls, the world._"
--------
{535}
Plagiarism and John Bunyan.
There are not many writers of any popularity or eminence who have
not in their day, either in their own behalf or by the sensitive
proxy of their intimate friends, had occasion for self-defence
against the charge of plagiarism. From young authors especially,
some little slur or other on this tender point is pretty sure, at
some time, to evoke a thin-skinned answer, replete with a
peculiar modest defensive ferocity that critics know by heart,
and grin over with a grim relish. This is a thing of course--a
well-marked stage of the fever of authorship. Only we notice that
most of those who begin with young Byron's philippics end with
old Wordsworth's philosophy. The fact is, splendid sensitiveness,
here as everywhere, does not pay, and beyond most men the author
finds it cost him dear. For of all ill-matched and absurd
controversies, there is none like a wrangle about plagiarism. It
is a duel of javelins and catapults, of fly and lion. All the
advantage is with the attacking party. The accusation is vague
and sweeping to the last degree, and the easiest imaginable to
make. It need not even be said; it can be sneered. And how cheap
it is to be sophistical about it! A little ingenuity to cook up a
factitious resemblance, a little malice to point a bit of irony
or innuendo, and the thing is done. To rebut such crimination may
take days of labor. These very days consumed, too, are so much
dead disadvantage; the whole matter grows stale the while. Then
the answer must not only conclusively meet the charge, both as to
the _animus furandi_ and the fact of theft, but it must be
intrinsically interesting, both to revive interest enough in the
subject for the reading public to go to the trouble of revising
its opinion, and because every word an author writes is matter
for fresh criticism, while his opponent may waive all pretensions
to style. Practically we incline to think it is much as in
battle, where it takes a man's weight in lead to kill him. Now
and then, some one is demolished utterly by one of these
elaborate broadsides, but the number of them that miss the mark
must be enormous. It is only effects and successes that we all
remember. The shot that sunk the Alabama at a few hundred yards,
made more impression in history than the dozens of idle shell
that the great Sawyer gun used to send spinning miles away over
the Ripraps. One general net result is a vast waste of the
author's time, which is always valuable to him, and sometimes to
the public. And after all, with the truest aim and best
powder--who is hit? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, some
nobody. And this is truer every day. Pope and Byron could at
least single out their Dennises and Amos Cottles by name; but
nowadays, what with pseudonyms and anonyms, and above all the
editorial pronoun, one fights the very air.
Thus we find authors of standing strangely meek under audacious
strictures of this sort, and very little given to tilting at the
mosquitoes of the press. This is more than dignity; it is sense.
But (and now we strike the point we have been coming at all this
while) the world draws from this fact a very exaggerated
inference.
{536}
It seems, to reverse the old law rule, that one story's good till
another is told. The very fact of an accusation's going
unanswered seems to crush it under a _vis inertiae_ of
silence. This is all worldly wise, but not very infallible. If a
man shouts something against me before my street-door, and I let
him shout away at his own sweet will, I am tolerably sure,
whether it be truth or calumny he is vociferating, that his wind
must give out after a while. The world, though, is apt instead of
listening to him, to stare up at my window, and see if I mind it.
If I make no sign, he is a vituperator, and some good citizen
just mentions him to the policeman round the corner. But all this
while may not he be bawling the blessed truth, and I slinking
behind the shutters? Public opinion says no. If a man of standing
does not deign or see fit to come out against a charge, it is a
fabrication or a fancy sketch. Now, the truth is, as history well
knows, that there is a vast amount of systematic stealing in the
world of letters, and that these same majestic gentlemen, who are
above replies, have done their very fair share of the stealing.
What is the effect, then, of this false estimate of men and
things? This: that when a writer has once attained station, with
a decent regard to the conventionalities of literary larceny, he
can steal all he chooses with impunity. All he has to do is to
alter enough to keep him that runs from reading the resemblance.
This done, there remains the one risk that some one who cannot be
ignored may expose the theft. But this risk is not, by far, so
great as it seems. The man of calibre enough for the task is
generally an amiable man, and always a busy one, and has plenty
of pleasanter things to do than airing his neighbor's
peccadilloes. Besides, it is an even chance but he has some
little appropriation of his own to cover up, and this
fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind. Thus a very little
judgment in the selection of the author stolen from passes the
whole fraud scot free. And there are good reasons why there
should be a good deal of this fraud. _First-class plagiarism
pays_, like everything first-class. It has a high market
value, with large and ungrudging profits. For the reading power
is omnivorous, and it feels that an old author made modern, or a
foreign author made native, is not as good as new but better.
Pisistratus Caxton is a vast improvement on _Tristram
Shandy_, and the _Comedy of Errors_ on the
_Menaechmi_; and the primmest of the decriers read Bulwer
and Shakespeare, and do _not_ read Plautus and Sterne.
Boucicault's plays draw in London, and we never hear of English
purists staying away till they can go to see the originals at
Paris. But it is idle to multiply instances. The fact is too
patent to need illustrating, that the nineteenth century prefers
essences of books to books, and the juice of literary fruit to
the fruit itself. Extracts, and digests, and compilations and
abridgments, and _horti sicci_ of all sorts are the order of
the day, and the old fogies, who prate of _meum_ and
_tuum_, and dream of international copyright, and read old
authors through, _"miranturque nihil nisi quod Libitina
sacravit,"_ find that these are all side issues. The public
does not care a rush where a man gets what it wants. This may be
the best law, or it may not; the law it certainly is. Let any one
who doubts the popularity of plagiarism, only take up that fine,
furious, generous little book, Mr. Reade's _Eighth
Commandment_, and see for himself what is the fashion and what
is not.
{537}
But the honest crusader against literary despoilers and
desecrators, soon finds that without the limits of downright
pillage lies a vast debatable land, which has been the Flanders,
the Kentucky, the Quadrilateral of critic controversy from time
immemorial--the territory of mere resemblance. This is far more
difficult ground, because the critic's own fallible perceptions
of likeness enter as an element of possible error into his
judgment, and the danger of doing injustice is great. Here, it is
true, are found the expertest plagiarists of all--the vampires of
literature--the thieves that steal the soul and leave the body.
But close beside them stand the true scholars, to whose assiduity
books yield up an honest wealth, and who melt and mould their
well-worn treasure into solid ingots of golden thought or
exquisite fretwork of glittering fancies. And more puzzling than
both, we have the myriad legions of fugitive resemblances--an
army of ghosts, present to the comparing consciousness, but
impalpable to the analyzing sense. Obviously it will not do to
apply here the martial law of literary vindication. Men are too
much alike to be damned for striking even strange coincidences.
Among the best writers there are so many parallelisms that a mind
with any turn for hunting phantoms of similarity, soon comes to
the saying of King Solomon about nothing new under the sun. At
any rate, if it ever did exist, the era of entire novelty is of
the past now. Take out what a keen, well-read man could trace to
Shakespeare, Byron, Macaulay, Carlyle, the Bible, the Greek
tragedians, the Standard Speakers, and the Declaration of
Independence, and how much is there left of to-day's English and
American literature? Yet among the imitations, if there are many
wilful and culpable, there are many more innocent and unwitting.
True, not every one is born with so developed an organ of
unconsciousness as Mr. A. M. W. Ball, who astonished himself by
originating some one else's poem in full. But very few read over
their familiar authors without finding the germs of a thousand
thoughts they had never suspected not to be all their own.
Indeed, for some time after beginning, a young author could, if
he should choose, (which he doesn't,) pluck up his ideas like
young blades of corn, and find the original seed of some pet
author at the root.
But critics have called the name of plagiarist far too often and
too lightly. The charge is old enough, heaven knows, for people
to know what they mean by it. Waiving those ancient Sanscrit
sages, who seem with malice prepense to have been born so long
ago that we can't more than half believe in them, and before
there was any intelligible language for them to be wise in, we
find that Job, our oldest modern writer, has been read out of the
rubric by a theologue somewhere out West, who has discovered in
his style gross and servile plagiarisms from the Bible. Homer
stood tolerably well till the German omniscients found out that,
like Artemus Ward's friend, Brigham Young's mother-in-law, he was
numerous, when it at once becomes plain, from the great
uniformity of style, that _each one_ of him must have been a
most accomplished plagiarist from the remaining fractional bards.
Horace's spiteful and uncalled for commentaries on Lucilius,
besides the outrageous ill taste of them, show that there was
some shrewdness in the bite of the _cimex Pantilius_, the
blear-eyed Crispinus, and other literary gentlemen--probably
good fellows enough, too--as those ancient Bohemians went--who,
no doubt, hinted at little likenesses between his _sermo
merus_ and Lucilius' _sal nigrum_.
{538}
Martial's epigrams have crucified a dozen thieves into
immortality. And so the old bandying of hard words has come down
the annals of literature, till the self-same wave of bitterness
that whelmed the luckless insect Pantilius foams about the
shallows of Mr. Swinburne's self-defence, and finally goes
combing over the City Hall with Mr. Charles Reade for its
Neptune, and threatens to make flotsam of that cosy fixture, the
_Round Table_. Yet, with all these precedents to define it,
plagiarism is to-day a purely relative term--a weapon of the
partisan wars of letters. If our enemies commit a coincidence,
that is plagiarism; when our friends pilfer, it is adaptation,
version, studies in style, or some other euphemism.
Modern criticism has not signalized its advance by establishing
any principle to decide this difficult question of what is really
plagiarism. There is absolutely no standard or criterion yet, and
each one who wishes to form a right opinion, is thrown upon his
own devices to reach it. Amid the many delicacies and
difficulties of judging in this matter, we have found, or fancied
we found, one rule of singular service in guiding us to a
satisfactory conclusion. It is noteworthy, to say the least, that
almost all the great plagiarists and imitators of all time have
been writers of the self-conscious or _subjective_ order;
men who wrote with Mrs. Grundy uppermost, and their theme next;
whose real and primary aim was to exhibit and exalt themselves;
to feed their personal vanity, ambition, or greed. The objective
or intuitive class, on the contrary--those who wrote because they
were full of their subject; thinking of it, feeling it, full of
it; those in brief who develop their natures instead of
advantaging themselves, are almost never caught depredating
intentionally, while their very intentness on what they may have
to say makes them the most frequent of unconscious imitators in
mere manner and expression.
It may be generalizing too much to say that this fact contains a
principle, but we do think it points to a presumption. The more
satisfactory the rule, however, the more puzzling the exception,
and in applying this test of subjectivity, we strike on quite a
little _casus conscientiae_, in the issues presented by the
two books which form our text.
Of all English writers, one of the last to pitch on for a
plagiarist is honest John Bunyan. He, if ever man was, is
sincere, objective--a convinced missionary and messenger. Grave,
rough, outspoken, self-praising, yet rigid, he seems at a first
glance to embody and epitomize his age; that strange, fermented,
fanatical age, when England seems one vast presbytery--a
Massachusetts of political, social, and religious austerities and
extremes; when the Englishmen of history seem to lose their
characteristics for a while, and turn to foreshadowed, mediaeval
Yankees; when we never think of them in connection with blonde
love-locks and blue eyes, and slashed doublets, and foaming ale,
and big, merry, unmeant oaths, and cheery taverns, and champing
steeds; but as stern, sombre, black-a-vised, steel-capped,
praying infantry, with jerkins on their backs, and Sternhold and
Hopkins in every third knapsack. Yet, when we look closely,
Bunyan is not so representative a man as he appears.
{539}
He was not only a better and bolder man than his fellows, but at
bottom a different one. The reason why he typifies so much of
those days is really that the man had a large measure of that
tact for apparent conformity with the masses which is the essence
of popularity, and which in him covered much independence. A
hundred years later, he would have been the Francis Asbury of
England. Under the Puritan crust lay hidden a red-hot Methodist.
His autobiography--by far his most interesting work, in our
opinion--is full of an ebullient fervor that was then a favorite
novelty, is now to most of us a psychological study, but would
waken only electric sympathy without a touch of surprise in many
a circuit-riding itinerant of the south-west--unless, perhaps, he
should wonder that there were such orthodox Methodists so long
ago. He also fails in not representing that pragmatical hypocrisy
which culminated in the Rump Parliament and Praisegod Barebones,
and finally rotted the Commonwealth into the Restoration.
Controversial and conceited he may have been, and he had no
little reason to be honestly proud of the volcanic force of
manliness that found him an imbruted tinker-boy, and made him a
respected leader of his people. But in his great work no man
could be more self-forgetful, more impersonal, more transparent
to the thought within him. He is rife, permeated, possessed with
his subject. His powerful imagination, always morbidly vivid, and
at times in his life, disordered, bends its full force to the
work. "He saw the things of which he was writing," says one of
his biographers, "as distinctly with his mind's eye, as if they
were indeed passing before him in a dream." Now, this is not the
sort of man to go culling other people's words for his warm and
swarming fancies. But moreover Bunyan was attacked in his
lifetime with charges of plagiarism, and replied with his usual
aggressive emphasis, and in his characteristic doggerel--in the
preface to his _Holy War_.
"Some say the Pilgrim's Progress is not mine,
Insinuating as if I would shine
In name and fame by the worth of another,
Like some made rich by robbing of their brother.
"Or that so fond I am of being sire,
I'll father bastards, or, if need require,
I'll tell a lie in print to get applause.
I scorn it; John such dirt-heap never was
Since God converted him. Let this suffice
To show why I my Pilgrim patronize.
"It came from mine own heart, so to my head,
And thence into my fingers trickled;
Then to my pen, from whence immediately
On paper I did dripple it daintily.
"Manner and matter too was all mine own;
Nor was it unto any mortal known,
Till I had done it. Nor did any then,
By books, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen,
Add five words to it, or wrote half a line
Thereof; the whole and every whit is mine." ...
This leaves the suggestion of plagiarism apparently little room
to stand upon, unless it fall back upon some safe generality,
such as that in a republic (or commonwealth) all things are
possible, or that the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked,
etc.
Against this giant of truth, panoplied in the very _robur et as
triplex_ of self-conscious originality, comes out the queerest
antagonist imaginable--a French David against a Welsh Goliath.
These little books altogether deserve a passing word. Both are
published privately and by subscription. One, the later, is a
mere translation, arising out of its predecessor. The other is a
most singular compilation, from a number of notes which one Mr.
Nathaniel Hill, M.R.S.L., as we are not surprised to learn, died
making. They make a book very unlike most books. To begin with,
Mr. Basil Montagu Pickering, the publisher, has taken for his
motto, "Aldi Discipulus Anglus," and the printing is an excellent
imitation of that famous old press which so many dead scholars
have blessed, and so many dead printers doubtless sworn at.
{540}
Then the engravings are very curious ones, copied from the oldest
editions of the original, and combine a childlike range of
scenery with a Chinese mastery of perspective. The text, though,
is vilely marred by a variation of plan. Mr. Hill's idea was to
show the indebtedness of Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_ to
many earlier works, and its principal creditor happened to be
this _Pélerinage de l'Homme_ of Guillaume De Guileville. His
editors finding it so quaint, were struck by the bright
afterthought of making this book itself the main subject. It may
have sold better, but for ourselves we differ _toto caelo_
with their taste. Their method defies order, and results in a
most extraordinary hotch-potch of queer quotations, Scripture
references past number, antique French, archaic English to match,
biographies, analogies, and translations, that reads like a fit
of levity of old Fuller, or an _excursus_--or
pilgrimage--from the _Anatomy of Melancholy_. Add now to all
this, that to an old-fashioned translation of an antiquated poem
by an obsolete monk, there are appended a body of notes full of
all sorts of odd learning, and finally, that translation, notes
and all, are by a woman, and the _outré_ picture is
complete.
The comparison between De Guileville and Bunyan is not originated
by this book. Southey, among others, speaks of the
_Pélerinage_, which he entitles the _Pélerin de la Vie
Humaine_, (although this name is not given it in any of the
editions on the very full list of this volume,) and dismisses the
subject with a wary vagueness that has to our ear a
_soupçon_ of Podsnappery, and somehow makes us doubt if the
worthy laureate ever read the book at all. But, at any rate, this
is by far the most extended comparison yet made, and all the
better in that it does not argue a preconceived theory.
One thing, at least, it plainly proves--that Master Bunyan very
much overstated his originality in saying that manner and matter
too were all his own. It shows that from the time of the Norman
troubadors (not to go back to the Apocalypse of St. John) the
dream-form which is the framing of _The Pilgrim's Progress_
was a common and favorite device, and instances _Piers
Plowman's Vision,_ (A.D. 1369,) Walter de Mapes's
_Apocalypsis Golice_, the older poem, _The Debate of the
Body and the Soul_, Lydgate's _Temple of Glass_,
Hampole's _Prycke of Conscience_, (1349,) Sir David Lyndesay
of the Mount's poem, _The Dreme_, (1528,) and _Dunbar's
Daunce_, (1470.) Probably Bunyan, not being accused of
stealing so obvious and public an artifice, did not have it in
mind at all when he made his sweeping self-assertion.
In looking further for resemblances, those who expect to find
strong similarity of any sort will be disappointed. In fact, they
would in ordinary cases be dismissed as trivial. But we must
remember the vast difference between the two works. De
Guileville's is a true mediaeval monastic "boke," justly
described in this volume as "a cold and lifeless dialogue between
abstract and unembodied qualities." It is, in all but its ancient
quaintness, the dullest and driest of books; there is not a ray
of reality in it anywhere. Bunyan, on the contrary, gives us men
and women where the old prior of Chaliz has nothing but ghosts of
abstract ideas. One is like the antiquated masques or
miracle-plays; the other like the theatre before Garrick's day.
{541}
Thus between a galvanized French _Roman_ of 1330 and a live
English book of 1670, by a man innocent of French, any
resemblance in diction would not only be matter of wonder but
matter of the merest chance. We will, however, cite a few of the
parallelisms given in the comparison which forms the gist and
pith of these volumes. And first comes one which we cite because
it contains the only lines we have seen worth remembering in De
Guileville's dreary waste of dialogue. He is describing the lady
(Gracedieu) whom his _Pélerin_ meets at the outset.
De Guileville.
_"Moult courtoise et de douce chère
Me fut grandement car première
Me saulua en demandant
Pourquoy nauoie meilleur semblant
Et pour quelle cause ie pleuroye
Et saucune defaulte auoie.
Adonc ie fuz comme surpris
Pource que pas nauoye apris
Que dame de si grant atour
Daignast vers moi faire vng seul tour
Fors et seullement pour autant
Que cil qui a bonte plus grant
Plus a en soy dhumilite
Grant doulceur et benignite
CAR PLUS A LE POMMIER DE POMMES
PLUS BAS SENCLINE VERS LES HOMMES,
Et ne scay signe de bonte
Si grant comme est humilite,
Qui ne porte ceste baniere
Na vertu ne bonte entiere."_ [Footnote 52]
[Footnote 52:
"Full courteously, and in most gentle wise
Made she first salutation, questioning
Wherefore that I bore not more cheerful mien
And why I wept, and if in aught I lacked.
And then I was as one o'erta'en with wonder,
That lady of so great nobility
Should even deign to turn towards such as I,
Saving for this sole cause, that whoso most
Of gracious ruth doth bless, the same alway
Most in his bosom bears of lowliness.
For the more rich in store of golden fruit,
More deeply bendeth unto man the tree.
Nor know I any sign of graciousness
Great as humility. Who bears not that
Graved on his banner, hath not truly virtue."]
Lydgate's Translation.
This ladye that I spak of here
Was curteys and of noble chere
And wonderly of gret vertu,
And ffyrst she 'gan me to salue
In goodly wise axynge of me
What maner thyng yt myght be
Or cause why I should hyr lere
That I made so heavy chere,
Or why that I was aye wepyng,
Wher of when I gan take hede
I ffyl into a maner drede
For unkonnyng and leudnesse
That ache of so great noblesse
Dysdenede not in her degre
To speke to on so pore as me;
But yiff it were so, as I guess,
Al only of hyr gentyllenesse,
For gladly wher is most beute
Ther is grettest humylyte,
And that ys verrylye the sygne
Suych ar most goodly and benygne,
An apple tre with frut most lade
To folk that stonden in the shade
More lowly doth his branches loute
Then a nother tre withoute.
Wher haboundeth most goodness
There is ay most of meeknesse,
None so gret token of bewte
As is parfyt humylyte.
Who wanteth hyr in hys banere
Hath not vertu hool and entere.
"The same gracious salutation," says our book, "is made by
Evangelist to Christian whilst he is weeping." "I looked then,"
says Bunyan, "and saw a man named Evangelist coming to him, who
asked, 'Wherefore dost thou cry?' 'Because I fear,' replies
Christian, 'that this burden that is upon my back will sink me
lower than the grave, and I shall fall into the grave.'"
The simile of the fruit-tree is excellent, and perhaps strikes us
the better for its being the one oasis. The resemblance also is
strong between the greetings of _Gracedieu_ and Evangelist,
and in fact, in the whole situation, and seems hard to account
for without supposing Bunyan to have known Lydgate's or some
other translation of the earlier author.
The next point is one of apparent discrepancy, but really of
likeness. The _Pélerin_ is stopped by a _stream_, at
which he desponds--signifying the water of baptism at the
entrance to the church. Bunyan being a Baptist, with strong
liberal views of communion, (which, indeed, embroiled him at one
time with the radicals of his sect,) naturally balked at this
abhorrent papistical metaphor, and substituted his famous
_Slough of Despond_, which, it will be remembered, he makes
to be sixteen hundred years old--the age of Christianity at his
day.
{542}
Another slight touch, perhaps worth noting, is where De
Guileville's pilgrims come from Moses, (the Mr. Legality of
Bunyan,) as if
_"Yssys du bourbier,
Ou dun noir sac a charbonnier:"_
while Pliable, in a like case, is represented as seeming
"bedaubed with dirt," as if he had been "_dipped in a sack of
charcoal._" This certainly looks like a pebble for Goliath's
forehead. Also these same muddy pilgrims of the
_Pélerinage_, returning _"Enbordiz et encore tous
familleux"_ come back all of a tremor and beg to join the
others: so Christian, after his episode at Mr. Legality's, falls
at the feet of Evangelist with prayers to be put again in the way
of salvation. Again Christian's second companion _Hopeful_
and the _Pélerin's_ staff _Hope_ are branches of one
idea. Farther on, _Gracedieu_ presents her _protégé_
with "the identical pebbles that David had in his scrip when he
fought against Goliath." Bunyan makes the damsels of the palace
called Beautiful, in exhibiting that establishment to the
delighted Christian, display, among other aesthetic accessories
of the place, "the sling and stone with which David slew Goliath
of Gath."
Another curious parallelism is not cited at all in this book. De
Guileville's hero is accosted by Avarice, who, in true Amazon
style, swears by her golden _mammet_ she carries on her head
("_mon ydole est mon Mahommet_" says the old lady,
instructively) that she will have his life, and makes him the
alluring proposal, either to be killed at once, or to give up his
staff and scrip, bow down to her _mammet_, acknowledge it
the most worshipful of mammets, and then be killed after all.
This reminds us very forcibly of the impressive occasion which so
wrought on our childhood's susceptibilities, when "Apollyon
straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, 'I
am void of fear in this matter; _prepare thyself to die; for I
swear by my infernal den,_ that you shall go no farther: here
will I spill thy soul!'" etc.
Such are the main body of the resemblances between the good old
Cistercian abbot and the sturdy Baptist exhorter. There are many
who will look them over and decide quite readily with Mr. Southey
that the coincidences are fugitive and illusory, and that, as he
says, _The Pilgrim's Progress_ might have been exactly what
it is, whether Bunyan had ever seen this book or not." But this
does not show either much acumen or much thought in Mr. Southey.
For all he says might be true from the reason we have before
suggested--that Bunyan knew no French, or certainly not enough to
master the dialect of De Guileville, and might see the book a
thousand times quite harmlessly. We confess, even that if Bunyan
had really been familiar with the original poem, these
similarities would be trifling. But when he must have drawn if at
all from some one of the numerous translations--all
indifferently poor--which abounded in his time, slight
resemblances mean more. Those who have ever played at the
well-known game of passing a story through a number of persons,
one by one, will appreciate the force of this. Bunyan could
scarcely help seeing some of the translations. For, strange to
say, this, to us the baldest of books, was popular for
generations, both in France and England. It is hard to understand
these cases. We are apt to look upon them as instances of the
inveterate slowness of ancient people; but apart from the fact
that this slowness is a very difficult thing to analyze, we know
that in a few years we shall be slow ourselves.
{543}
But what every one does not think is, that we are slow to-day.
Any one who happens to glance over the shelves of any of our
large publishing houses can find there numbers of dull-seeming
works, on various specialties, full of facts, figures,
demonstrations, discoveries, and what seems to us literally
lumber of all sorts. Yet these books sell, and pay an invariable
profit to a well-established house. Who buys them and what
becomes of them, we shall probably learn when the disappearance
of pins, and the necessity of summer clothing, and the origin of
evil, are duly cleared up. Certain it is, that the _Pélerinage
de l'Homme_ enjoyed a wide reputation and diffusion. Chaucer,
especially, was familiar with its author, and his famous "A, B,
C," is a palpable and, so far as we know, an undisguised
imitation of De Guileville's _Prayer to the Virgin_,
published in the same year 1330. Now, a work which, after
filtering through three hundred years, another language and the
brains of "painfulle" translators, could still yield the germ of
the most nationally popular book in all English literature, has
some claim to be called its original.
We shall not attempt to pass upon the question of plagiarism, for
the honest reason that, as we have said, we really do not exactly
know what the word means in the critical vernacular of to-day.
The coincidences we have cited would certainly go to show that
_The Pilgrim's Progress_ is not the entire novelty which its
author so explicitly proclaims it. On the other hand, it is not
proven to complete satisfaction that "John such a dirt-heap ever
was" as to mean to steal anything from anybody. Perhaps the most
peaceable as well as the most novel conclusion that suggests
itself, is to harmonize both sides of this question by a third
theory, namely, that one may be a palpable plagiarist, as the
word is often used, without in the slightest degree detracting
from his originality. The statement sounds extraordinary, but its
ingenious advocate, M. Philarète Chasles, is an extraordinary
Frenchman, and is talking when he advances it, about the "divine
Williams," who is an extraordinary subject for a Frenchman to
talk about. We are very much mistaken if those who smile at this
seeming contradiction of terms will not find some force in the
subjoined excerpt, which we premise, however, suffers greatly in
translation for want of the peculiar super-emphatic style of the
original French.
"Genius arranges and imitates, studies
and deepens; _it never invents_."
"Genius consists in understanding better, penetrating better,
surrounding with more light, what every one does
superficially, or understands by half. One of the singular
traits of Shakespeare is his supreme indifference as to the
subject he is to treat of. _He never cares about it;_ the
excellent artisan knows how to find material in everything. He
takes up at hap-hazard a pebble, a bit of wood, a block of
granite, a block of marble. Little he cares for his
predecessor's having made an old king disinherited by his
daughters, act and talk upon the stage; it is a fact like any
other fact, that counts for no more and no less. Shakespeare
goes on to find whatever of tears and of power there is in the
soul of this old man."
"_People to-day are running after an inventiveness which real
originality lacks;_ it dwells in the artist, not in the
materials he employs. With all great men it is tradition, it
is the people, it is the common heritage of ideas and customs
that has gathered the materials. They have taken them as they
came, and then laid their foundations, transmuted them,
immortalized them.
"If what is called invention were not a deceptive quality, we
should have to rate much higher than Dante, the first idle
monk, who wrote, in lumbering style, a vision of Paradise and
Hell; the coarse authors of certain Italian delineations would
carry the day over Molière; the unknown writers of certain
chronicles, divided into acts, would eclipse Shakespeare.
{544}
"In the epochs of literary decadence those are taken for
inventors who, impelled by a certain ardor of temperament, and
a certain fieriness of phrase, dislocate words and images, and
think they have launched ideas. These folk proclaim themselves
orators. Montaigne, Shakespeare, Molière took to themselves no
merit but that of studying nature, the world, and man."
"The true function of genius is to second.
--_Etudes sur IV. Shakespeare, etc._,
par Philarète Chasles. 1851; p. 88, _sqq._
There is no labor like making up one's mind, (unless it be,
keeping it made up,) and we own ourselves charmed to find in this
acute and able reasoning an outlet of escape from the whole duty
of decision. And we think, too, that the many friends of the old
Pilgrim--those who love him because (tenderest tie!) he was one
of the picture-books of their infancy, those assuredly who have
laughed at him in his French dress, converted to a good Catholic
Palmer; [Footnote 53] and above all, the large Baptist connection
of this magazine, will thank us; and if not, we assure them they
ought to thank us, for this third horn of his sore dilemma.
[Footnote 53: _Petite Bibliothèque de Catholique_, tom.
xix. This is a translation of the first part of _The
Pilgrim's Progress,_ and is duly modified to doctrinal
fitness, and embellished with a frontispiece head of the
Blessed Virgin. Southey speaks also of a _Portuguese
translation_ of 1782. _Nil admirari ... !_]
--------
The Legend Of The Seven Sleepers.
A.D. 439.
The slaves of Adolius went forth on the hill,
And in toiling and talking got half through their day.
The sun was declining; the landscape was still,
As it stretched far beneath. While they delved in the clay,
And uncovered the rocks by command of their master,
Their stories and comments came faster and faster--
"How hot it became about noon!"
"How the olives were prospering greatly!"
That "the figs and the grapes would be plentiful soon--"
And "what changes had happened in Ephesus lately."
They wandered a century back, ay, and more,
To the time when the edict of Decius went out,
As they heard from their fathers. How fiercely it bore
On the Christians! Their blood in the streets flowed about
How the fame of Diana, whose beauty they knew
By description, those martyrs with horror did view!
How the Goth with his merciless torch
From the Euxine had rushed, an invincible foeman,
And spurning the goddess, had fired her high porch,
Despite of the wide-sweeping blade of the Roman.
{545}
Then one ceased his work, who was wrinkled and gray,
And, his hand on his mattock, he said: "It appears
Now since Decius did reign, from what wise people say,
To be clear of one hundred and eighty good years.
When his cruelty flourished, I'm told there were seven
Good youths of our city--so long gone to heaven--
Who fled to these parts and were pent
By the emperor's soldiers, who came on a sally,
And built up the cave." To his mattock he bent,
And a rock that he loosened rolled down to the valley.
They found a large rent where the rock had its bed,
Which with eager assault they made larger by delving;
And a cave was disclosed like a home of the dead--
It was horrid and cold, it was rugged and shelving.
The foulness of ages, unused to the light,
Seemed grimly reclaiming its curtain of night.
But look! as the mist grows more clear,
There's a form moving outward--of hell or of heaven--
The slaves did not question, but fled in their fear;
But in truth this was Iamblichus, one of the seven.
He paused at the mouth; placed his hands on his eyes;
Then he looked toward Ephesus, bathèd in light;
And he journeyed in haste, till with speechless surprise
A cross on the grand city gate met his sight.
He wondered, he doubted, he hearkened the din
Of the city; and kissing the symbol, passed in;
This place he so lately had known
Was transformed--had grown foreign, and altered, and cold;
He was famished for bread, and his wishes were shown;
But they liked not his accents, his dress, or his gold.
"Away to the judge with this madman or worse!"
"He has treasure that must be accounted." They went.
"I'm a Christian," he said, "and am wealthy; my purse
I have offered for bread. Should it be your intent
To enroll me a martyr, my life I'll lay down:
Take my life! Take my wealth in exchange for the crown."
Then the judge when he looked and saw clearly
That Decius' head on the coin did appear,
Declared, while he doubted, "this youth must be nearly
Two hundred years older than any one here!"
The bishop was sent for, and Iamblichus spoke:
"Six others and he had but yesterday fled;
They had slept in a cave, and this morning awoke;
And he had been sent to the city for bread."
"True sons," said the bishop, "of God's predilection!
These men are all saints who have found resurrection.
{546}
Resurrection indeed but from sleep,
Which the God of all nature prolonging had shed,
Like a life-saving balsam, to guard and to keep
Those whose memory had passed with the ancient and dead."
The city was emptied the emperor came,
The people, the magnates and all, in a throng,
Beat a broad hardened path to that cavern of fame,
Where the young men of Ephesus slumbered so long.
And when Iamblichus shouted, they came at his call;
And the seven stood together amidst of them all.
But nature asserted her sway,
Which a special design had for once set aside;
And they lived but to gaze on the light of the day,
And imparting their blessing, they painlessly died.
Through the wide Roman empire their fame travelled round;
The East and the West have adopted the story;
In Syriac, in Greek, and in Latin 'tis found;
The Romans and Russians agree in their glory
Where Mahomet conquered, they're known unto all,
And are reverenced as saints from Algiers to Bengal.
The cavilling sceptic may doubt;
But sooner shall earth to destruction be hurled,
Than Iamblichus' name be dethroned or die out,
Or the tale of the sleepers depart from the world.
--------
Family, Parish, And Sunday-school Libraries.
It would be trite to say that the press is an extraordinary power
for good or for evil. Some have decried it, as if they looked
upon it as not merely evil by accident, but bad in itself. We
cannot agree with them. We regard the press, in the order of
divine providence, as a rapid means of spreading the truth and
the morality of the Gospel among mankind. There is an apostleship
of the pen as well as of the mouth. The written word often does
more than the spoken word; as a proof from Scripture may often
tell more forcibly on the mind of an unbeliever, than an argument
from tradition.
Printing is a blessing; the press is a boon and a power which the
friends of God should know how to use better than his enemies.
True, the latter employ it to great effect, What a torrent of bad
literature is poured daily over the world!
{547}
The press is a huge monster, sending forth from its giant jaws
poison, that circulates in the blood of society. Infidelity and
false theology; immoral, obscene, and useless books are its
offspring. Reviews, magazines, weekly and daily papers, issue
from it; and are made the vehicles of falsehood and vice. Such is
the fact. What are the friends of religion to do, when its
enemies are so active? Will it do for us to sit down and express
our longings for the good old times when there were no printed
books? Hold up our eyes in holy horror, but let our hands hang
unemployed by our side? Decry the wickedness of the press; the
dishonesty of the authors, and deplore the vitiated taste of the
populace, whose minds we see daily devouring the poisoned trash
of novels and newspapers; and remain content with uttering an
empty sigh? No; we must be up and doing. We must fight the foes
of religion with their own weapons. We must use the press against
those who abuse it. The old tar who was accustomed to see only
wooden ships contend on the ocean; or the veteran of the
battle-field who fought for liberty with an antiquated firelock,
would be laughed at now for protesting against the use of
ironclads or needle-guns in warfare. In vain would he say that
what won battles half a century ago ought to win them still. So
would it be unreasonable to cling solely to those weapons of
spiritual combat which were good enough a century ago, but which
to-day are blunt or rusty. We must copper the keels and plate the
sides of our wooden vessels with iron; and remodel the ancient
shooting-irons of the scholastics to meet the exigencies of
modern circumstances. It can hardly be questioned that the amount
of bad or useless books published daily is greater than the
quantity of good ones. Now, whose fault is this? The fault of the
writers? Yes, in part. But they tell us, when asked why they
write improper works, that the people will not read any other
kind; and that if they were to follow truth, and not to please
the passions in their compositions, they would starve. The great
cause of bad literature is, therefore, the corrupt taste of the
masses. It is at the same time cause and effect; for literary men
suit their books to it; and these again help to spread moral
diseases farther, and make them sink more deeply into the brains
of the community.
The chief means of counteracting the influence of bad books is by
writing good ones; by spreading a taste for sound and wholesome
reading. In this way can morality be preserved in the soul. To
this end should we Catholics direct our energies. We number in
this country many millions; and if we were all filled with an
ardent zeal for souls, we should think no sacrifice too great, of
time, labor, or purse, in order to destroy the pernicious effects
of un-Catholic or anti-Catholic books and journals. Men will
read. They need food for the mind as well as for the body. Let us
give them wholesome food. It was in this sense that Pius IX., in
speaking of France, said, "You Frenchmen have planted the tree of
science almost everywhere. I do not object to this, provided you
do not allow it to become the science of evil; and this will
happen, _if you do not inundate France with good
publications._" The words apply to our own country as well as
to France.
Write and publish good books then! We do not mean by good books,
merely technical, spiritual books. We mean interesting books, in
which nothing against faith or morals is found; and in which
everything tends to promote good morals.
{548}
A good novel, or any work of fiction, a pamphlet or brochure, a
newspaper article--anything and everything, from a dear folio to
a one cent tract, provided it be moral in aim and method, comes
under the class of "good publications." We prefer small, cheap
books to large and expensive ones. The people cannot understand
learned works, but they can comprehend a tract, a magazine, or a
small book, like those published in Paris, and scattered among
the population by the zealous Abbé Mullois and his fervent
associates of the French clergy and laity. Books for general and
popular reading should be written and dressed in a popular style.
Small works of fiction and anecdote, or an allegory containing a
wholesome truth, will do more than a dry sermon. Horace tells us
that the old schoolmasters used to give their pupils cakes, to
incite them to learn:
"--ut pueris olim dant crustula blandi
Doctores, elementa velint ut discere prima."
We too, laughing, may tell the truth, and sugar-coat the pill so
as to make its bitterness less sensible. It is astonishing to
learn how much good has been done among the lower classes in
France by the good priests and laymen just mentioned. The Abbé
Mullois gives us instances of conversions effected, of wicked men
reclaimed, of virtues instilled into minds almost brutal, by the
casual perusal of some little book or tract. These small
publications are put in a valise or trunk, and read in the cars,
in the work-shop, at home, or in the house of a friend, and they
leave a lasting impression behind them. Thus we quote the good
Abbé's words:
"There was a poor widow with many children. The eldest, who
alone could help her, was a very hard case. Instead of
bringing anything home, he often stole the money necessary for
the support of the family. His poor mother suffered, prayed,
and wept in vain. But one day this young man being at home,
had no money with which to go on a spree. He began to amuse
himself with looking over a collection of old books on the
chimney. He takes up one, reads it, becomes interested and is
moved by it. He even weeps; he leaves the book reluctantly,
but returns to its perusal next day. His mother observed a
great change in his person; even his figure was transformed;
but she was more surprised when her son, awaiting an
opportunity to find her alone, addressed her as follows: 'My
dear mother, I have made you suffer much; I am a wretch; I
have seen it in a book. I shall never be able by work to aid
you enough or pay all that I owe you. I have found a means of
assisting you till my brothers and sisters grow up. I am going
to enlist; you will receive a large bounty. This is the only
way in which I can atone for my neglect of you.' And he
immediately after joined the army."
This is but one of many instances recorded by Abbé Mullois in
_L'Ami du Jeune Clergé_, a monthly magazine devoted to the
interests of religion.
Go into many houses, and you will find the _Ledger_; the
_Sunday Mercury_, the daily newspapers, the _Atlantic
Monthly_, and often, even in Christian families, you may find
publications far worse than these; occasionally, even lay hold of
an obscene or grossly immoral book lying around loose, within
reach of the children. Let our Catholic publications drive out
all others--at least, such as are positively injurious--from
Catholic families. Let the children, the young men and women,
have Catholic books to read, and let the Catholic doctrines
percolate through their minds even from early life.
How can we effect this? By children's, family, and parish
libraries. We must write good books for the young, and give them
opportunities of reading; parents should see to this; and should
always have in their families a supply of good Catholic reading
matter; a collection of tracts, or of tales, like those of Canon
Schmidt, or a Catholic newspaper, magazine, or review.
{549}
A family library is a treasure in a house, and goes down from
father to child as a most precious heirloom. Its benefits are
spiritual; and it is often better than a fortune.
But the principal means of promoting a taste for Catholic
literature, and encouraging those who have devoted their lives to
its cause, is by the formation of parish libraries. Let us hear
the Abbé Mullois pleading in this cause. "In order to combat bad
books and bad doctrines, we must have and spread good books as
the only efficacious method. It is useless to spend the time in
complaining or in railing against evil publications. There is a
new want in our days not known to the middle ages. The people
know how to read, and they will read. The popular intellect is
hungry, and we must feed it. You cannot argue with hunger; it is
stronger than you; it will break and sweep away all your
arguments and reasons. You have no right to say to some one who
is dying of hunger, 'You are wrong to eat such food; it is
unhealthy,' unless you can give him something good and wholesome.
In hunger, people _eat what they have_, not _what they
would like to have_.
"We say, then, that actions, not words, are necessary, and that
every one should help, for there is plenty to do for all, both
priests and laity.
"What must we do? Let us go straight to the point. In the first
place, every parish should have a little library of select books,
both instructive and amusing. Books of history, of science, of
agriculture, on morals or religion, at the disposal of every one
to read, and to bring back safely. You must have one, my reverend
brother, else your parish will be considered the worst managed in
France; for these libraries are almost everywhere in it."--Is
this true of the United States?--" If it already exists, increase
it annually, embellish and complete it. It brings in a revenue.
Can it be possible that you have no parish library? Oh! how
difficult it is to propagate good ideas! We spend money for
schools, and invite the world to the banquet of science; we
create appetites, but when they are willing to eat, we tell them
there is little or nothing for them. We have schools for boys,
and for girls, day, night, and Sunday-schools; but where is the
use of all these if there is nothing to read, or nothing but what
is pernicious? If we teach children to read, we must provide
intellectual food for them, or show ourselves devoid of logic,
reason, good sense, and heart."
To whom are we to look for the realization of the good Abbé's
plan in our country? In the first place, to the clergy. They are
our guides, our fathers, our leaders in every good enterprise.
Their influence is unlimited. Probably in no country has a priest
so much power, or so many opportunities of doing good, as in the
United States. The politician may control several thousand votes;
a brave general may so infuse his own courage into the hearts of
his soldiers as to make them carry the fiercest battery with the
cold steel. But no one can do as the priest. On a Sunday, from
his pulpit or altar, he can, in a short discourse of fifteen or
twenty minutes, influence the actions, open the purses, and
create the spirit of enthusiastic sacrifice in a whole community.
He can build a church; he can found a benevolent society; surely
he can found a parish or Sunday-school library. He knows the
ravages of souls committed by non-Catholic periodical or other
literature.
{550}
He has only to say the word, and he, in a great measure, stops
them. A sermon on the dangers of bad books will have its
completion in the founding or enlarging of a parish library,
filled with good publications. What an easy means of preventing
so much evil!
"But," you say, "the clergy have no time." Undoubtedly their time
is greatly taken up with parochial duties. In our country, bricks
and mortar are by necessity as familiar to the eye of the priest,
as books of theology. He has no time to write; very little time
to read. This is true of the venerable senior clergy. But they
need not do more than give their sanction to the work, and
entrust it to the hands of the assistant, or of some responsible
layman. A "few words from the pastor, recommending the library,
and an occasional inspection of its management, will be
sufficient. The curate, whose duties are not of so engrossing a
nature as those of the pastor; or some good lay members of the
parish; the young men of a literary or debating society; or
members of the Saint Vincent de Paul Society; or the
school-teacher, or, if need be, the schoolmistress, will do all
that is necessary. In many parishes there are libraries, well
conducted, well managed, and productive of immense moral and
intellectual benefits among the young and old of both sexes. Our
readers must know that there are such from their own experience.
It will, therefore, require very little time from the pastor to
have and to keep a parish library in perfect working order,
according to rules laid down or sanctioned by himself. No zealous
priest, who has once known the beneficial results of good family
and parish libraries among his flock, would allow them to be
neglected; or would not become a champion of our good cause. We
ask, then, in the name of religion, of charity and morality; by
the love of our holy faith, and by the zeal of the apostles, that
all the clergy, young and old, should put their shoulders to the
wheel with us, and roll on the car of Catholic progress, which
carries in it our Catholic books and publications.
So many hundred priests, talented and learned, speaking from so
many hundred pulpits and altars, guiding the consciences of so
many millions of men, are a power able to defeat all the
productions of a licentious press; and if, united by a common
zeal, they but lock hands and pull together, they cannot fail to
realize the already quoted expression of our holy Father, Pius
IX., speaking of France, _to inundate the country with good
publications_. We priests often fail to realize our power and
influence.
Nor should the laity be idle. "In the day of a nation's peril,"
says Tertullian, "every citizen becomes a soldier; in the great
struggles of the faith, every Christian becomes an apostle." Let
the sacred fire of zeal pass from the bosom of the priest to burn
in the breasts of the laity. There is a certain priesthood of the
laity, which they do not sufficiently understand. They are too
apt to be passive, to let the priest do all the labor, and only
help him when called and urged; they forget that piety and good
works are as essential to them as to their spiritual directors,
and that so far from, their zeal being an intrusion on that of
the priesthood, it is an acceptable assistance. How many a poor,
tired priest longs that some good layman would relieve him of a
portion of his burden, and enable him to bear the load and
responsibility of his parish! We call on the laity, then, to come
to the rescue: help in the cause of God!
{551}
Found libraries; or at any rate, stock a few shelves in your own
homes with good books for yourselves and your friends or
children. Become propagandists! You propagate the faith; you aid
the pope, the bishops, and the priests; you are doing a work
acceptable to God, when you help to spread good books or
periodicals. Encourage others by your example. Are you a young
man? Engage others with you in the cause of Catholic literature.
Can you write? Have you a ready pen? Why not write a tract, or a
good article for a Catholic paper? or buy it and give to your
infidel or Protestant neighbors? You may save a soul by giving
that little tract. You may save a soul for one cent! Do not be
afraid because you are said to be too young; or, if some one
patronizingly informs you of the fact, be sure you are right, and
that God is on your side; then go ahead.
Hear how the zealous Montalembert answered the charge of being a
young man, slurringly made against him by M. Villemain, in the
house of peers, in the time of Louis Philippe. Montalembert had
been defending the liberty of the church. "I shall argue,
perhaps, too ardently, too warmly, with that youthful vivacity of
which the minister of public instruction and others accuse me.
Youth is a fault of which I am daily correcting myself. I thought
myself already cured of it, until the honorable M. Villemain told
me the contrary, and that I shall always remain a young man in
his eyes. (Laughter.) But besides the youth of age which passes
away, there is another youthfulness for which I shall never make
an apology or defence; it is the youthfulness of heart and
courage inspired by a faith whose doctrines never grow old,
because they are immortal! This youthfulness of faith is my
happiness and glory; and I hope never to excuse myself for it
before you." Inexperience is not always the companion of youth.
Young priest or young layman then, let your youth of years be
like that of Montalembert, and not prevent you from aiding the
holy cause of the Catholic press.
Little leisure is therefore required; and we have undoubtedly
plenty of talent to write and give good books to the million; to
establish family, children's, Sunday-school, or parish libraries.
The rules for the special management of libraries are easily
found. Either obtain those already in use, or obtain a set of new
regulations from the pastor. The regulations of many of our
public libraries are used in many Protestant Sunday-school
libraries. For false religions know to use the press; and
Protestants know well the influence which their religious
journals, periodicals, tracts, and other publications exercise on
the minds of both young and old. We certainly ought not to be
behind the propagandists of error in our propagandism of truth.
We need not, therefore, specify any system of rules for the
maintenance of good order in the case of libraries. Any librarian
will easily find regulations that have been found to work
successfully.
A more grave difficulty than that of finding rules to manage a
library is that of obtaining the money to create it. Money is the
main-stay and the backbone of Catholic publications. If it be the
sinews of war, it is certainly the life of the press. Unless the
public pays the author, he will not write; and you cannot collect
books without money to purchase them. A hard-worked priest will
say, "I have enough to do to raise money to build my church, or
school, or parochial house, without spending it on books."
{552}
The layman will say, "You are always begging. We cannot give for
everything; and I have no cash to spare for your magazine, for
your tracts, or your books, for I have to give it for the new
church, or the new school, or the new priest's house."
In answer to this difficulty, we observe, firstly, that a
library, or collection of books, is almost of equal importance,
in some respects more important, than a school or a house;
secondly, a parish library costs but a trifle, which will not be
missed either by priest or people.
Let us hear, before developing our answer, how the good Abbé
Mullois, whose spirit inspires the whole of is article, resolves
the objection in _L'Ami du Jeune Clergé_, for May and June,
1867:
"We know a man," says he, "who has given away in four years
_forty-two thousand volumes!_"--Would any one in America
do this?--"A zealous woman in Paris gives six of eight thousand
francs yearly to help Catholic publications; and after sending
every package of good books for distribution, she is sure to
receive letters of this kind: 'Madam, I have heard of your
great charity; you have sent books to such a place; they were
liked, and so interesting that everybody wanted one to read.
They did much good. Would you be kind enough to send me some?'
"The Society of St. Francis de Sales gives
twenty-five or thirty thousand francs annually
for this purpose; the society for the
amelioration and propagation of good books
spends fifty thousand francs a year in the
work. It is not books, therefore, that are
wanting. Let them be sought, and they will
be found. Why are there so many corrupt
publications? because they find readers. Let
us make readers of good publications by doing
our duty.
"In order to begin a library, thirty, forty, or fifty francs
will do. A good pastor of the diocese of Soissons tells us the
way in which he raised the funds to found a library, in the
following terms: 'I wanted to establish this good work in my
parish, but money was the difficulty. I soon conquered it. On
Sun I preached on the necessity of education in general; and I
told my parishioners that, if they wanted to be educated, I
could furnish them about fifty volumes for thirty francs, to
make a beginning. But how was I to get the thirty francs? Let
thirty persons give me a franc apiece. This will enable me to
found a library, and you will be able _to read all your life
for one franc!_ Next day, forty-five persons subscribed,
and thirty-five paid the cash down. The others will pay during
the year.'"
When we remember that a franc is about equal to a quarter-dollar
of our currency; we, who are accustomed to give dollars by the
tens and twenties for every collection, will smile at the
_naïveté_ of the _bon curé_ and the modesty of his
request.
He helps us, however, to answer our own difficulty. From all that
we have written concerning the pernicious influence of bad
publications, and the necessity of counteracting it by good ones,
it follows that a good library in a parish, with reading
parishioners, is almost as important as a good school. In fact,
what good is the school, if, after leaving it, our children have
no reading-room, no good books, to keep up the remembrance of
what was learned in childhood? It is after his school days, that
the young man meets all the great perils of his faith and
morality. It is then young women want good books to read, instead
of the yellow-covered trash, or pictorial, sensational serials,
over which you may find the young of both sexes gloating of a
Sunday afternoon, or of a rainy night, wasting their health of
body and mind in this midnight perusal. The cause, then, of
Catholic publications, of Catholic tracts, of the Catholic press,
is the cause of religion itself. We are not exaggerating; we are
only giving it that place among the means of preserving and
propagating faith and good morals which the Catholic Church,
speaking through the mouth of the supreme pontiff and bishops,
give it.
{553}
A good book in the house is a guardian angel. It has the voice of
a priest, and the tongue of inspiration. It speaks and enlightens
the intellect; it warms the heart, and fills the mind with good
thoughts, and the imagination with holy images. It speaks in the
silence of the night, as well as in the effulgence of the day,
and its impressions pass from the written pages to be engraved
for ever on the soul of the reader.
What a trifle to found a library! Who objects to give it? We do
not say merely thirty francs, like the parish priest of the
diocese of Soissons. We suit the sum to the generous and wealthy
character of the people. For our poor people are wealthy compared
with the poor of Europe. Fifty persons giving a dollar apiece
could lay the foundation of a library that might grow in the
course of time into great magnitude and celebrity. By clubbing
together, expenses are always diminished. It is the custom, as we
know, of Catholic publishers, as well of all booksellers, to make
a reduction in price when a large quantity of books is bought. A
small tax of one or two cents a week on books lent from the
library brings gradually a large revenue, which enables the
librarian to increase his store. What parish would miss fifty
dollars? What priest or people begrudge it for so good a purpose?
Then let the work be undertaken, where it has not yet been begun;
and progress with renewed zeal, where there has already been made
a beginning.
Let the pulpits ring; give at least one sermon in favor of this
good cause! Brothers of the clergy, veterans whose hair has grown
gray in the church militant; you know that we do not exaggerate
the importance of Catholic publications in the battle of our holy
faith against the devil, the flesh and the world; we appeal to
you! Young Levites, fresh from your school glories, do not forget
your projects for God's honor and for the spread of his holy
faith; we ask your succor also. And you, over-tasked yet generous
laity, ever ready to respond joyfully to a call made on your
faith or your charity, we ask you, too, to interest yourselves in
the cause of Catholic publications. We ask all to unite with God,
with the church, with the supreme pontiff and the episcopate, in
furthering the work of the Catholic press, Catholic books,
Catholic literature of every description; from the tract or
little tale, the Sunday-school paper, to the ponderous
theological or philosophical folio. God will crown our work. He
asks but our cordial cooperation. Success must therefore follow
our efforts; for if God is for us, who can withstand us? _Si
Deus pro nob is, quis contra nos?_
"The necessity of a Sunday-school library no one disputes. But
how am I to get one?" says the pastor.
Make a beginning. Buy Catholic tales, biographies, and the
smaller class of books which are popular among children. More
costly books can be added afterward.
At first give books to the more advanced classes as a reward for
good lessons, good conduct, etc. As the library increases, the
privilege can be extended till it embraces every class capable of
profiting by it.
But how is the library to be supported and enlarged? Take up a
collection every Sunday at the children's Mass, as is done in
many churches in this city and elsewhere, where good libraries
are already in existence. This will not only create a fund
sufficient to sustain and enlarge the library, but will also give
the children the habit of contributing to the support of
religion, which will be of the greatest benefit to them in after
life.
{554}
This plan has been successfully tried; the children have been
able to support and steadily enlarge the library, and have also
given liberally to other charitable objects.
Again, When and how shall the books be distributed? A very
successful method is the following:
Number the classes in the Sunday-school. Divide the library into
as many sections or alcoves as you have classes. There must be at
least as many books in each alcove as there are scholars in any
class. A separate catalogue of each alcove should be made and
designated as section A, B, C, etc.
Erasive tablets may be easily procured. On one side may be
written the names and numbers of the books in each section, and
the other side used to record the numbers of the books selected.
This being done, after the Sunday-school is opened, let the
librarian or assistant give a catalogue of a section to each
class; section A to class 1, section B to class 2, etc.
The teachers will then select books for the class, and mark the
numbers on the tablet. The librarian collects the tablets and
carries to each class the books selected. The teacher notes the
number of the book against the name of the child who receives it
in his class-book. The next Sunday, let the books be first
collected and returned to their places. The catalogues are then
given out. Those who chose from selection A before, should now
have section B, and so on in rotation. Thus all will in turn
select from each section of the library, and the books are
distributed in a short time, without noise or confusion.
How shall the books be selected? This is not an easy task. Many
have been deterred from starting a library on account of the
difficulty in making this selection. In view of this, we have
prepared a catalogue suitable for a parochial and Sunday-school
library, which the reader can find in our advertising pages.
These are put down at the lowest terms, and are selected with
care, as the most suitable to make a beginning with. As funds
increase, others can be added from time to time.
--------
The Comedy Of Convocation. [Footnote 54]
[Footnote 54: _The Comedy of Convocation in the English
Church, in Two Scenes_. Edited by Archdeacon Chasuble,
D.D. 8vo, pp. 135. London: William Freeman.]
Satire without bitterness or rancor is a phenomenon in literature
of which the world has seen few examples, and genuine, religious
satire has been so rare, that we can hardly recall a single
unexceptionable specimen. There was a day, to be sure, when every
poet held it a part of his profession to lacerate with the weapon
of his wit, or with the rhymed invective which too often passed
for wit, whatever creed happened at the time to be most
unpopular. Some few even of the great masters of verse, like
Dryden and Butler, trenched upon the domain of religious
controversy; but Dryden's _Hind and Panther_ and _Religio
Laici_ are rather dogmatical poems than satires, and Butler's
_Hudibras_, which is pure satire, is aimed less at a
religious sect than at a political party.
{555}
Here we have, however, a prose satire in the Church of England,
which is one of the most admirable specimens of that class of
literature in our own or any other language. It is sharp without
unkindness; it contains not a syllable of invective; it is
honest; it is logical; the wit is radiant; the fun is
overpowering; and the application is irresistible. Volumes could
not expose the preposterous errors of Anglicanism with half the
effect produced by this little pamphlet. The troubles and
perplexities of the English divines, the absurdities of the privy
council, the purposeless debates of convocations, the conflict of
beliefs, the uncertainty of dogmas, the vain theories of deans
and doctors, the darkness, the wavering, the inconsistency, the
worldliness of the Anglican Church, are pictured in this little
comedy to the very life. Its appearance has created in London a
profound sensation. Anglicans are smarting under the exposure,
and everybody else is laughing at the ludicrous exhibition. The
authorship is unknown, but we are inclined to believe that the
current rumor which ascribes it to Dr. J. H. Newman is well
founded. We doubt whether there is another man in England capable
of writing it.
The _Dramatis Personae_ embrace a number of deans,
archdeacons, and lesser ecclesiastical dignitaries, and the first
scene takes place in "the Jerusalem Chamber," where Convocation
is in session.
"Doctor Easy rose to propose the question of which he had given
notice at the previous sitting of Con 'Would it be considered
heresy in the Church of England to deny the existence of God?'
It had occurred to him that he should, perhaps, adopt a form
more convenient for the present debate, if he put the question
thus: 'Would a clergyman, openly teaching that there was no
God, be liable to suspension?'
"Archdeacon Jolly thought not. What the Church of England
especially prided herself upon was the breadth of her views. No
view could be broader than the one just stated, and therefore,
none more likely to meet with the sanction of the privy
council, which, he apprehended, was the real point to be kept
in view in the discussion of this interesting question. (Hear,
hear.)
"Dean Blunt concurred in the opinion that breadth and the privy
council were kindred ideas. Still, it might be asked, could
even the doctrinal elasticity of that tribunal become
sufficiently expansive to embrace the enormous hypothesis of
his learned friend? He ventured to think that it could. Let it
be supposed that some clergymen of the Church of England--say
the Archbishop of Canterbury--should publicly teach that there
was no God. The case being brought before the privy council, it
might be reasonably assumed that that supreme arbiter of
Anglican doctrine would deliver some such judgment as the
following:
'We find that the Church of England is not opposed to the
existence of a God. At the same time, we cannot overlook the
fact that the nineteenth article, in affirming that all
churches, even the apostolic, have erred in matters of faith,
obviously implies that the Church of England may err also in
the same way. Therefore the Church of England may err in
teaching that there is a God. We conclude, that whilst, on
the one hand, the archbishop has taken an extreme or
one-sided view of the teaching of the church; on the other,
for the reason assigned, it is undoubtedly open to every
clergyman either to believe in or to deny the existence of a
God.'
"Archdeacon Theory would be disposed cordially to approve the
judgment which the learned dean anticipated. He had always
maintained that it was the _duty_ of every Anglican to
doubt the existence of God. (Uproar.)
{556}
Let him not be misunderstood. Speaking for himself, he had a
moral and intellectual conviction that there was a God. He was
not disputing the objective truth of the existence of a God:
about that he could not suppose that a single member of
Convocation could entertain the most transitory doubt. He was
speaking only of their duty as members of the Church of
England, and not at all of their obligation as Christians; two
things which might happen in a particular case to be as wide
apart as the poles, and to involve distinct and opposite
responsibilities. Now, as members of the Church of England, he
believed it was their duty to doubt, not only the existence of
God, but also every separate article which the Church of
England now taught, or might teach hereafter; and the more
emphatically the Church of England appeared to teach, the more
imperative was their duty to doubt. For, referring to the
ingenious argument which Dean Blunt had put into the mouth of
their national oracle, it was clear that the Church of England
in denying her own infallibility, laid all her members under
the religious obligation of doubting everything she taught.
Fallibility, properly defined, was not simply liability to err,
it was _the state of error_. As infallibility is a state
of certainty, which does not admit of error; so fallibility is
a state of doubt which does not admit of conviction. Now, the
Church of England, in proclaiming her own fallibility, did so
with a peremptoriness which elevated this part of her teaching,
and this alone, to the dignity of dogma. For, whereas, in
propounding other Anglican tenets, she so adjusted her
definitions of doctrine as to leave the choice of possible and
opposite interpretations to the discretion of her members; when
speaking of this, the fundamental axiom of her whole
theological system, she rose for the moment to the authority of
a _teacher_, and consented to put on the robe of
infallibility, in order to promulgate with greater force the
dogma of her own liability to error."
Here is the key to the first scene. The discussion is maintained
at considerable length, and carries us over the whole ground of
the authority of the English church to teach divine truth; and in
the course of it, some representative of each of the most
prominent schools of theological opinion in the establishment
takes occasion to express his mind. Dr. Viewy holds that since
heresy is the choice of one's creed, as opposed to the submission
of the will to authority, no Anglican can be guilty of heresy who
obeys the teachings of his ecclesiastical superiors; and hence,
in the Church of England, it might be _conditionally_, but
could not be _necessarily_, heresy to deny the existence of
God. As that church is taunted by her enemies with holding and
rejecting every imaginable creed, the only safe course for a
clergyman is to centre the whole of his obedience in that one
bishop or rector, under whom, for the time being, he may find
himself placed.
"In other words, since to obey any _two_ ecclesiastical
authorities at the same moment involved the risk of being
pronounced a heretic by either one or the other--because no two
clergymen are exactly of the same belief--the only effective
safeguard against the possibility of heresy was personal
obedience to one clergyman at a time. When first ordained to
the office of the diaconate, from which he had been
subsequently elevated to unmerited dignities, he found himself
in the diocese of a low-church bishop--he might say a very
low-church bishop--so low that any further descent into the
regions of a purely negative theology would have left no
doctrinal residuum whatever.
{557}
He at once decided, in virtue of his principle of obedience to
authority, to teach his flock the religion of his bishop,
which, by careful analysis, he resolved into two articles of
belief--the denial of dogma, and the assertion of self. (Dean
Pompous audibly whispered, 'Highly unbecoming.') But here he
had met with a difficulty in starting; for it happened that his
rector was a Puseyite; and that, consequently, in the main,
whatever the bishop taught to be true, the rector taught to be
false, and whatever the bishop taught to be false, the rector
taught to be true. The case, as convocation knew, was so common
in this country, as to form, perhaps, the rule in a majority of
parochial cures. His principle, however, suggested an easy
escape from the embarrassing position. He applied it thus:
manifestly more obedience was due to a bishop than to a rector;
yet a certain _quantum_ of obedience was due to a rector,
if only because a bishop had appointed him. It became, so to
speak, a question of proportion rather than of theology, and
was soluble, not by the thirty-nine articles, but by the rule
of three; and, after working it out with religious care, the
following commended itself to him as the solution of the
problem. He would preach low-church doctrines on the Sundays,
denying the sacramental view and all its consequences, as the
homage of clerical obedience due to the bishop; but he would
teach high-church doctrines during the week, without abating a
single tenet, in discharge of the proportionate measure of
obedience due to the rector. This practice gave rise, he was
bound to admit, to some excitement in the parish, and led to
the popular conviction that, however excellent his teaching
might be in detail, there was a want of unity about it when
looked at as a whole. Yet when he explained to his parishioners
the purity of the motive which induced the apparent
contradictions, and proved to them that his duplex system was
designed only to reflect justly and proportionately the two
aspects of Christianity exhibited by their bishop and their
rector, the whole parish at once applauded the delicacy of his
conscience, while it ceased not to question the value of his
teaching. And so things went on with tolerable harmony for the
space of a year; when, unhappily, both the bishop and the
rector died about the same time; the former being quickly
replaced by a high-church bishop, appointed by a friend in the
cabinet, and the latter by a low-church rector, nominated by
Mr. Simeon's trustees. It now became his duty, in consistency
with his principle of obedience to personal authority, to
invert the order and portion of his teaching. He would continue
to give the Sundays to the bishop, and the week-days to the
rector; but on Sundays he must now be a Puseyite, and on
week-days an Evangelical; and this simple inversion, so
equitable in itself, and inspired solely by the desire of
submitting himself to his superiors, created such discord in
the parish, that finally he was entreated, as the only means of
restoring peace, to resign his cure of souls.
"Dean Pliable concurred, in the main, with the principle of the
learned divine who had just resumed his seat, that obedience to
authority was the first duty of a clergyman; but he utterly
differed from him in his application of the principle, which
appeared to him to be equally servile and injudicious.
{558}
That principle he conceived to be most effectually carried out,
not by abject submission to this bishop or that, this rector or
that--which might be both possible and convenient, if, in the
Church of England, as in the Church of Rome, every bishop and
every rector taught the same Christianity--but in the larger
and nobler aim of faithfully representing at one and the same
time _all_ the Christianities taught by all the bishops
and all the rectors of the Church of England. In other words,
since every one confessed that it was impossible to teach a
uniform theology in the Church of England, whose highest
tribunal had ruled that her clergy might teach _either_ of
two opposite doctrines--and therefore both alternately--he was
brought to the conviction that the only course open to
Anglicans solicitous about theoretical unity was to profess at
the same moment every doctrine held within their communion, and
all their contradictories. (Great uproar: a well-known preacher
was heard to exclaim--"He would convert us into ecclesiastical
acrobats.")
"Dean Critical inquired, with a touch of irony in his voice and
manner--'Could any of his reverend friends undertake to inform
him what was the authority of the Church of England?' Hitherto
the debate had gone only to show what it was not. Dr. Theory
had maintained that there was no such thing. Dr. Viewy and Dean
Pliable had each of them proved that it did not reside in the
bishops and clergy, unless, indeed, it might be supposed to
exist in equal measure in every one of them; but, as they were
unhappily in direct opposition to one another on many
fundamental doctrines, this was equivalent to saying that
_no_ authority to decide Christian doctrine existed in the
Church of England. If there really were any such authority,
convocation could hardly be more usefully employed than in
defining its nature and fixing its limits.
"Archdeacon Jolly observed, without rising from his seat--'What
say you to the Archbishop of Canterbury?' (Some laughter, which
was immediately suppressed.)
"Dean Critical reminded the venerable archdeacon that the
Archbishop of Canterbury was not alluded to in their
formularies in any such character, and feared, it must be said
without disrespect, that he had no more power to determine a
disputed point of doctrine than his amiable lady, whose
hospitality many of them had enjoyed. It was a lamentable fact
that his Grace had no more authority over the people of
England, nor over a single individual out of his own household,
than ... (a voice exclaimed, 'the King of the Sandwich
Islands,' a suggestion which was greeted with mingled applause
and disapprobation.)
"Archdeacon Jolly: Well, then, her Majesty the Queen, whom the
church admits to be 'supreme' in all causes, spiritual as well
as temporal?
"Dean Critical could not forget that her Majesty, in whom they
recognized a model of every Christian virtue, frequented,
indifferently, Presbyterian meeting-houses and the churches of
their own communion. If, therefore, as the law appeared to
admit, the authority of the Anglican Church resided in her
royal person, it followed that the Westminster Confession and
the Thirty-nine Articles were equally true, and that every
Anglican was also a Presbyterian.
"Archdeacon Jolly: 'How about the Privy Council? If it be the
ultimate judge of doctrine, must it not be the authority for
which you are seeking?'
{559}
"Dean Critical thought not, because in fact, the sum of its
decisions amounted to this--that the Church of England taught
nothing and denied nothing, which was equivalent to saying that
she believed nothing. A tribunal which decided in every case of
disputed doctrine, as the privy council invariably did, that
both the plaintiff and defendant were right, was a judicial
curiosity that could hardly be said to afford the litigant
parties much assistance in bringing their cause to an issue.
The privy council might be an authority _over_ the Church
of England, whose decisions the latter was obliged to receive;
but no one could seriously maintain that it was an authority to
which any Anglican, of whatever party in the church, professed
to submit his conscience in matters of faith.
"Archdeacon Jolly: 'Will you accept convocation as your
authority?' (Loud laughter, with cries of 'shame' from Dean
Pompous.)
"Dean Critical regretted that he could not accept convocation
in the character of an Anglican Holy See: because, to say
nothing of the general feeling of the country, and the
malicious comments of the public press, which appeared to treat
them with derision, and talked of their 'dancing round a
may-pole,' his own observation of the proceedings of that
assembly dissuaded him from any such view. Much experience had
brought him to the sorrowful conviction that convocation was
only a clerical debating-club, of which every member took
himself for the pope, and the church for his pupil.
"Archdeacon Jolly: 'Might it be permitted to suggest the
formularies?'
"Dean Critical: So supple and elastic in their nature as to be
sworn to with equal facility both by those who claim to 'hold
all Roman doctrine' and those who protest against it.
"Archdeacon Jolly: 'Well, there are still the thirty-nine
articles.'
"Dean Critical: Thirty-nine _opinions_, one of which
declares of all others, that they are human and fallible.
"Archdeacon Jolly did not know that he could offer any further
suggestion, but, at least, one of the articles declared, 'the
church _hath_ authority in matters of faith.'
"Dean Critical was not unmindful of the fact, which had always
appeared to him to be a device of the framers to express this
idea: 'We admit that the church we are forming _has_ no
authority, but we recognize that if it were a church, it
_would_ have authority.' For it should be observed that
while they said, 'the church _hath_ authority,' they at
the same time enjoined the clergy not to believe a single word
she taught them, unless they found their own interpretation of
the Scriptures to agree with hers! Thus they made the Church of
England say to all her members: 'If you should accidentally be
_right_ in your interpretation of the Bible, put that down
to _me_, for I am the church that teaches you; but if,
which is far more probable, you should be wrong, put that down
to yourself, for I have warned you to believe in nothing which
you cannot prove for yourself out of the Bible.' ('Hear, hear,'
from the Rev. Lavender Kidds.)"
This Rev. Lavender Kidds is the comic man of the drama. His one
principle is "Bible Christianity," his one passion a dread of the
pope.
"The Rev. Lavender Kidds (who seemed much excited, and rose
amidst cries of 'order, order,' and considerable laughter)
observed that he now assisted for the first time at the
assembly of convocation, and had been deeply shocked by the
unscriptural tone of the discussion.
{560}
(Suppressed merriment.) For his part, he gloried in the
thirty-nine articles of their pure and reformed church, and
especially in their noble testimony to the grand truth that the
religion of Protestants was 'the Bible, the whole Bible, and
nothing but the Bible.' This was the true 'authority' of vital
Christians, and he cared for no other. This was the simple and
grand lesson of those venerable formularies which had been that
day so grievously under-valued and calumniated. Really, it
seemed to him to be preposterous in any Protestant assembly to
talk so much of 'church-authority.' Authority, indeed! Who
wanted it? And if they had it, who would obey it? Certainly no
member of that house with whom he had the happiness of being
acquainted--(laughter and ironical cheers)--least of all the
high-church party, who had recently been forming a society to
protect themselves _against_ their bishops. (Renewed
disapprobation.) He contended that their forefathers had done
without authority, and had wisely regarded it as a mark of the
beast. He was for the Bible and the Bible only. Perish the
articles, and the church itself--no, his zeal was perhaps
carrying him too far. What he meant to say was--in fact, he
wished to observe--as long as they had the Word they wanted
nothing else. He knew, indeed, that Dean Primitive and
Archdeacon Chasuble preferred authority to Scripture--as long,
that was, as they could keep the former entirely in their own
hands; but he had invariably remarked that they refused to
their bishops and superiors the obedience they required from
their curates and parishioners. But Englishmen, he felt
convinced, were not to be cajoled by a spurious popery; and if
they must renounce their liberty, it would not be to those who
used that liberty themselves to resist the very church they
copied, in everything but their obedience. (General cries of
'Enough, enough,' amid which Mr. Kidds resumed his seat, with
the air of one who had delivered a solemn and suitable
protest.')
"Dean Primitive was unwilling that the observations of Mr.
Kidds should pass without any other reply than Dean Blunt had
thought fit to give them. He had spent thirty years of his life
in combating the errors of that party in the church to which
Mr. Kidds belonged, and he hoped to continue the same holy
warfare to to the end. He was aware that the so-called
evangelicals insisted upon the _plainness_ of Scripture,
and were accustomed to assume, with strange disregard of
notorious facts, that nobody need find any difficulty in
deciding the true meaning of any text whatever. With the
permission of the house, he would give a few illustrations of
the evangelical method of dealing with the inspired book; from
which it would very clearly appear, that when they boasted of
appealing to the Bible, they only appealed to their own version
of it, that is, to themselves; and their favorite shibboleth,
'the Bible, and the Bible only,' meant simply, as Dean Blunt
had well observed, '_my_ interpretation of the Bible, and
not yours.'
"Thus, when our Lord said to his priests, 'I give to _you_
the keys of the kingdom of heaven,' it is plain, according to
the evangelicals, that he meant, 'I give to _no man_ the
keys of the kingdom of heaven.'
"When He declared, 'Whosesoever sins _you_ remit, they are
remitted,' beyond doubt he wished them to understand, 'I
particularly withhold from _you_ the power to remit sin.'
{561}
"When he gave the promise to his church, 'I am with you always,
even to the end of the world,' manifestly he designed to say,
'I am with you only to the end of the third or fourth century,
after which I shall desert you until the sixteenth.'
"When he announced, 'I will send the Holy Ghost, and he shall
guide you into _all_ truth,' it is clearer than the day
that he wished to tell them, 'The Holy Ghost will teach you
just so much of truth as each individual can gather from the
private study of the Scriptures.'
"When he made the wonderful statement, 'The gates of hell shall
_never_ prevail against the church,' even children can see
that he meant, 'Hell shall triumph over the church for eight
hundred years and more.'"
The question is raised whether the Fathers and the first four
General Councils cannot be taken as guides, and it is shown that
they are as hard to interpret as the Bible itself. But cannot the
clergy be appealed to as authorized interpreters? In replying to
this query, the professor of theology said:
"There was not, he conceived, in the annals of human
religion--of which the number was now almost beyond
arithmetical calculation--so singular a paradox as that which
was displayed in Puseyite theology. The claims of a Leo the
Great, or a Gregory the Seventh, which, at least, whatever
Protestants might think of them, were cordially admitted both
in their own generation and in those which followed it, were
only the utterances of timid self-abasement, compared with the
super-oecumenical dogmatism of their high-church friends. 'Obey
me,' said these gentlemen to their disciples, 'for obedience is
the prerogative of the laity; but I obey nobody except my own
interpretation of the fathers, or of such of them as I approve,
because my church is not yet sufficiently catholic to deserve
my obedience. At present I am obliged to create a church for
you, because nothing worthy of the name is found just now on
earth. The day will come when she will have been sufficiently
taught by me, will cease to be Protestant without becoming
Roman, and then I shall be able to obey the church, because,
having learned from me the exact form of primitive
Christianity, which exists nowhere at present but in my own
ideal conception, the church will have come again into
corporate existence, and will be worthy of your dutiful regard.
It will then no longer be necessary for me, as it is
unfortunately at present, to cumulate in my own person the
functions of the pope, the saints, the fathers, the general
councils, and Almighty God.'
"(Considerable agitation followed this speech, during which the
sitting was suspended for some minutes.)
"The Rev. Lavender Kidds observed, as soon as the composure of
the assembly was restored, that, however forcible the remarks
of the learned professor might be as applied to Puseyism, he
had shown that he was unwilling to grapple with the grand
principle of Bible Christianity, of which he was the humble
advocate.
"The professor intended no disrespect to Mr. Kidds and his
party. Bible Christianity, since he must speak of it, (though
he thought that former speakers had sufficiently disposed of
the subject,) was only less preposterous than the rival theory
which he had just ventured to describe. It required personal
infallibility in all who professed it. It simply transferred to
the individual the supernatural prerogative which the Romanist
attributed to his church.
{562}
It was obvious to common sense that, if Mr. Kidds could
interpret a particular translation of the Scriptures, so as to
know infallibly both how much was necessary to be salvation,
and exactly what was necessary to believed about it, he must
himself be personally infallible.
"The professor must decline to give his own opinion, though of
course he had one, on the question proposed by Dr. Easy; but he
had no objection to state how he conceived it ought to be
answered by the so-called Bible-Christian. That answer might be
as follows:
"The existence of a church assumes the existence of a God;
therefore, the denial of a God would be the same with the
denial of a church. But the Church of England is a fact. Her
teaching may be doubtful or contradictory, but her existence as
a politico-ecclesiastical institution, professing belief in a
God, is beyond dispute. It would, therefore, be heresy in the
Bible Christian to deny the existence of a God; but it was
quite open to him to believe in any _kind_ of divinity he
might prefer, and to clothe him with whatever attributes the
Privy Council had permitted him to retain. ...
"Archdeacon Jolly doubted whether the universal _Nego_ of
Mr. Kidds and his friends could combat successfully the eternal
_Credo_ of two hundred millions of Catholics. However, he
was quite willing to consider Mr. Kidd's proposition; but he
must be excused if he did so from his own point of view.
"There was a large class of persons in this country," continued
the archdeacon, "who, having no definite religion of their own,
and being slenderly endowed with common sense, were indebted to
the Roman Catholic Church both for employment and maintenance.
Let Mr. Kidds restrain his excitement; he would explain his
meaning. He did not, of course, include Mr. Kidds among the
class in question, though he believed that gentleman would
willingly accept the statement of Sterne, who candidly
confessed, that, 'when he had little to say or little to give
his people, he had resource to the abuse of popery. Hence he
called it his "Cheshire Cheese." It had a twofold advantage; it
cost him very little, and he found by experience that nothing
satisfied so well the hungry appetites of his congregation.
They always devoured it greedily.'
"Perhaps Mr. Kidds was not aware that in his zeal to hasten the
downfall of popery--which, even according to modern prophets,
had still a few years to last, and which, judging by a recent
tour he had made on the continent, presented anything but a
moribund aspect--he was in violent opposition with many active
and devoted Protestants. The persons to whom he alluded were,
at this moment, full of anxiety lest popery should perish too
soon! They could not afford to say farewell to their old friend
at present, and desired only to keep him on his legs a little
longer. Mr. Kidds was probably ignorant that a society had
recently been formed in London, in connection, he believed,
with the Protestant Reformation Society, to which it was
designed to act as a timely and important auxiliary. The title
of this new association was: _'Society for considering the
best means of keeping alive the corruptions of Popery in the
interests of Gospel Truth'_ It was, of course, a strictly
secret organization, but he had been favored, he knew not why,
with a copy of the prospectus, and as he had no intention of
becoming a member, he would communicate it to the house.
{563}
It appeared from this document, and could be confirmed from
other sources, that a deputation was sent last year to Rome, to
obtain a private interview with the pope, in order to entreat
his holiness _not_ to reform a single popish corruption.
He was assured that they had reason to believe, he did not know
on what grounds, that the pope was about to make extensive
reforms, beginning with the substitution of the thirty-nine
articles for the creed of Pope Pius, and a permanent Anglican
convocation in lieu of an occasional oecumenical council. A
handsome present was entrusted to the deputation, and a liberal
contribution to the Peter's Pence Fund. The motives set forth
in the preamble of the address presented to his holiness were,
in substance, of the following nature: They urged that a very
large body of most respectable clergymen, who had no personal
ill-will toward the present occupant of the Holy See, had
maintained themselves and their families in comfort for many
years exclusively by the abuse of popery; and if popery were
taken away, they could not but contemplate the probable results
with uneasiness and alarm. Moreover, many eminent members of
the profession had gained a reputation for evangelical wit,
learning, and piety, as well as high dignities in the Church of
England, by setting forth in their sermons and at public
meetings, with all their harrowing details, the astounding
abominations of the Church of Rome. The petitioners implored
his holiness not to be indifferent to the position of these
gentlemen. Many of their number had privately requested the
deputation to plead their cause with the amiable and benevolent
Pius IX. Thus the great and good Doctor M'Nickel represented
respectfully that he had filled his church, and let all his
pews, during three-and-twenty years, by elegantly slandering
priests and nuns, and powerfully illustrating Romish
superstitions. A clergyman of noble birth had attained to the
honors of the episcopate by handling alternately the same
subjects, and a particularly pleasing doctrine of the
Millennium, and had thus been enabled to confer a valuable
living on his daughter's husband, who otherwise could not have
hoped to obtain one. An eminent canon of an old Roman Catholic
abbey owed his distinguished position, which he hoped to be
allowed to retain, to the fact of his having proved so clearly
that the pope was Antichrist; and earnestly entreated his
holiness to do nothing to forfeit that character. A well-known
doctor of Anglican divinity was on the point of quitting the
country in despair of gaining a livelihood, when the idea of
preaching against popery was suggested to him, and he had now
reason to rejoice that he had abandoned the foolish scheme of
emigration. Even a high-church bishop had been so hampered by
suspicions of Romanistic tendencies, which were perfectly
unfounded, that he had only saved himself from general
discredit by incessant abuse of popery, though he was able to
say, in self-defence, that he did not believe a word of his own
invectives. Finally, a young clergyman, who had not hitherto
much distinguished himself, having often but vainly solicited a
member of his congregation to favor his evangelical attachment,
at length hit upon a new expedient, and preached so ravishing a
discourse on the matrimonial prohibitions of the Romish Church,
and drew so appalling a picture of the domestic infelicities of
the Romish priesthood, that on the following Monday morning the
young lady made him an offer of her hand and fortune.
{564}
It was hoped that his holiness would give due consideration to
interests so grave and manifold, and not peril them by hasty
reforms, which nobody desired, and which nobody would receive
with satisfaction.
"Another class of clergymen appealed still more urgently to the
forbearance of the pope. They represented that they were in the
habit of realizing large sums by the publication of prophetical
works of which the whole interest turned upon the approximate
destruction of 'the beast,' and that while they indicated, by
the help of the apocalypse, the precise hour of his fall, they
yet managed to put off the final catastrophe from year to year,
and could hardly supply the successive editions which the
curiosity of the public demanded. They hoped that his holiness
would do nothing rash and imprudent which might compromise
their particular industry. One of these gentlemen ingenuously
confessed that without Antichrist, who was his best friend, and
the invaluable book of Revelation, which was his chief source
of income, he saw nothing before him but the workhouse. He
begged to forward to the pope a copy of each of his works,
including the following: 'Horns of the Beast,' neatly bound,
with gilt edges; 'Antichrist,' handsomely got up, 'positively
his last appearance in 1864, in consequence of other
engagements,' with new editions in 1865, 1866, and 1867; also,
'Answer to an insolent pamphlet, entitled the "The _Number
and Street_ of the Beast proved to be that of the Rev. Dr.
Comeagain."'
"Lastly, even members of parliament to whom nature had not been
prodigal in intellectual endowments, urged with great force
that they were able to get on their legs, and to stay there,
detailing the prodigious incidents of conventual turpitude;
making the blood to curdle, and the hair to stand on end, by
thrilling narratives of nuns immured, and clanking chains, and
bereaved mothers, invoking in agonized chorus, 'Liberty and Mr.
Newdegate.' They hoped the pope would see in this fact the
necessity of caution, lest he should unwittingly put to silence
more than one independent member of parliament, deprive an
illustrious assembly of its chief amusement, and rashly change
the composition of the British House of Commons.
"Dean Pompous inquired (with a somewhat thick utterance, but
with great dignity of manner) whether he understood the
archdeacon to say that he had actually seen this document?
"Archdeacon Jolly: He had certainly said so; it had been shown
to him in Rome by Cardinal Antonelli."
Archdeacon Chasuble held the theory that the Anglican
establishment is a _branch_ of the Catholic Church, and
proved that the Catholic Church was necessarily infallible at
one period of her existence. The gift of infallibility was
_suspended_ when Christendom became divided, and will be
recovered when the Russian, the Roman, the Greek, the Anglican,
and the Oriental branches reunite--a happy period, of whose
arrival, he regretted to say, there was no immediate prospect.
To this Dr. Candour undertook to reply:
"When the Roman, Greek, and Anglican communities should all
become one, the church would once more become infallible. Three
spurious and defective Christianities fused together, if
anybody could persuade them to coalesce, would make one true
and perfect Christianity. The giving up what each believed
specifically true, and the uniting in what each believed
specifically false, was that travail in the womb of Christendom
which would give birth to the new infallibility.
{565}
He would only say, as the professor of theology had disposed of
that point, that this was an obstetrical phenomenon which he
did not think any one present would live long enough to
witness.
"But he would now approach another aspect of the question, to
which the archdeacon had attracted their attention. The
low-church theory, he had told them, and the language of their
articles and homilies, which assumed the defection of the
Catholic Church, 'made void the promises of God.' Was the
archdeacon quite sure that low-churchmen were the real or sole
offenders? He thought not. Let him ask his friend whether even
the 'diabolical millennium' of the English reformers, that
dismal interval between the sixth and sixteenth centuries, was
a conception more insolently subversive of the promises of God,
more fatal to the Catholic idea of a divine, indefectible, and
'teaching church,' than the well-known Anglican conceit, that
the early church was wholly pure, the mediaeval much less pure,
and the modern quite unworthy of their obedience? Was it really
so very respectful to the catholic idea, of which the
archdeacon claimed to be the advocate, to assert, as he and his
party did in every act of their lives, that, in spite of the
'promises of God,' the only really perfect church at this hour,
protesting at once against Protestant heresies and popish
corruptions, was the little group of Puseyites and ritualists
within the national establishment? (Great laughter.)
"The archdeacon had reproached the low-church school, and the
founders of Anglicanism, with making void the promises of God.
Let the house consider how the high-church party interpreted
those promises for themselves. According to their theory, the
promise to be 'always' with the church applied only to the
beginning and the end of her career, but not to the long
interval between the two, during which the whole of Christendom
was hopelessly sunk in error and corruption. It was curious to
see that the high-church party cordially agreed with
ultra-Protestants, that the Catholic Church during long ages
had been teaching falsehoods! This was their reverence for 'the
promises of God!'
"Again. The promise to guide the Church into '_all_ truth'
had reference only to the integrity of truth _before_ the
mission of St. Augustine to England, and _after_ the
publication of the _Tracts for the Times_. The twelve
hundred years between them, rather a long period in the life of
the church, during which all Christians obstinately believed
the supremacy of the pope, the office of the mother of God, and
the mystery of transubstantiation--doctrines highly offensive
to Puseyites--were merely an unfortunate parenthesis in the
faithfulness of God, during which the catholic idea was
lamentably obscured, and God forgot his 'promises.'
"Once more. The promise that the 'gates of hell' should
'_never_' prevail against the church meant only, according
to the same school, that the principalities of evil, doing
active work under the father of lies, should certainly prevail
for a good many centuries, but that finally a little sect
should rise up in the Church of England, able to discriminate
with precision the errors of the Anglican, the Greek, and the
Roman churches, and peacefully to conduct them all to the
perfect truth which they had lost, to the unity which they had
forfeited, and to a very remarkable and final triumph over the
'gates of hell.'
{566}
"The only true test of a theory was the result to which it led
in practice. The branch-theory did not look well on paper, but
perhaps it redeemed itself in its practical evolution. He would
suppose, then, that the archdeacon, resolving to try his
theory, set out on a foreign tour. Did he leave Dover an
Anglican, and disembark at Calais a Roman Catholic? If so, at
what particular spot in the Channel did he drop the Anglican
articles and take up the Roman missal? Was it marked by a buoy?
or was the transformation a gradual process, like the changes
of temperature? On leaving Dover, he carried with him only two
sacraments, which had grown into seven by the time he landed at
Calais. Supposing the distance to be twenty-five miles, did he
take up a new sacrament--he was going to say at every fifth
milestone but the sea knew not such measures of distance. Were
there fixed points at which he _began_ to believe that
transubstantiation was a holy mystery, and not a 'blasphemous
fable;' that confirmation and extreme unction were divine
sacraments, and not, as he had believed while breakfasting at
Dover, a mere 'corrupt following of the Apostles'? Did he, in
spite of the injunction with which they were all familiar, 'not
to speak to the man at the wheel,' anxiously interrogate that
individual as to the precise longitude in which it behoved him
to cast away some Anglican delusion, and take up some Catholic
truth? At what point of the voyage did the pope's supremacy
begin to dawn upon him? And, finally, did the process of
transformation, to which all branch-Christians were inevitably
subject when they went to foreign lands, depend in any degree
upon the weather? Was it quicker or slower in a heavy sea? or
did sea-sickness in any way affect its development?
"The prolocutor of the house here rose, with an air of dignity
becoming his official character, and expressed his conviction
that the general feeling of the house was that the debate
should now close. (Hear, hear.) That debate had proved a
variety of things, which were more or less destructive to the
national church, but nothing perhaps more clearly than this,
that the public was right in regarding their discussions as
very unprofitable to the interests of religion, either in their
own land or in any other. ... If the house shared his opinion,
it only remained to determine what should be the place of their
future meeting. (Applause.)
"Doctor Easy was delighted to be able to offer hospitality to
his reverend friends. He lived, as they knew, in the immediate
neighborhood of their fine old historical abbey, and his
apartments were sufficiently spacious to afford a convenient
place of meeting. He proposed, therefore, on the understanding
that convocation was now happily extinct, that they should meet
at his residence on that day week, when they could either
resume the debate that had hitherto occupied them, or turn
their attention to any other topic which might promise greater
profit or amusement. (Loud cries of 'Agreed.') [_Excunt
omnes_."
The second scene is introduced with the following description,
the delicate humor of which is inimitable:
"Dr. Easy's drawing-room presented an animated appearance.
Friendly greetings were exchanged, and decent hilarity pervaded
the assembly. The gravest countenances relaxed from
conventional severity. Archdeacons smiled as if in anticipation
of coming enjoyment, and even deans responded to the
salutations of the inferior clergy with unwonted urbanity.
{567}
The bright mirrors, well-selected pictures, and far-reaching
sofas which adorned Dr. Easy's saloon, and bore witness at once
to the amplitude of his revenues and the refinement of his
taste, were evidently felt to be an improvement on the decorous
gloom of the Jerusalem chamber. Tables of marble and rosewood
were covered with choice engravings and other works of art.
Portraits of the Misses Easy attracted the attention of the
younger clergy. The absence of reporters imparted to their
elder brethren a welcome sense of liberty. Free but not
undignified postures preluded the familiar dialogue in which
each could take cheerful part, without the unpleasant fear of
newspaper criticism. Convocation had become a social or family
reunion, and was evidently satisfied with the change. Informal
discussion preceded the coming debate, and themes which never
fail to interest the clerical mind occupied the company. Dean
Pompous disputed with a neighbor the exact pecuniary value of a
benefice likely to be shortly vacant, and suggested a probable
successor to the dying incumbent. Dean Primitive conversed with
Archdeacon Chasuble on the recent letter of the primate,
inviting the bishops 'in visible communion with the Church of
England' to a council in September. Had his friend noticed, he
asked, that remarkable announcement that 'such council would
_not_ be competent to make declarations, or lay down
definitions on points of doctrine'? His friend had certainly
noticed it. He had heard of councils, both general and local,
which had assembled to _decide_ on points of doctrine, but
it was the first time he had ever heard of a council summoned
with the avowed object of _avoiding_ all such questions.
In such cheerful talk the reverend guests continued to indulge,
till their number being at length complete, there arose
suddenly, amid the hum of general conversation, a loud cry of
'Chair, chair!' Then the host, leaning against a chimney-piece,
bowed to his friends, and prayed them to be seated. Silence
being restored, the debate commenced as follows:
"Dr. Easy rejoiced that his reverend friends had attended in
such imposing numbers. In compliance with their invitation, he
had selected a subject to be submitted to their notice. Their
last debate, as they seemed generally to feel, had proved to
themselves and to the public that authority neither did nor
could reside in the English Church. It was certain that no
individual clergyman, nor all the clergy put together, could
decide any point of doctrine whatever; so that the day seemed
close at hand if it had not actually arrived--when an Anglican
would be at liberty either to accept or reject every truth
contained in the Christian revelation. The learned prolocutor
had well epitomized all the points of their last debate, and
gracefully justified the characteristic decisions of privy
council, when he said, or at least implied, that the practical
result of all Anglican teaching, as of all Anglican history,
might be expressed in such a formula as this, 'Christianity,
from first to last, is simply a matter of opinion;' or, 'The
primary object of the Christian revelation is to render it
impossible for any man to know the truth with certainty.'
"In confirmation of this view of their position as members of
the Established Church, he was happy to be able to call their
attention to the recent declaration of one of her highest
dignitaries.
{568}
He regretted that he was not present with them, that he might
have enforced in person the very striking statements which he
was about to quote from a published volume of his sermons, with
which he (Dr. Easy) had only become acquainted since their last
meeting. The very Rev. Dr. Elliot, the present Dean of Bristol,
had publicly asserted, without incurring the slightest shadow
of reproach, these two momentous truths; (i) that the Church of
England is, in all respects, a purely human institution; and
(2) that her members are not bound in conscience to believe a
single doctrine taught by her. But he would quote his exact
words:
"'The Church of England,' said the Dean of Bristol, 'is created
by the law, upheld by the law, paid by the law, and may be
changed by the law, _just as any other institution in the
land_.'
"That was his first proposition, and here was the second:
"'I cannot desire you to accept either what I affirm, or what
the church affirms, as undoubtedly true, or _the only
true_ interpretation of the mysteries of God.'
"It was pleasant to see the conclusions at which they had
arrived in a former debate embraced with so much energy of
conviction by one of the highest functionaries of their
national church. And now, accepting these conclusions as
indisputable, and harmonizing perfectly with the life and
history of that church, he was led to ask, 'If the authority of
the English Church be purely human, can her orders be divine?'
This was the question he should propose for their
consideration, and without another word of preface, he would
submit the following motion to their vote: 'That this meeting,
being unanimous on the point that authority can have no
existence in the Church of England, desires to pass to the
discussion of the cognate question, "Are English orders human
or divine?"'"
The discussion as to the validity of these orders is pretty
exhaustive, and the arguments are put with a terseness and effect
quite beyond adequate praise. The hand of a master in dialectics
is evident from beginning to end. Instead of attempting a
summary, which would necessarily fall far short of doing justice
to this part of the pamphlet, we shall let the ritualistic
clergyman give the following account of himself:
"I call myself a Catholic priest, because I am either that or a
ridiculous impostor, and I object to be considered in that
light. I claim the power of the keys, because they belong to
the priestly office, and I will not allow that the clergy of
any other church have more power than I have. I can consecrate
the host, though I am not quite sure what that means, because I
should be only a Protestant minister if I could not, and a
Protestant minister is the object of my contempt. I can absolve
from sin, though the English clergy never knew they could do
it, because the commission was given to somebody, and,
therefore, it must have been given to me. I teach the Church of
England what she ought to hold, and instruct the Church of Rome
what she ought to retract, because I clearly perceive the
deficiencies of the one, and detect the excesses of the other.
I assert that my doctrines are part of God's truth, but I
communicate with those who flatly deny them, because, when I am
taunted with this, I can always reply, that it is the mark of a
self-willed man to seek another communion in order to quiet his
conscience.
{569}
I countenance, by remaining in the Church of England, all the
mortal heresies which have ever existed in her, but I tell my
accusers that I only remain in her in order to remove them. I
am in communion with no church in the world, but I invite them
all to come into communion with me, and indicate the terms on
which I will permit them to do so. I am not in schism, though I
dwell in solitude, because the other Christian bodies refuse to
associate with me; and I am not in heresy, though I every day
communicate with heretics, because I do it only for their good.
I do not obey my bishop, but I propose to him to obey me, which
he foolishly declines to do. All churches have erred, but I am
ready to teach them all, if they will only listen to me; and
though the perfect idea of Christianity has perished from the
earth, I am able to restore it at any moment, whenever I shall
be requested to do so. I remain in the Church of England,
though she allows most of her clergy to teach lies, because I
do not choose to quit her; and I refuse to enter the Church of
Rome, though she forces all her priests to teach truth, because
I do not choose to obey her. I prefer to obey myself, because I
find no other authority worthy to be obeyed; and, though I
admit that this position has its disadvantages, I must
positively decline to exchange it for any other."
The conclusion of the meeting is thus stated:
"Dr. Easy said he could not permit his friends to depart, as
they now manifested their intention to do, without thanking
them both for their attendance on that occasion and for the
part which they had taken in a discussion of great interest and
importance. He would not abuse his privilege as their host by
adding to the discourse of the archdeacon more than a few brief
words. They had arrived, he supposed, at a common conviction on
the two great questions of authority in the Anglican Church,
and the real character of her orders. It was at once their
wisdom and their safety to insist that both were purely human.
Any other theory, as the archdeacon had clearly proved, would
expose not only themselves but their common Christianity to
contempt and ruin. Either ordination, as it existed in the
English Church, was _not_ a rite intended to produce a
supernatural effect, except in a sense which might with equal
justice be applied to the orders of Mr. Spurgeon or Mr. Newman
Hall; or, if it _was_, the Reformed and Protestant
ministry established by Elizabeth and inaugurated by Parker,
which had never displayed the faintest trace of any such
effect, was a failure so portentous, that they must remain for
ever silent in the presence of any scoffing infidel who should
use it as an argument against the truth of Christianity.
"He trusted, therefore, that they were about to separate that
night with this practical conclusion, that the idea of a
catholic priesthood, one in doctrine and divine in endowments,
existing in the English Church, was not only a contradiction of
her whole history, but absolutely inconsistent with the belief
that Christianity was true. Either that foolish notion must be
abandoned, or they must honestly admit that, at least, the
English Church was a delusion.
{570}
For if any man could deliberately maintain, as a small party
among them desired to do, that the entire body of the English
clergy had been, from the beginning, a supernatural caste,
though it was undeniable that they had always exactly resembled
the laity in all their habits, principles, and actions; that
they had received a special vocation from Heaven to teach the
same unvarying doctrine, though no two of them could ever agree
together what that doctrine was; that they possessed the
faculty of retaining or remitting sin, though, for three
centuries, they had never once attempted to use it, and had
bitterly derided the assumption of it by the clergy of another
community; that they were clothed, by the transforming grace of
orders, with angelic purity and virginity, though they and
their bishops had ever been even more impatient of a life of
continence than any other class of human society; that they
were able to call down God upon a human altar, though their own
founders began their career by pulling down altars, and their
own tribunals ruled that the English Church denied their
existence; that the chief function of their ecclesiastical life
was to offer the daily sacrifice, though the Church of England
had carefully obliterated every trace of that mystery from the
national mind; and, finally, that the highest spiritual
privilege of their flocks was to adore the consecrated host,
though their own prayer-book expressly declared it was
'idolatry to be abhorred of all faithful Christians.' If, he
said, any man could seriously affirm the series of propositions
here enumerated, and many more like them, he should be ready to
admit, what it would no longer be possible to deny, that
neither religion nor history had any real meaning, and that
modern Christianity had been more fertile in childish conceits
and preposterous delusions than any system of heathen mythology
with which he was acquainted.
"If, on the other hand, they were content to believe with the
whole nation, that the English clergy were simply the
representatives of the English reformation; that they were
Protestant ministers, not Catholic priests; that they were
distinguished in nothing from other men, except as having
undertaken to remind them, from time to time, of truths which
all were too apt to forget; they would then assume the only
character which really belonged to them, or in which either
their own communion or any other would ever consent to
recognize them. In that case, they would no longer expose
either themselves or their religion to the world's contempt,
nor unwittingly furnish the unbeliever with a fatal argument
against the truth and the reasonableness of Christianity. The
Church of England had never been the home of the supernatural,
as all mankind knew from her own history; and to try to
introduce so strange an element into such a receptacle would be
a far more dangerous experiment than to 'pour new wine into old
bottles.' They might as well attempt to inclose the lightning
which could shiver rocks in the hands of an infant, as to make
the English Church the shrine of mysteries _which she had
existed only to deny_."
The pamphlet from which the above excerpts are made is now in
press, and will soon be published by "The Catholic Publication
House."
--------
{571}
New Publications.
The Irish Reformation; or, The Alleged Conversion of the Irish
Bishops at the accession of Queen Elizabeth, and the assumed
descent of the present established hierarchy in Ireland from
the ancient Irish Church, disproved.
By W. Maziere Brady, D.D., Vicar of Donoghpatrick and Rector of
Kilberry, Diocese of Meath, and formerly Chaplain to the Earls
of Clarendon, St. Germans, and Carlisle, Lord Lieutenant of
Ireland, etc., etc.
Fifth edition, containing also a letter from James A. Froude,
M.A.; notices of the early Elizabethan Prelates, and of the
sufferings of the Roman Catholic Bishops; and tables showing in
juxtaposition the Anglican and Roman Catholic successions of
Irish Archbishops, with lists of all Irish Roman Catholic
Bishops from 1558 to the present time.
London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1867.
For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
126 Nassau Street, New York.
The author of this book, which has become celebrated in Great
Britain, and has received the highest commendations from the
English secular press, is an Irish Protestant clergyman. Catholic
clergymen and scholars may, therefore, think that it is written
in favor of the Irish establishment, or lacking in thorough
information on Catholic topics. On the contrary, it is the most
damaging attack on that iniquitous institution that has yet
appeared; replete with solid learning, and an invaluable
companion to the excellent works of Msgr. Moran, of Dublin, on
the Irish Catholic Church and hierarchy. It is not to be
supposed, however, that Dr. Brady is a Catholic in disguise, a
Romanizer, or an enemy of the church whose minister he is. He is
a Protestant Episcopalian, a real believer in religious liberty,
and a man of liberal sentiments, who respects the Catholic Church
and loves the rights and welfare of the Irish people. He has
written this work not against the doctrine or discipline of the
Protestant Episcopal Church, but against the falsehoods, and
ignorant or fraudulent misrepresentations of historical facts, by
which certain writers have attempted to justify and bolster up
the absurd pretence that the Anglican establishment in Ireland is
the true Catholic Church of that country. These writers, among
whom Palmer is a signal instance, pretend that the Marian bishops
in Ireland, as a body, accepted the pretended reformation of
Elizabeth; that the Irish hierarchy, church, and nation,
renounced their allegiance to the Bishop of Rome, and to the
doctrine of the Roman Church; that the apostolic succession was
regularly transmitted to the Protestant bishops of Ireland, and
that the present Roman Catholic hierarchy and church were
established _de novo_, in a schismatical manner, by
emissaries of the Pope. Consequently, they say, the Protestant
archbishops of Armagh and Dublin are the canonical successors of
St. Patrick and St. Lawrence; the other Protestant bishops are
also the canonical successors to the ancient Catholic bishops of
the sees they pretend to fill, the ecclesiastical property
legally belongs to the Protestant establishment, and the Roman
Catholic bishops are intruders who have drawn the majority of the
Irish people into a schism. It was enough to have forced
Protestantism into domination in Ireland by force, rapine,
slaughter, and persecution without a parallel; to have robbed the
Irish church and the Irish people of everything they possessed,
without adding insult to injury by this preposterous pretence.
Dr. Brady has laboriously and triumphantly refuted it, and Mr.
Froude, the English historian, has given his full indorsement to
Dr. Brady's statements. Dr. Brady proves that, at the most, two
of the Marian bishops submitted to Elizabeth Curwin, of Dublin,
and O'Fihil, of Leighlin. Curwin's apostasy is a notorious fact,
but that of O'Fihil is denied by Dr. Moran, who adduces evidence
against it.
{572}
Curwin was an Englishman, and consecrated by English bishops.
Therefore, according to Dr. Brady, but one Irishman, having Irish
consecration, deserted the communion of the Pope for that of the
Queen and Parker. He goes through all the Irish sees
_seriatim_, proving the continuity of succession from their
ancient to their modern Catholic incumbents, and proving, also,
the forcible intrusion of Protestants by degrees, and with many
breaks, into the same titular sees. He states the conclusion
derived from his facts and arguments thus: "In point of fact, the
Irish nation from 1558 to 1867 has continued in communion with
Rome, never having ceased to be, in its clergy, priests, and
people, as thoroughly Roman Catholic as at the accession of
Elizabeth," (p. 199.) The claim of a succession of orders by a
line traceable to the old Irish hierarchy is also disposed of.
The doctor shows that whatever orders the Irish Protestant church
has are derived from Curwin, and from him alone, through Loftus,
who was consecrated by him to Armagh, and thence transferred to
Dublin, in lieu of Curwin himself, who was transferred to Oxford.
Of course he does not deny the validity of the orders, but merely
the fact that they descend from an Irish source. These orders
cannot, however, be recognized by the Catholic Church for two
reasons. First, there is a probability that Loftus was never
ordained priest, and, consequently, was incapable of receiving
Episcopal consecration. Second, he was consecrated by K. Edward's
Ordinal, which is an invalid form. Anglicans may solace
themselves as much as they please by the reflection that they can
trace the Irish ordinations up to Curwin, an undoubted bishop,
and may cover up the two great flaws we have pointed out in their
validity, by the special pleading they are such adepts in using.
This will not, however, benefit in any way those who are obliged
to trace their orders to Parker, nor will it affect the position
of either English or Irish Protestant clergymen in relation to
the Catholic Church, or even to the schismatics of the East.
Dr. Brady throws much light on some other topics of historical
interest. He shows, among other things, how bad was the character
of Curwin, Loftus, and several others of the first Protestant
bishops of Ireland, and, on the other hand, does justice to the
virtues and martyr-like constancy of the Catholic prelates. He
proves, against the denials of some Protestant writers, the truth
of the history of the cruel martyrdom of that great hero of the
faith, Archbishop O'Hurley, a man who richly deserves, in common
with many other Irish martyrs, to be canonized.
The lists of Catholic bishops add much to the value of the work,
and so also does the refutation of many Protestant calumnies
against the Irish people, and the exposure of several
falsifications of history.
On Catholic principles, the established church of Ireland is
nothing but a schismatical sect, whose bishops are intruders upon
the domain of the lawful bishops of the country. Even had they
valid ordination, they could make no claim to a lawful succession
in jurisdiction.
On Protestant principles, it is not in any way entitled to be
considered as the national church of Ireland, but only as the
church of a small minority of the people, whose ancestors
forcibly intruded themselves upon the Irish soil by the aid of
fire, and sword, and confiscation. We have no hostility against
the Episcopalians of Ireland, who are not accountable for the
crimes of their ancestors, and many of whom are worthy persons
and true Irish patriots. We would not have them molested in their
religious liberty, or even deprived of the churches in their
possession, provided they can make any use of them, although it
is so painful to Catholic feeling to see these ancient sacred
shrines of the faith in their hands. But we would have them
deprived of the privileges of a state establishment, Catholic and
Protestant dissenters freed from the obligation of paying tithes
to their clergy, and themselves left to sustain their own
religion by their own contributions. The Irish establishment is a
crying iniquity, and it ought to be suppressed. It is time, also,
that the glorious history of the Catholic Church in Ireland,
since the disastrous epoch of Henry VIII., should be better known
than it is.
{573}
We thank Dr. Brady for his valuable contribution to truth and the
cause of justice, and we recommend his work, as the production of
a Protestant Episcopal clergyman of learning, honesty, and
candor, to all who are interested in the history of Ireland, and
especially to his own brethren in the ministry in this country.
----
The Three Holy Kings.
With Photographic Illustrations.
New York: Kurd and Houghton.
The writer of this volume presents us a short essay upon the Holy
Wise Men of the East who came to adore our Lord soon after his
nativity. The subject is one which requires considerable research
to bring out a vivid picture of the character of the Magi, the
circumstances of their journey to Judea, and their subsequent
fortunes. The author confines himself to a simple reproduction of
the gospel narrative, with a passing notice of the original
bass-relief and pictures, with photographs of which the book is
illustrated. It is well known that in the great Cathedral of
Cologne is to be seen the shrine containing the relics of these
holy kings. We are not surprised to find the writer discrediting
the authenticity of these relics; but in the face of so much
testimony, and against the weight of such ancient traditions, he
who questions their truth must give solid, or at least plausible
reasons, and not take it for granted as the author (we trust,
innocently) does, that "some of the bones said to be of Saint
Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins, which are everywhere
exposed throughout the walls and pavement of the church of Saint
Ursula, in the same city of Cologne, have been discovered to be
those of sheep and other animals," in order to throw discredit
upon the authenticity of all relics.
We refer him to an article entitled "The Truth of Supposed
Legends and Fables," _Catholic World_, July, 1865, where he
will find the subject of Saint Ursula treated in a masterly
manner by His Eminence, the late Cardinal Wiseman.
We are surprised, however, to find the writer designating the
Catholic Church as the _Romish_ Church. This appellation
every scholar knows, or ought to know, is slang, except in the
mouths and on the pages of bitter and ignorant controversialists,
where it is idiomatic. Messrs. Hurd & Houghton have published the
book in their best style; and were these defects removed, we
would cheerfully recommend it to our readers.
----
Ye Legende Of St. Gwendoline.
With Eight Photographs, by Addis,
from Drawings by John W. Ehninger.
New York: G. P. Putnam and Son. 1867.
This truly magnificent volume, from the press of the Messrs.
Putnam, is one of the choicest specimens of typography ever
issued in the United States. The legend is written in early
English, and the author has closely adhered throughout to the use
of Saxon words and to the Saxon form of phrases. The story,
replete with romance, is charmingly told, and reflects great
credit upon the writer's literary ability. St. Gwendoline is
first a princess, "fulle, fayre, and statelie, and of manie
excellent dispositions, and verie learned, soe that there was no
queene or princesse like her for beautie and goodlinesse and alle
learninge." The king, her father, gives her a realm of her own,
and then invites the neighboring kings and princes to visit her,
hoping she would marry one of them. Though many came, she refused
them all, because she did not love them. One, the King of
Mynwede, dies in her presence, broken-hearted at her refusal. The
description of this scene is unequalled for its simple and
touching pathos. At last, Queen Gwendoline sees in a dream the
face of a knight, whom, if a real person, she would certainly
love; and at a tournament she discovers in the victorious
champion the knight himself. Unfortunately for the love-sick
queen,
"She who weds not when she may,
When she will she must have nay."
The knight is already a husband. Queen Gwendoline is good, pious,
charitable; but love makes sad havoc with us all.
{574}
She will not give up her unlawful affection, and even prays for
the death of the knight's own lady. Prostrate before the altar,
with heart rebelling against God, an angel appears to her, and
reasons with her. But what avail the best reasons, were they
given by angels, when we have wilfully yielded ourselves up to
the tyrannical mastery of passion? But God had great designs on
Queen Gwendoline, and he lets this suffering fall upon her that
he may purify her soul the more perfectly. The scene of her
vision changes; the chapel walls divide, and before her is
Calvary, with its "grayte crosse, whereon hung in paynes and woe
ye Saviour of ye world. And ever mournfullie and stedfastlie Hee
gazed upon her. And when ye Queene saw ye vision, shee cast her
owne wille and her sinnes from her with a grayte crye."
And more than that. She becomes one of those who, for the love of
God, sacrifice all human love. She lays aside her queenly crown,
and royal robes, enters a convent; becomes, after many years, the
abbess, and dies a saint.
We have given but a very imperfect sketch of this beautiful
legend, but we hope enough to induce many of our readers to
peruse it entire. The photographic illustrations are good, but
such a rare publication as this ought to be adorned with
first-class line engravings. Its appearance at the present time
is very opportune, for it is a volume which will make a valuable
and most appropriate present for the holidays.
----
Shamrock And Thistle; Or,
Young America In Ireland And Scotland.
A Story of Travel and Adventure,
by Oliver Optic.
Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 343.
The author of this volume is well known as the writer of several
interesting stories for boys. The book before us purports to be
adventures of United States Naval Cadets in Ireland and Scotland
during the visit of the schoolship to British waters. The
author's brief sketch of Irish history, and his descriptions of
Irish scenery, is very fair, and generally correct. Occasionally
he lets out the usual sneer at Irish poverty and Irish customs.
He is especially severe on the Irish hackmen of Cork and the
boatmen of Killarney. The book will interest youthful readers,
for whom it is written. Its style is somewhat inflated, and it
has a general tone of boyish exaggeration throughout, which we
suppose was the intention of the author, as he wrote it for boys.
This, however, we cannot approve, for we think the youth of
America pick up these ideas easily enough without having them put
before them as examples, in books intended for their use. We are
willing to forgive the author for much of his exaggeration, for
the fairness exhibited by him in speaking of Ireland and her
history, and her many wrongs under English rule. It will at least
give "Young America" a more correct idea of that country than can
be found in "Peter Parley's" books, and others of that same
stamp.
----
The Hymn Of Hildebert,
and other Mediaeval Hymns, with Translations.
By Erastus C. Benedict.
New York: Anson D. F. Randolph. 1867.
Mr. Erastus C. Benedict amuses himself "in his occasional hours
of leisure," as he tells us, by translating the grand old hymns
of the Catholic Church into English rhyme. But he finds them full
of horrible anti-protestant doctrine, and it would never do to
put the true meaning of the verses before the eyes of his
Protestant brethren. Besides, either his literary or his
Protestant conscience would doubtless forbid an honest
translation. Not being able, therefore, to make an honest one, he
makes a dishonest one rather than not make a book. We give him
credit, however, for making an apology for doing so, wretched as
it is. All the doctrinal assertions of these hymns were
undoubtedly meant by the writers of them to be understood in a
Catholic sense; but, says Mr. B., they may be understood in a
Protestant sense, (just as the Scriptures are interpreted in a
Protestant sense, we suppose,) and thus garbled, distorted, and
falsified, he puts them out in print.
{575}
It is bad enough to disgrace one's walls with ridiculous
imitations of the pictures of great masters, but to cut down a
genuine Murillo or Vandyke to suit a second-hand frame, bought in
a cheap auction lot, and then touch up what is left of the
subject with a white-wash brush, is something too execrable to be
expressed. We append an example or two for our readers'
amusement.
"Verbum caro, panem verum.
Verbo carnem efficit;
Fitque sanguis Christi merum.
"Word made flesh, among us dwelling,
With true bread and wine regaleth;
By His word the mystery telling."
Page 55.
"Inflammatus et accensus,
Per te, Virgo, sim defensus
In die judicii.
"By a heavenly zeal excited,
When the judgment fires are lighted,
Then may I be justified."
Page 67.
"Dogma datur Christianis,
Quod in carnem transit panis,
Et vinum in sanguinem.
"Here to Christians Jesus preacheth,
Here to us the mystery teacheth,
Never sense perceiving it--
Flesh and blood for us devoted,
Are by bread and wine denoted,
Living faith believing it."
Page 95.
These, we think, will suffice. The appearance of this new one
among the many late republications in various forms of these
hymns furnishes us with another gratifying proof that our
Protestant friends are beginning to regret having consigned
_all_ the works of "popery" to perdition; and we rejoice
that they rehabilitate her poetry among the first of them; for
the poetry of a church is as truly the sincerest expression of
its heart as it is of a people's. But in the name of sincerity
let us have an honest version. When or where did a Catholic ever
"understand" the works of a Protestant in a Catholic sense? Let
Mr. Benedict try again. We are sure he can and will do better,
for there is no sign of malicious intent in his volume; and his
language, when speaking of the Catholic Church, and of the
writers whose poems he reprints, is that of a scholar and a
gentleman.
----
My Prisons.
Memoirs of Silvio Pellico.
Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.
This well known and popular book is republished in beautiful
form, with excellent illustrations, by the Messrs. Roberts, with
an introductory notice by Epes Sargent. We cannot agree with Mr.
Sargent, however, that Silvio Pellico, if living now, would have
had any sympathy with the present Italian rebellion, or its
unworthy and anti-Christian leaders, as he intimates. The
publishers would do well to leave out the introductory notice.
----
Breaking Away: or, The Fortunes of a Student.
By Oliver Optic.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
In this volume are described the adventures of the pupils of the
Parkville Liberal Institute, consequent on their revolt against a
tyrannical principal. Their "treasons, stratagems, and spoils"
are told in pleasing style, and will meet none the less with
boyish approval if somewhat difficult of imitation.
----
Climbing The Rope; or, God Helps Those who Help Themselves:
and
Billy Grimes's Favorite; or, Johnny Greenleaf's Talent.
By May Mannering.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
These two volumes, the first of the "Helping Hand Series," are
well adapted to make the youthful reader self-reliant, while
carefully guarding against self-sufficiency. The principal
characters are well drawn, and there are several charming
episodes of village life. There is one blemish. How could Biddy
O'Rooke, (sic,) "a good Catholic," say that "though she had been
always to church, and confessed all her life, when she had a
chance, it wasn't much of the Great Father himself that she
heard"?
----
Alexis, The Runaway; or, Afloat in the World.
By Mrs. Rosa Abbott Parker.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
The search of Alexis for his master, the Count von Homburg,
results in some striking adventures by sea and land; in the New
World and the Old. Pierre Grepan, fairly love-crazed Prissy Dean,
and the kind-hearted Jacqueline Rasheburne, are well conceived.
{576}
Dotty Dimple At Her Grandmother's.
By Sophie May, author of Little Prudie Stories.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
A charming little tale, attractive from its very simplicity; a
true child's book.
----
The Life Of The Right Hon. J. P. Curran.
By Thomas Davis, M.R.I.A.;
and a
Memoir Of The Life Of The Right Hon. Henry Grattan.
By D. O. Madden, of the Inner Temple;
with Addenda, and letter to Lord Clare.
Boston: Patrick Donahoe.
Those whom a bulky volume affrights will welcome this excellent
abridgment of the early days, matured labors, and closing years
of two of the most illustrious among the many eminent orators and
statesmen whose eloquence and patriotism irradiated that saddest
era in the history of Ireland, the extinction of her national
independence.
----
Happy Hours Of Childhood.
A Series of Tales for the Little Ones.
By a member of the Order of Mercy, authoress
of the Life of Catherine McAuley, etc.
New York: P. O'Shea.
Among the many books for children which the approach of the
holidays yields, we accord the first rank to these charming
tales, "which combine," to quote the authoress's own ideal of a
really good juvenile, "all the fascinations of a lovely fairy
tale with the highest spiritual teachings of which childhood is
capable. We hope she will soon repeat this, her most happy
experiment in childish literature.
----
Holly And Mistletoe:
Tales translated from the German of Rosalie Koch.
New York: P. O'Shea.
A collection of stories intended mainly for children, all
inculcating self-denial, truth, and Christian trust. The
translation is occasionally somewhat defective. Otherwise, the
work is to be commended to the attention of those who wish to put
into the hands of children pleasant and instructive reading.
----
The Catholic Publication Society has in press, and will soon
publish, _The Diary of a Sister of Mercy_, by Mrs. C. M.
Braine.
The Society will also publish, about New-Year's, _Lectures on
Reason and Revelation_, by Rev. T. S. Preston. 1 vol. 12mo.
Price, $1.50.
----
Books Received.
From Charles Scribner, New-York.
The Old Roman World;
the Grandeur and Failure of its Civilization.
By John Lord, LL.D. 1 vol. 8vo. pp. 605.
The History of the Church of God, during the Period of
Revelation.
By Rev. Charles Colcock Jones, D.D.
1 vol. 8vo., pp. 558.
Prayers from Plymouth Pulpit.
By H. W. Beecher. 12mo., pp. 332.
From P. Donahoe, Boston.
The Glories of the Virgin Mother,
and Channel of Divine Grace.
From the Latin of St. Bernard, 1 vol. 16mo., pp. 172.
From Kelly & Piet, Baltimore.
The Life of the Rev. J. B. M. Vianney,
the celebrated Parish-Priest of Ars, France.
Abridged from the French of Abbé Monin,
by Rev. B. S. Piot.
1 vol. 16mo. pp. 216.
--------
{577}
The Catholic World.
Vol. VI., No. 35.--February, 1868.
Paris Impious And Religious Paris. [Footnote 55]
[Footnote 55: _Les OEuores de Charité a Paris_, par
Julie Gouraud. _Le Bien qui se fait en France_, par M.
l'Abbé Mullois.]
Am English lady, with whom the writer of this article fell into
conversation one day at the _table d'hôte_ of a Paris hotel,
made the remark, "What a pity that the Parisians are so wicked!"
This remark expresses the common opinion of English and American
Protestants about Paris. The general desecration of Sunday, the
evident lack of religion among a great portion of the people, the
open infidelity of many of the leading newspapers, and other
things of the like nature, strike their attention immediately.
The extreme gayety of the French character appears, moreover, to
the sedate Anglo-Saxon like an utter levity and frivolity.
Puritan notions about Sunday, as foreign to the minds of
continental Protestants as they are to those of Catholics, make
them look also upon many innocent recreations and amusements in
which the French people indulge on Sunday, as marks of an
irreligious spirit, when they are not at all so. The consequence
is, that they make an unfavorable judgment of the Catholic
religion in consequence of what they see in Paris which is either
really or in their opinion impious and immoral. This judgment is,
however, altogether superficial; first, because the actual
estimate of the religious and moral state of Paris is partial and
one-sided; and second, because the responsibility of the really
existing evils is unjustly cast upon the Catholic religion.
We propose, therefore, to give a more just and correct estimate
of Paris as it is, by presenting its religious aspect in the same
_coup d'oeil_ with its irreligious aspect, and showing the
true relations of the good and evil, as they exist side by side
in mutual hostility and struggle, with each other and with their
causes.
The light in which Paris is regarded as a Catholic city, and
France as a Catholic nation, by English and American Protestants,
is an incorrect one. As Paris represents France, we will speak of
Paris alone, leaving the reader to apply to France generally,
guided by his own knowledge and discretion, what we say about the
capital.
{578}
Paris is rather to be called a city which was once Catholic, and
which Catholicity is striving to reconquer, than an actually
Catholic city. The French Revolution abolished the Catholic
Church, exterminated the clergy and religious orders, and put an
end to the Christian religion in Paris. The mass of the people
lost all faith and religious sentiment, and consequently could
not transmit them to the generations which have been born since,
and which have, grown up in ignorance and heathenism. Since the
partial restoration of the Catholic religion by Napoleon the
First, constant and zealous efforts have been made to convert
this heathen mass, yet a vast number of the people remain still
practically heathen, and a considerable proportion of them are
not even baptized. With the common people there is more of
ignorance and thoughtlessness than of positive infidelity or
aversion from the church. In the higher walks of life, beside the
ignorant and thoughtless class who have but a slight tincture of
Catholic belief, there is the large and influential class of the
positive infidels, who keep up a continual war upon every form of
revealed religion. The majority of the people of Paris having
thus been always in a state of greater or less alienation from
all positive Christian belief and wholly regardless of the
authority of the church since the French Revolution, the proper
observance of the Sunday has never been reestablished. The people
having lost the habit of resting on that day, and having dropped
all thought of going to church, business and work have gone on
upon Sunday from the mere _vis inertiae_. The church and the
minority of the population have not been able to bring back the
general observance of the day. Consequently, those who wish to
observe it and to have it observed, are to a great extent dragged
in to follow the common custom by the necessity of the case, and
the clergy are not able to insist as strongly as they would wish
on the obligation of resting from servile labor. It is not to be
supposed that the clergy and the genuine Catholics of Paris
approve of this desecration of Sunday. Let any one read the
eloquent remarks of F. Hyacinthe, the most celebrated preacher of
Paris, on this subject, in our last number, and he will see a
correct statement of the sentiments of the Archbishop of Paris
and all his clergy respecting the observance of Sunday. It is
indeed a shocking spectacle, and one disgraceful to the great
French nation, to see all public works going on, nearly all shops
open, all factories in motion, and to meet the crowd of blouses
shoving their way through the other, well-dressed crowd, as they
return from work on Sunday, which ought to be the poor man's
holiday. As a consequence of this unnatural privation of the day
of rest given him by God, the laborer, from sheer inability to
make a mere machine of himself, seizes on the Monday. Instead of
the holy, cheerful rest of Sunday, there is a dull, apathetic
cessation of work on Monday, and the blouses are again met
loitering about the streets and quays, too often in a state of
intoxication. The accountability for this falls not upon the
Catholic Church, but upon that party which has been and ever is
working for her destruction, and which receives to a great extent
the sympathy and encouragement of Protestants in England and
America.
We cannot pretend to say precisely what proportion of the
population of Paris is practically outside of the Catholic
Church. We have been told by an American gentleman that one of
the clergymen of St. Eustache estimated the population of that
parish at 40,000, of whom 10,000 attend Mass, and 3000 approach
the Sacraments.
{579}
If this estimate can be applied to the whole city, then 900,000
of the people habitually neglect the church, leaving 300,000 who
habitually frequent it, out of whom somewhat less than 100,000
receive the Sacraments. If this estimate is incorrect, it will
probably call out a more, correct statement from some of our
friends in Paris, which we shall be glad to receive. Without
committing ourselves, therefore, to any exact estimates, we may
nevertheless affirm what is an evident fact, that there exists
within the great world of Paris a smaller, but still in magnitude
a considerable religious and Catholic world which is really one
of the glories of Christendom for the extent and fervor of its
works of faith, charity, and piety. There is a religious as well
as an impious Paris, which, in many respects deserves to be held
up as a model to the other portions of the Catholic Church, and
is entitled to the admiration of all Christians throughout the
world.
We will begin with the charities of Paris, leaving its religion
to be spoke of afterwards. Paris is world-renowned for the number
and excellence of its charitable institutions. These are not
exclusively the work of the religious portion of the people, but
common to all, from the imperial court down to the humblest
class. There is a natural basis for charity in the French
character. France is the most completely, highly, and universally
civilized nation in the world. This civilization has been matured
and brought to perfection by Christianity, yet the superiority of
its kind and degree is due to the fact that Christianity found in
the French character an uncommonly plastic and ductile material
to work upon. The truth of this observation is proved by the
refinement and politeness prevailing so universally among all
classes. There must be something naturally amiable in the French
character, which takes easily the refining, gentilizing
influences of Christian civilization. In the ordinary, small
affairs of life and common intercourse this is politeness, and it
adds no little to the pleasantness and happiness of every-day
existence, detracts no little from its burdens. Carried into a
higher sphere, it becomes philanthropy. The Catholic religion
evolved it into the highest activity and elevated it to the rank
of supernatural charity. This charity is still the interior and
principal wheel which imparts movement and supplies force. Yet
its movement, once communicated, is retained even by those who
have lost Catholic faith and charity, or who are acting chiefly
in view of temporal motives. There is a general interest in and
desire for the well-being and happiness of the whole people.
There is not so much liberty in France as in some other
countries, yet there is more equality and fraternity there than
anywhere else on the globe. The government is somewhat despotic,
yet there is no doubt that it labors for the well-being of its
subjects. The utmost care is taken of life and property, and the
most extreme vigilance is exercised to see that the public is
well served in every branch of administration. The emperor is the
hardest working man in Paris, and the empress is not at all
behindhand in sustaining her part of the arduous as well as
honorable duties of the throne. Who does not know that plans for
model tenements, projects for relieving the laboring classes,
charitable and benevolent enterprises of various sorts, are the
continual subjects of interest and consultation in the palace of
the Tuileries?
{580}
The emperor's _fête_ on the fifteenth of August, with the
abundant alms distributed on that day throughout every quarter of
Paris, and the permission to ask alms of everybody conceded to
the mendicant class, are like a gleam of more Catholic times, and
present a pleasing contrast with the glum demeanor and frozen
state of royalty in England and Prussia. We may speak here, also,
of the remarkable honesty and fidelity in taking care of the
property of others which is so general in Paris among all sorts
of persons, especially those engaged in serving the public, and
of which we might give a great number of instances, were it
convenient to do so. In regard to hospitals, and other public
institutions for the relief of the sick, poor, and otherwise
suffering classes, it is needless to go into particulars to show
how energetic and liberal is the action of the French government
in regard to them.
English and American Protestants exaggerate too much the good of
their own civilization, and blow their own trumpet in a fearfully
sonorous manner. They think too much of long faces, measured
gravity of demeanor, drawling tones, long prayers, set,
evangelical phrases, and the tithing, in a metaphorical sense, of
mint, anise, and cummin. They are blind to the gross social
defects and evils marring their civilization; and to the
corruptions and immoralities which are poisoning their national
life-blood. We do not deny the evils which exist in Paris;
nevertheless, we maintain that it is in a far sounder moral
state, and far superior in general social well-being, to London
or New-York. There remains, even in impious and worldly Paris, an
effect produced by the Catholic religion in former times, and
sustained even now by a secret supply of force from the same
cause, which places it in a much nearer proximity to genuine
Christianity than any other great city in the world. But we will
leave these generalities and come to a closer inspection of the
specific charities of Paris which are in an immediate relation
with the Catholic Church, and chiefly sustained by her faithful
members.
(1.) _The Work of the Faubourgs_. This is a society of
ladies founded in 1848. Its object is to provide clothing and
schooling for the poorest children in the outskirts of Paris, who
are sought out and cared for by the ladies of the society in
person. A concert of the first quality is given once a year which
produces from 6000 to 8000 francs, and there are numerous
subscribers at five francs a year.
(2.) _The Maternal Society_. This society was founded in
1788, with Queen Marie Antoinette as directress. Its object is to
encourage mothers to nurse their own infants and to furnish them
the assistance necessary to enable them to do it. Forty-eight
sections of the city are assigned, each one to a lady of the
society, and these forty-eight ladies meet once a month to
regulate the distribution of the charities. On the day of the
infant's birth, the mother receives ten francs and a set of
baby-clothes, five francs a month for ten months, and a change of
dress for the infant. If the mother is unable to nurse the
infant, a nurse is provided. The ladies, moreover, take
particular care to give good counsel and advice to the mothers of
families whom they visit respecting their religious and moral
duties. Napoleon the First placed the society under the
protection of the Empress Maria Louisa, and gave it a donation of
100,000 francs. Nine hundred families are assisted and 60,000
francs expended by the society, every year.
{581}
(3.) _The Cribs_. The institution of cribs was established
to furnish a supplement to the work of the maternal society.
Great numbers of poor women are unable to remain at home during
the day with their children, on account of the necessity of going
out to work. The cribs afford them an asylum where their infants
are taken care of during the hours of their absence from home.
The merit of devising this work of charity belongs to M. Marbeau,
a member of the council of charities, who founded the first crib
in 1844 at Chaillot. The cribs are now established in every
quarter of Paris. They are regulated by a council of
administration under the presidency of the mayor. A committee of
ladies appoints and superintends the inspectresses of the work.
Sisters of Charity, aided by nurses, have charge of the cribs. A
medical committee watches over the sanitary department. Since the
foundation of the work, about fifteen thousands infants have been
admitted. Neat little cradles or beds are provided for the
youngest infants, walking-stools and playthings for the older
ones, and some are left to tumble about and play upon the floor
of a small room which is carpeted with a mattress. The mothers
bring their infants in the morning, come during the day to nurse
them, and take them home at night. On holidays they keep them at
home during the day, and can do so on other days when they have
no work.
(4.) _Halls of Asylum_. This is the delicate name given with
true French politeness, that politeness to the poor of which
little is known in England or America, to what we should call
_poor-schools_ or _ragged-schools_. The first attempt
to institute these schools in France was made in 1770, and the
celebrated Oberlin, a Protestant pastor in the Vosges, is said to
have been the first proposer of the plan. It is only since 1826
that they have been in general and successful operation, owing
chiefly to the exertions of Madame de Pastoret and M. Cochin.
There are now in France 3308 asylums, which have educated
3,833,856 children, besides 2022 _garderies_, or little
schools, which have received 5026 children. Many of these asylums
are under the charge of religious of different orders, and others
under lay teachers.
(5.) _Common Schools_. Besides the above-mentioned class of
schools, there are 1168 public primary schools in Paris, upon
which the municipal council expend yearly 497,344 francs. The
whole number of schools in France is 73,271, attended by
4,855,238 children. A great many of these schools are under the
care of religious of both sexes. To speak only of the Christian
Brothers, this society has in France more than one thousand
houses, and above nine thousand members. Thirty-one of these
houses are in Paris, and they have several hundred schools under
their charge. We have no exact statistics of a recent date, but
in 1852 the number of their schools in Paris was 275.
(6.) _Patronages_. The work of patronage has for its object
to watch over children of the laboring class after leaving school
and going to work. The houses of the society are distributed all
over Paris, and the number of apprentices under its care is 1800.
The members are persons of the higher classes, and they exert
themselves personally to find good places for their clients, to
watch over them during their apprenticeship, and to lend them a
helping hand in various ways.
{582}
The young people are assembled at the patronages on Sundays,
where they have Mass and Vespers, religious instruction, study
and recreation. They have also evening-schools during the week.
(7.) _The Friends of Childhood_. This society was founded in
1827, by a number of young gentlemen of fortune, for the succor
of poor children without parents, or having parents who neglect
to take proper care of them. The children adopted by the society
are taken care of until they can be placed as apprentices. There
is also a house in a pleasant quarter of the city, called _the
family mansion_, where the apprentices who have been brought
up by the society resort on Sundays and holidays, to meet their
protectors and pass the day in a profitable and pleasant manner.
(8.) _The Work of the Prisons_. This is a very extensive
charity and has many ramifications. The _House of Paternal
Correction_ is a place of detention where parents may place
disorderly children, and in which, under the direction of
religious brothers or sisters, an effort is made to reform,
instruct, and prepare them for some kind of work in which they
can gain a decent living. The _Patronage of the Liberated_
watches over young persons after they have been dismissed from
the place of detention. The _Colony of Mettray_ receive
young criminals, who are kept there, and employed in agriculture
or shop-work until they come of age, when they are liberated. The
_Work of Imprisoned Debtors_, established during the latter
part of the sixteenth century, by Madame de Lamoignon, has in
view the liberation of this unfortunate class by arrangements
with their creditors, and for this purpose engages the services
of magistrates and lawyers. In the mean time they are visited and
looked after in prison, and help is given to their families.
After they are dismissed from prison, an asylum is furnished them
until they can obtain the means of gaining their own livelihood,
or the means are provided of sending them to their own homes, if
they have come to Paris from a distance, as is the case with the
greater number. _The Work of St. Lazarus_, managed by
ladies, is directed to the care of women of bad life, detained in
the prison of St. Lazarus. Madame de Lamartine, an English lady,
was the foundress of this branch of charity, encouraged and aided
by the advice of the celebrated Mrs. Fry. The first object
proposed and accomplished was the amelioration of the prison
discipline, by introducing neatness and order, regular
employment, religious instruction, and the happy influence of
continual visits by the ladies engaged in the work. The second
was the foundation of a house of refuge for the poor women whose
term of imprisonment had expired. In this house everything is
done to complete their reformation, and at the proper time
arrangements are made to restore those whose conduct has been
good to their parents, to find places for them in respectable
families, or to procure their admission to some religious
community whose rules admit of receiving penitents. Those who
desire to remain, and are worthy to do so, continue in the house
permanently, forming a separate class, under the name of
Magdalens. On certain festival days the ladies go to communion
with the prisoners of St. Lazarus in their chapel, and afterward
give them a banquet at which the ladies themselves serve the
table in white aprons, and afterward accept an invitation to take
their own breakfast.
{583}
(9.) _The Society of St. Francis Regis_. This society was
founded in 1822 by M. Gossin, an eminent magistrate of Paris, in
order to remedy the widely-spread moral evil of illicit unions.
Vast numbers of the lower classes in Paris and throughout France
live together as man and wife in a permanent union without being
lawfully married either in the eye of the church or in that of
the civil law. The society searches out persons of this kind,
persuades them to contract valid marriages, and provides for the
expediting of all the documents and legal formalities necessary
for this purpose, as well as for the expenses. Between the years
1826 and 1866, 43,256 illicit unions were rehabilitated by its
efforts in the department of the Seine alone, beside all that was
done in other parts of the empire.
(10.) _The Work of the Sick Poor_. This work derives its
systematic organization from St. Vincent de Paul, and is the
special sphere of the Sisters of Charity, of whom there are
10,000 in Paris alone. These devoted religious are not, however,
alone or unaided in their work of visiting the sick poor. The
work is systematically organized in each parish under the
direction of the curé, and a general supervision is exercised by
the Superior General of the Lazarists. There is a society of
ladies who assist the curé and the Sisters of Charity in each
parish in their labors. More than 50,000 sick persons are each
year visited and provided with all that is necessary for their
bodily and spiritual relief by the charity of these ladies.
The sick poor in hospitals receive the same kind and charitable
succor, and private convalescent hospitals have been established
to receive those who are dismissed from the public hospitals. One
of these establishments, called _The Asylum of the Sacred Heart
of Mary_, founded in 1840, has received more than 17,000 young
female convalescents. There is one for children, called the
_Asylum of St. Hilary_, in a pleasant place in the country,
near Paris, founded by a young Parisian gentleman of rank, whose
initials only are given as M. le Due de L.
(11.) _The Little Sisters of the Poor_. The nature of this
institute is so well known that there is no need to enlarge upon
it. It has five houses in Paris, one of them partly founded by
the 7th Legion of the National Guard, which gave 14,000 francs
for the purpose.
(12.) _Convent of the Blind Sisters of St. Paul_. This is a
religious community not entirely composed of blind persons, but
into which such are admitted, founded in 1853. Connected with it
is an asylum for blind girls, who are received from the age of
six years, and can remain during life if they please.
(13.) _The Work of the Soldiers_. This is intended to
provide schools of elementary education and religious instruction
for the young soldiers of the garrison of Paris. The schools are
established with the consent of the military authorities near
some church or chapel, in order that there may be a place of easy
access for the members of the school to perform their devotions.
Each school has its chaplain who superintends the religious
exercises. The classes are taught by the Brothers of the
Christian Doctrine, by educated lay gentlemen, and sometimes by
the more intelligent and well-instructed soldiers. The school is
held every evening between the hours of supper and _rappel_.
After the lessons are over, prayer-books are distributed, usually
_The Soldier's Manual_, or books containing hymns especially
composed for soldiers, of which they are very fond. After some
prayers have been recited or some hymns sung, an instruction is
given or some good book is read; then some closing prayers are
recited, and the school is dismissed.
{584}
Once a week there is a service entirely devoted to innocent
recreations and religious exercises. On Sundays they have mass at
an hour convenient for the soldiers, and vespers, with the
Benediction, in the evening. At Easter, there is a retreat,
followed by a general communion. The gentlemen engaged in this
work are very punctual in their attendance, take great interest
in their pupils, and find their intercourse with the soldiers
very agreeable. When a regiment is exchanged to another military
post, a register of the members of the school belonging to the
regiment is confided to a trustworthy soldier, who delivers it to
the priest in charge of the school at the new post, if there is
one, and if not, is himself charged to keep up the good work
among his comrades the best way he can. The number of soldiers
brought under the influence of these schools is not very large,
there being not more than 600 in attendance at Paris, but the
admirable excellence of the plan is obvious, and there seems to
be no reason why it should not have a more extensive success in
due time.
(14.) _The Society of St. Vincent de Paul_. This society is
the most extensive and celebrated of all existing religious
associations among laymen, and has spread itself from Paris not
only throughout France, but also into other countries of Europe,
and into America. It was founded in 1833 by M. Bailly as a centre
of reunion for Catholic young men, where they might learn to know
each other, might give each other their mutual support and
encouragement, and might act in combination for carrying on
charitable works. Eight young students formed the original
nucleus of the society, one of whom was the renowned Frederic
Ozanam. The immediate stimulus to the formation of the society
was given by the reproach of the St. Simonians that Catholicity
was inert and incapable of doing any good in the social
community. At the present time the society has 2400 members in
Paris, many of whom are gentlemen of rank, judges, advocates,
authors, physicians, or merchants. It is divided into numerous
conferences, each one of which is perfectly organized. Its active
work extends to searching out and relieving, as far as possible,
every kind of moral and physical misery among the poorer classes.
In a large number of schools for boys there are juvenile
conferences where members are trained under experienced guides to
the practice of charitable work, and there are analogous
conferences also in some female schools.
There are many other charitable works carried on in Paris, for
the publication of good books, for the provision of vestments and
sacred vessels for poor country churches, and for a variety of
other purposes which it would be impossible to enumerate
completely. It is also well known that Paris is one of the great
centres of foreign missionary operations. Yet, as it would be
difficult to separate what belongs to Paris from the general work
of the propagation of the faith, and the subject of French
foreign missions is too extensive for a passing notice, we must
leave it alone altogether.
Our meagre sketch of charities in Paris is necessarily somewhat
skeletonian. Mlle. Gouraud, in her lively, charming volume, tells
the story with that filling in of circumstantial narration and
illustrative anecdote necessary to give its form completeness.
{585}
She writes under the guise of _Letters from an English Lady in
Paris to a Friend in England_, and although like her
countryfolk in general, quite unsuccessful in spelling English,
yet her book is made more entertaining by the pretty little
artifice. We would recommend our countrywomen to order this
little book, and some others of the same kind, with their
Parisian gloves, and to read them in lieu of the novels of Dumas
and Hugo, if we had any hope that our advice would be listened
to.
We have said enough to show that the charitable side of religion
in Paris, if it be not in its extent of surface adequate to the
dimensions of that great capital, is nevertheless in full
proportion to the numbers and resources of the really Catholic
population. Out of about one hundred thousand practical
Catholics, from twenty to thirty thousand, including the clergy
and religious, make it either the exclusive, or at least a
principal end of their lives, to perform charitable works. Out of
these, a great number may justly be entitled true heroes and
heroines of charity. If there were a legion of honor of charity,
its grand crosses would be plentifully distributed in Paris.
Religion in Paris atones for its deficiency in quantity by the
superior excellence of its quality. Like ottar of roses, a little
of it diffuses a wide perfume, and it is even able to disinfect
the atmosphere redolent of the _odeurs de Paris_. If the
whole population of Paris were really Catholic, and the whole
body of the easy classes would cooperate with the clergy and
magistracy to reform the social evils and miseries which fester
in the bosom of the working class, it is difficult to conceive
the greatness of the result which might be accomplished. The
French people are the most highly civilized, and the greatest
civilizers in the world. Their civilization extends downward into
the humblest classes, and ramifies indefinitely in every
direction. Take Paris even as it is, in our opinion it is the
best governed city in the world, and less immoral than any other
great capital. There are great miseries in it, no doubt, but
these miseries make more impression on philosophic Frenchmen than
on other men, and they make more ado about them. It is a fixed
idea in the French mind that every human being ought to have a
pleasant time and enjoy life. Evidently, the French are, as a
whole, the most cheerful and joyous people in the world, and even
the _cochers_, who are among the most forlorn human beings
in Paris, do not seem very discontented. Let the Catholic
religion regain full sway over the French mind and heart, and it
seems to us that the civilization of Christianity might attain
its ultimatum in France. To regain that sway it is now bravely
striving against formidable difficulties and opposition. And
although we do not venture to pronounce a positive judgment on
the probabilities of final and complete success, we think the
aspect of affairs encouraging, and believe that the church has
gained ground steadily in Paris and throughout France.
Historically, and according to the exterior, Paris is a Catholic
city. The Catholic religion is the religion of the French people,
and, as such, enters into the whole structure of the political,
civil, and social fabric. The French Revolution was a moment of
national delirium. When the nation came to itself, it was forced
by its common sense to reestablish religion, restore the
desecrated temples to Catholic worship, and recall the surviving
remnant of the expatriated clergy. The Hôtel Dieu, a hospital
near Notre Dame de Paris, built by Saint Vincent de Paul, still
bears on its front the half-effaced inscriptions, _Liberté,
Egalité, Fraternité_.
{586}
There could not be a more expressive symbol of the triumph of
religion over infidelity. The past, the present, and the future
glory of France is identified with religion. The traditions of
the first foundation of Paris, which cast a halo of sacred
association over it, and which are perpetuated by so many
splendid monuments, are religious. The names of Saint Dionysius,
Saint Genevieve, Saint Louis, familiar as household words,
continually recall them. The glorious churches, which are the
chief ornaments of the city, Notre Dame de Paris, La Sainte
Chapelle, Saint Denys, Saint Eustache, The Madeleine; the streets
even, with their appellations borrowed from religion, impress
them continually on the memory and imagination. The masterpieces
of art which fill the galleries of painting embody the mysteries,
the events, the great personages of religion. The sublime
services of the church give their principal grandeur to the
national festivals, and to the public pomp of the imperial
government. This exterior Catholicity is not much in itself, it
is true. Nevertheless, it is a _point d'appui_, of great
service to religion in laboring to imbue with the living
principles of Christian faith and virtue the minds and hearts of
the people. Awaken them to a belief that religion is a reality,
and to an earnest desire to act according to its precepts, and
they become fervent Catholics at once. The general atmosphere
holds the Catholic spirit in solution, ready to be precipitated
under the proper influences.
So far as the actual piety and religion of Paris is concerned, we
have anticipated in a great measure what is to be said about it,
in speaking of the charities of Paris. We need do no more than
allude to certain facts well known to all who have visited the
city in such a way as to really learn anything about it, or who
are well informed by reading. The clergy are numerous, well
organized, and above all praise for their high sacerdotal
virtues. The colleges and seminaries for ecclesiastical training
are certainly unsurpassed except by those of Rome. A rich and
abundant stream of theological and religious literature is
perennially flowing from the Paris press. Active and able as are
the infidel writers of Paris, they are overmatched by the
advocates of religion, who have vindicated and are vindicating
Christianity in a most triumphant manner in every branch of
polemics. The principal parish churches in Paris are models which
the world might imitate. As for the piety of that portion of the
people who are really practical Catholics, it is enough to visit
the churches on week-days or Sundays, especially such as are
places of special devotion, like Notre Dame des Victoires, to be
most powerfully and agreeably impressed with the evidence of its
high quality and fervor. Those who are best qualified to judge
consider it beyond a doubt that religion has made a great advance
in Paris within the last twenty-five years, and is advancing
gradually but surely toward a reconquest of the masses of the
population. A great combat is going on throughout Europe for
saving the Christian religion and Christian civilization, and one
of its chief battle-grounds is Paris. We cannot dissemble our
solicitude for the result, or our sentiment of the gravity of the
crisis. We trust, however, that the noble words of that great
Christian orator Père Hyacinthe may be verified: "Christian
society may agonize, but it cannot die; for it bears the
principle of immortality in its bosom."
--------
{587}
Translated From The Journal De Bruxelles.
Bishop Dupanloup's Speech At The Catholic Congress Of Malines.
Permit me, gentlemen, first of all to thank you for having kept
up and continued your excellent congress. I congratulate you not
only on the sacred flame which animates you, or the zeal which
shines so highly in your public sessions, but also on the works
which are the enduring fruits of your meetings. In reading,
yesterday and this morning, the volumes which contain the reports
of the proceedings of your former sessions, I have been
astonished at the amount of information, at the resolutions, and
the useful institutions which have resulted from your labors.
You have done a good work, a sacred and fruitful work; _bonum
opus_. For this I give thanks to God, the author of all good
and after him to his eminence the cardinal archbishop of Malines,
who, in his wisdom, has found the means of sustaining your work
in spite of all opposition. (Prolonged applause.)
The presence, on this occasion, of Monsignor Dechamps will not
permit of my expressing all that I feel in my heart toward him. I
remember with pleasure that my first battles at Liege were fought
under the inspiring influence of his noble example. Twenty-one
years have elapsed since then, and, while these years have left
the marks of age upon me, it seems as if they have only had the
effect of making him younger. (Laughter and applause.)
Having told you of the deep impression which has been made upon
me, relative to the praiseworthy character of your work, it will
hardly be expected that I should attempt to fan the flame of your
zeal: that would be useless. My object at present is, just by a
few simple words, to add something if I can to that sacred fire
burning in your hearts, of whose results, as set forth in the
proceedings of your last sessions, I have read with so much
admiration.
You need not fear, then, that I will, on the present occasion, as
happened three years ago, impose upon your good nature. (Cries
from all parts of "No, no! Speak, speak at length.") To abuse it
this time is impossible, for my strength will not permit. I
shall, consequently, be on my guard against the temptations to
which one is exposed before such an audience as this.
I wish simply to remind you of the words of St. Paul, which are
applicable now: "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with
good." _Noli vinci a malo, sed vince malum bono_. You will
perceive that these are words of great importance; and, with your
permission, I shall offer a few remarks upon them. They are words
deserving of serious consideration, for evil surrounds us, or
rather presses upon us. This evil is present, acting, speaking.
We must overcome this evil, but we must overcome it not by evil,
but by good; _in bono._ Here we see our duty. The evil,
gentlemen, has been in the world for a long time, and for this
reason we should neither be astonished at it nor discouraged in
our efforts. Let me simply remind you of the few last centuries.
{588}
What has Protestantism done? It has attacked the church which was
in the sixteenth century. What has the eighteenth century done?
It has attacked Christianity. The nineteenth century, gentlemen,
has attacked everything--it has attacked God, the soul, reason,
morals, society, the distinction between good and evil. Yes,
gentlemen, everything is to-day shamefully, audaciously,
impudently attacked. (Prolonged applause.) Here we see the extent
and the intensity of the evil; here we see the necessity of
overcoming it with good. We can do it; not without effort, it is
true; but still we can do it. For us is reserved, henceforth, the
glory of defending the law of reason, as well as that of faith;
the natural, as well as the supernatural; the immortality of the
soul, and the existence of the Deity, against the most audacious
and the most foolish enemies that have ever been known.
(Applause.)
I tell you, nevertheless, that the battle is a hard one, and
certainly the acclamations which, on this occasion, greet the
names of the church, the pope, and the holy Virgin, show that the
evil is serious, that the sore is deeply seated, that the disease
has thoroughly infected souls that are dear to us, and for which
we ought to fight; has laid hold upon souls dear to us, and which
we should save from ruin. Ah! gentlemen, what ought we not to do
in order to save souls! We should be prepared to sacrifice our
strength, blood, our lives if necessary. This is the price of
victory; and that you may not forget it, the cross which is
raised over this assembly reminds you of what is the price of
souls. (Sensation.)
The struggle, then, is a severe one, and it is especially so now,
seeing that never at any previous period has evil had more
powerful means employed in its service than at the present time.
We have to encounter not only against an immense, concealed
organization, that of secret societies, the ramifications of
which extend on all sides, but against a vast public
organization, and against a press which spreads calumnies and
lies in every quarter.
From whatever point of view we look at it, the contest is a
terrible one. And observe, gentlemen, that the propaganda of evil
knows no limits, and respects nothing; it attacks the rich, the
poor, women, children, young girls. What do I say? It attacks
even the dying, doing violence shamefully to their consciences,
and snatching from them the consolation to be derived from a
return to the faith. I ask these madmen, (for after all we are
not here in the dark, but we fight in the light of day.) Whence
came the idea of inducing any one to sign this infernal compact?
What sort of man can he be who will persuade his fellow-creatures
to enter into an engagement of this kind? And yet there are men
who yield! Yes, there are men who pledge themselves never to
return, even to their dying hour, to the religion and the hearts
of their wives, to the religion and hearts of their daughters;
for this is what these wicked, these barbarous separations amount
to! (Sensation.)
The hatred of religion, gentlemen, is nowhere more marked than in
Belgium. But I may add--what will, perhaps, astonish you when I
say it--that it is to your honor it is so; for it is doubtless
because they feel sensibly the power of your religion, of your
faith, of your zeal, that they have been driven to hate so
bitterly.
{589}
It is to your honor, for it proves that you are a Catholic
nation, the most Catholic, perhaps, that there has yet been.
But, in spite of these good and solid reasons for battling on,
some are frequently tempted to ask, "Is the struggle to go on for
ever? It is sufficient to wear out the stoutest courage." Well,
gentlemen, I tell you that, under different phases, the struggle
will be eternal. Do you wish to have the proof of this? Hear it,
gentlemen, from the mouth of the Master; hear it with that
respect which his divine word commands: "_The world hates you,
but you know that it hated me before it hated you_." And
again: "_I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves. If
they have persecuted me, they will persecute you. The disciple is
not above his master, nor the servant above his lord. If they
have called the master Beelzebub, how much more will they also
call his servants!_"
You understand, then, gentlemen, it is what is good they
persecute in you--it is the good, it is justice, it is the
liberty of souls, it is eternal glory that they hate in you. It
is the adorable name of Jesus Christ which they persecute in you.
This is to your honor; and allow me to say, it is to the
particular glory of that society with which Belgium is honored,
that society which has provided for your children such highly
accomplished and devout masters, that society the members of
which cultivate so successfully in your midst the sciences and
letters, and who are, I may say, the princes of learning and of
Catholic divinity. (Applause.)
But if Jesus Christ has predicted persecution, he says to us at
the same time, _Fear not; nolite timere_. And St. Augustine
in his admirable comment on this exhortation says: "You complain,
you are astonished, at seeing a flood of persecution rising
against you. You cry out, Where, then, O Lord! is thy justice?
But God answers you, Where, then, is your faith? Did I promise
you anything else than from the height of my cross I baptized you
in my blood? Did you become a Christian in order to enjoy here
below all temporal prosperity? _Num quid Christianus factus es
ut in hoc saeculo floreres?_"
Let us look more closely into this great question. It may
certainly be asked, Since God holds in his eternal hands the
hearts of all nations in every age--since he can turn the hearts
of princes as he wills, may it not be presumed that he will put a
check upon the passions of men, and allow his children to enjoy
eternal peace? Well, no. "As high," says the prophet, "as the
heavens are above the earth, so high are my thoughts above
yours." What, then, does he to whom belongs the wisdom and the
power think on this subject? Gentlemen, God, in his eternal
councils, has judged that there is nothing more glorious for him,
nothing more salutary for man, than that good was to prevail by
conflict. Overcome evil with good, is the tower of strength of
the divine power. God has thought--and let this thought,
gentlemen, sink deep into your hearts; for you all, whatever your
condition in life, have need frequently to meditate upon those
teachings of Christianity which are at once a solid foundation
and a glorious crown; God has thought, I say, that conflict in
this world is necessary, that it is more worthy of him, and more
worthy of us. In leaving men free to choose the good, God knows
that there is the possibility of evil, which he has, thereby,
hazarded; but he has ordained that there shall be conflict and
struggle, without which that glorious thing we call virtue,
_virtus_, would be unknown in the world.
{590}
And not only has he thought that, even after the fall, we were
still great enough to be equal to great trials, but he has
thought, also, that it would be more worthy of him and of us for
us to pass through those trials. So, gentlemen, when Christ
descended on earth, he chose the lot of suffering and of the
cross. And St. Paul has found this foundation so solid, that he
has made it the basis of his doctrine when he says that it was
necessary that Christ should suffer in order that he might be
raised in glory.
Well, permit me, gentlemen, to use this plainness of speech, for
we are here as a family. I believe that God has judged rightly. I
believe that bold adversaries are better for us than partial
friends and unbounded prosperity. I believe that he will never
leave our sufferings without their compensations. There is no age
that has not had its glory. There are periods of consolation.
Sometimes the sun rises and all seems easy.
We are told in Scripture that these bright periods often follow
the darkness. There are times when the light of faith seems to be
obscured. There are sometimes grievous misunderstandings among
the friends of God, and sometimes deplorable manifestations of
self-will. In this season of darkness, under the cover of this
night, the beasts of prey leave their hiding-places: _in ipsa
hora pertransibunt bestiae_. We hear men saying, God is evil.
Property is robbery. We must have a new morality. And they would
instil these things into the minds of your wives and your
children. This is what we hear in the night. But the sun rises,
and immediately these creatures retire into their holes.
(Laughter.) Then the good man opens his door, sees that the
weather is fine, that the sky is clear, and he goes forth to
works of charity and virtue, laboring on in lively hope until the
return of the darkness. (Applause.)
It is true that, when we see so much evil in the world, when we
feel it near to us, and experience its effects, we are apt to
become alarmed. But that would be wrong. A short time ago, on
returning from Rome, where every one goes for consolation and
hope, I passed through Pisa, where I found an admirable type of
the church in the leaning tower of which you have all heard.
Those who are ignorant of the secret of the skilful architect to
whom we are indebted for this wonderful monument, cannot
contemplate it without a certain degree of fear. But the
craziness of the structure is in appearance only. It is the same
with the church, which the Scriptures call the Tower of David,
(_Turris Davidcea_,) surrounded by a thousand defences. When
this leaning tower raises itself, it is like St. Peter's at
Rome--an incomparable monument, grand, majestic, shining as if
lighted with the fire of the setting sun. At this sight,
gentlemen, we console ourselves, and take fresh courage, saying
to ourselves, When afflictions come, I will think of St. Peter's
at Rome, even when it appears like the leaning tower of Pisa.
(Applause.)
This, gentlemen, is what I have to say to you about that conflict
to which we are called to devote our strength, to consecrate our
life, and even our death. Yes, gentlemen, when, upon my arrival
here, I saw the illustrious writer who is now your host
struggling with sickness and suffering, at the time when he was
required to write some of those pages which awaken such noble
sentiments in our souls, the reflection forced itself upon me: It
is thus that we should combat, and never yield. (The orator was
here about to leave the platform, but the opposition and
entreaties of the audience prevented him.)
{591}
I crave your indulgence, gentlemen, he resumed; it is now two
years since I have opened my mouth in my diocese. But let it be
as you wish; only I throw the responsibility upon you of making
my peace for me with the people of Orleans. (Orleanius.) (Great
merriment.) I will add a few words respecting the conditions of
this conflict.
The first is courage. Saint James the Evangelist, in addressing
himself to young men, calls upon them to be strong, to be
courageous; he says to them, "I speak to you because you are
strong: _quia fortis estis_. I can say no more to you than
this: Be courageous, never yield. Remember that you are, every
day and under all circumstances, called upon to resist."
But there is something greater and more enduring than courage: it
is devotedness. Yes, gentlemen, you must be devoted, in order
that you may be the true friends of the poor, of the working
people, of those who suffer and who weep, the support of all
those works which is the life, the soul of the church, the
blood--if I may so speak--which circulates in its veins.
The third quality which is demanded in this conflict is
patriotism. O patriotism! I need not enlarge upon it in my
speech. I will simply content myself with saying to you, You have
a country; know how to defend it. (Immense applause.) You have
the arts: in this respect there is no nation that surpasses you,
and but one at most that equals you. You have industry, commerce,
names among the most honored in Europe. You have I know not how
much of generous, instinctive impulses against oppression,
against debasing vices, against everything mean and degrading.
Cherish, then, the strongest attachment to your country, and see
that you preserve it.
I was told a few days ago that a journal of some character had
said that Belgium is the sink of Europe. I said to myself, this
is not abuse. There is, in fact, no nation of which so much can
be said in the sense in which I wish now to speak. I myself,
gentlemen, saw proof of this in walking through your city
yesterday. In the street which runs along the magnificent city
hotel of Brussels my eyes fell upon this sign: _Liberal
Association and Constitutional Union of Brussels_. And what
was there below? A wine-shop; and lower down another wine-shop,
having for a sign the words "to Hell." (General merriment.) This,
alas! is not all that I have seen in Brussels, gentlemen; but I
pass on.
The fourth condition of the conflict is labor. Oh! how I wish
that the Catholics were the most diligent, the most laborious of
men. Yes; whatever you may be, work will benefit your family,
your posterity. Depend upon it, gentlemen, the destinies of the
world are in the hands of those who know how to work.
To this condition, to industry, to science, I would add
intelligence and prudence. And here again, gentlemen, it is our
Lord himself who gives us counsel: we are to have, he says, the
artlessness of the dove, with the wisdom of the serpent. Yes,
gentlemen, however much these words may have been abused, I
insist upon them, and I call upon you to give heed to them. We
must exercise that prudence of which the serpent is the symbol in
the language of the east. We must use our judgment; we must
intelligently apply our principles; we must maintain that good
understanding which should ever exist among brethren.
{592}
To give up that to the enemy to trample under his feet, would be
treachery. (Applause.) We must seek to understand the times in
which we live and the wants of the times, the adversaries whom we
have to combat and the means we ought to employ in meeting them,
as God and revelation permit and demand of us. (Applause.)
There is another point on which you will allow me to insist. When
I had the honor of being received in the French Academy, I was
required to make a speech. In searching for a subject suited to
the times in which we live, I remembered the words of an
historian: "We have long since lost the true meaning of words."
This, gentlemen, is a profound remark. The higher philosophy,
which is in accord with Christianity, proclaims its truth; words,
which are the signs of ideas, are the grand riches of humanity;
they are the common treasure. To adopt the language of the
adversaries of that philosophy, and Christianity, is, to speak
plainly, the greatest fault which honest men can commit.
What are the words with which the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries achieved their success? what are those which are in the
present day so much abused? There are three of them:
_Reformers, Philosophers_, and (since they take great
pleasure in being called so) _Liberals_.
_Reformers!_ We must confess that the thing indicated by
this word is more strange even than the word itself. You have the
Council of Trent which has labored continually to reform the
church. In this world men are the depositaries of divine truth,
and I need hardly tell you that, where man is concerned,
imperfection must always be looked for. Well, gentlemen, the
church is a society which reforms itself; for this purpose she
has held a thousand councils, and the Council of Trent decided
that there should not be a session in which reform should not be
considered. We have reform, then, on our side. What have they on
the other? They have Luther, with the religion which he brought
from the cloister; Calvin, with a society of the same nature;
OEcolampadius, etc. And these were the men who devoted themselves
to the work of reforming the church--the church, gentlemen, which
they called Babylon! As for them, it was the Holy Jerusalem,
which they peopled with their wives and their children!
But what is still more extraordinary is the abuse which has been
made of the word _liberal_. When Count Felix de Merode--a
man whose name I feel doubly honored in pronouncing here--a man
who fought to reconquer religious, civil, and political liberty
for his country--when he heard his adversaries called liberals,
he indignantly exclaimed: "They are not liberals, they are
libertines. It is as impossible to call them liberals as it would
be to call a mother a barbarous mother."
Gentlemen, is all this what they call liberalism? I have lately
heard Juarez spoken of as a liberal. It is not that I would judge
the men who claim this title, but I believe they do not
understand the thing. For my part I would not apply the term to
them. And Garibaldi, gentlemen, is another liberal. Listen to his
language: "My friends, my children"--this man has something
paternal about him (laughter)--"we must crush the sacerdotal
vampire; as for the priests, we must break their heads on the
pavement of the streets." What a liberal! Ah! gentlemen, if
Bossuet, if Fenelon, if Bourdaloue, could come back to this
world, they would say to us, "But what have you clone with this
beautiful French language?"
{593}
A liberal! But in our estimation he is the liberal man who does
not deny to others the same justice and truth which he claims to
have himself. The Portuguese Freemasons who drove out the Sisters
of Charity, those of you who insult them, are still liberals! I
say again, the thing is intolerable; and if I were a Belgian I
would never betray my language, my honor, and my conscience by
giving such a name to such men. (Applause.)
And so far as we are concerned, you know, gentlemen, how they pay
us back. They call us the clerical party--that is to say, fools
of the sacristy; or better still, the priest party. Shall I
remind you of Voltaire, who invented the name wretch, by which he
designated the church? And what name did he bear? He was called
philosopher. Gentlemen, they would never get me to give the title
of philosopher to a d'Holbach, to a Lamettrie, to any of those
wicked men, conspiring with their master to crush the "wretch." I
understand that they contemplate erecting a statue to the man who
has given this name to Christianity. For my part, I say they will
have raised a statue to infamy personified. (Prolonged cheers.) I
am prepared to meet any opponent on this ground; and I will
promise to give him, whenever he wishes to have them, such proofs
of what I say as will resound throughout the whole of Europe.
This violence done to common sense, to honesty, to French honor,
is revolting to me. I repeat it, they are raising a statue to
infamy personified. The Bishop of Orleans can think nothing
better, can say nothing better of it. (Prolonged applause.)
You see, then, that we must have courage, devotedness,
patriotism, prudence, and intelligence; I will add to these
moderation and gentleness. Did not Christ say to his Apostles, "I
send you forth as sheep among wolves"? Perhaps you will say to
me, "But you give us several applications of this evangelical
saying which it will not bear." Gentlemen, it is nowhere
forbidden to the shepherd to give the alarm of the wolf, and to
the sheep to believe it. Yes, we must be gentle, and Saint
Chrysostom, commenting on these words, says: "We require
protectors who attack little, but who defend well--_pro
pugnatorem, non impugnatorem_" It is in this way,
gentlemen--it is by gentleness--that we are to conquer. But if,
instead of being sheep, we become wolves by abuse, if we wish to
conquer and not to be convinced, we run the risk of being
vanquished. _Si lupi sumus vincimur_.
And now, to conclude, I would express to you the deepest
impressions of my soul. That which I admire most in this
beautiful creation of the Deity, which makes man like the angels,
is the flame of love which God has kindled in his soul.
Gentlemen, what do the radiant looks of this assembly, this
clapping of hands, these outbursts of enthusiasm, express? They
express love. You love, gentlemen, and you love nobly. You love
the church, your mother. Ah! you do well to love her with the
purest and most generous love! The church is the fellowship of
souls; herein is her beauty and her immortal glory. This is why,
although she is in the world, she is not of the world. She lives
by faith, hope, and love. She believes, she hopes, she loves.
This earth is only the place of her pilgrimage; Heaven is her
country, the King of Heaven is her father, Jesus Christ is her
immortal spouse, the Holy Spirit her inspirer and her guide.
{594}
She has her pontiffs, whom you venerate, her doctors, her
priests. There, at least, we find here below a divine and
unchangeable constitution. Built on a rock that can never be
moved, we have a supreme authority, a teachable people, faithful
ministers, and, in short, (not to speak of others,) rights
scrupulously respected, and duties faithfully performed.
(Applause.)
That which seems astonishing at first sight is, that the church,
notwithstanding her divine origin and her immortal destinies,
should so often come to us with thorns on her brow. But this is
because she comes from Calvary, and her favorite strains were
those which inspired Saint Paul when he said, "God forbid that I
should glory save in the cross of Jesus Christ." Among the songs
of gladness sung by the church, as she travels through this
world, there are none more dear to her than those which celebrate
the passion, the temptations, the sorrows of Calvary. These are
her household words. We feel that she received them from the
dying lips of a divine being; but, sharing the grief of the
God-man, she should go forth with him from the tomb to cover the
earth with her children, in innumerable multitudes.
The church must expect to meet here below with indifference, with
adversaries, with persecutors. This has been announced, or rather
promised, to her; she is not to enjoy where she has not suffered;
at some time or other we all suffer, we die for her. Yes! She
always has martyrs, and it is only recently that several have
been laid upon the altar. Ah! it is during these festivals,
gentlemen, that you should see the church in order to feel how
her heart beats. On the recent occasion the Vicar of Jesus Christ
was surrounded by five hundred bishops, who hastened to him from
all parts of the world. You should have seen the gladness, the
glory, the universal enthusiasm which prevailed. We found there a
strength to encounter anything--to go freely, cheerfully, to
Abyssinia, to India, to America, everywhere. How vigorous, how
deep, how indissoluble is the union of souls! Behold the church
here, as we have seen her and experienced her power! America sent
thirty-five bishops; for a century she had not more than one. At
the last council of Baltimore there were forty-three, and the
American bishops, on leaving Rome, obtained from the Holy Father
the erection of twenty-three dioceses. You see how fruitful is
this immortal cause of yours.
And in the midst of all these is the grand thought of the
Sovereign Pontiff proclaiming the utility and the necessity of a
general council. There is wisdom, there is energy! No, gentlemen,
I have never seen a finer sight than this old man going direct to
his object with a firmness which nothing can overcome. All around
him may be in a state of trouble; the earth may fail under his
feet; still he maintains his ground, and the church shall have
her council. Yes, gentlemen, the kingdoms of this earth may be
removed, _inclinata sunt regna_; but the bishops will one
day meet in council, and with the chief will hold forth the light
to those who require their help. The church shall have its
council, in order that disputes may cease, that peace may dwell
in our hearts; that the people may be drawn into the arms of
their common father, so that there shall be but one flock and but
one shepherd.
--------
{595}
The Reign of Law. [Footnote 56]
[Footnote 56: _The Reign of Law_. By the Duke of Argyll.
London: Strahan, 1867. 8vo, pp. 435.]
There is much in this work that we hold to be true and important,
when considered by itself, without reference to the general views
or doctrines of the author; but they are so interwoven with other
things, that to us are evidently unscientific or untrue, that
they lose nearly all their practical value. The author certainly
does not lack ability, and is apparently learned in the sciences;
but, unhappily for such a work as he appears to have meditated,
he is no theologian and no philosopher. There is such a want of
distinctness in his principles, and of clearness and precision in
his statements, that, with the best intentions in the world to
understand him, we are unable to make out to our own satisfaction
what he is driving at, or for what purpose he has written his
book.
The topics treated are;
1. The supernatural;
2. Law--its definitions;
3. Contrivance, a necessity arising out of the reign of law;
4. Apparent exceptions to the supremacy of purpose;
5. Creation by law;
6. Law in the realm of mind;
7. Law in politics.
These are great topics, and are intimately connected with
theology and philosophy, faith and religion. But what has the
author proposed to himself in treating them? What general view of
religion or of science does he seek to bring out, illustrate, or
establish? We can find in his book no satisfactory answer to
either of these questions. He is a _savant_, not a
philosopher, and there seems to be in his mind and in his book
the same want of unity and wholeness, the same tendency to lose
itself in details, that there is and must be in the special or
inductive sciences when not subordinated to a general or a
superior science, to be supplied only by theology or philosophy,
which deals with the ideal, the universal, and the necessary; and
we find it impossible to harmonize the several special views
which he takes, integrate them in any general view which it can
be supposed that he accepts, or which he is not found, first or
last, directly or indirectly impugning. We understand well enough
his language, which is simple and clear, so far as the words and
sentences go; we understand, too, the parts of his book taken
separately; but we frankly confess our inability to put the
several parts together and understand them as a whole.
Our first impression, on looking through the work, was that the
author wished to harmonize the sciences with the great primary
truths of religion, by showing that the universe in all its
departments, laws, facts, and phenomena proceeds from a
productive will under the direction of mind or intelligence, for
a purpose or end. In this view the laws of nature, producing
effects in their order, could be carried up for their first cause
to the divine will, or that will itself using the instrumentality
of laws or means it had itself created. To harmonize the sciences
with faith, or to render them compatible with faith, all that
would need to be done would be to show that since the so-called
natural laws themselves depend wholly on God, they can never
restrain his freedom, or compel him to act through them, and only
through them. We will not say that he has not had something of
the sort in view; but, certainly, not uniformly and steadily.
{596}
We thought, again, that having the same end in view, he wished to
show that all things are produced according to one and the same
dialectic law, and| therefore, that viewed as a whole, in its
principle, medium, and end, as the external expression of the
Holy Trinity, which God is in himself, the universe must be
really dialectic, and strictly logical in all its parts. Creation
is the external word of God, as the Son is his internal word or
expression. As the Creator is in himself the supreme logic,
[Greek text], logic itself, creation as his expression _ad
extra_, or external image, must be as a whole and in all its
parts strictly logical, as St. Thomas implies when he says, "God
is the similitude of all things--_similitudo rerum omnium._"
Not that the type of God is in the creature, as the noble duke
more than once implies; but that the type of the creature, of
creation, is in God. Hence there can be no anomalies, no sophisms
in the Creator's works; nothing arbitrary, capricious; but order
must run through all, and all must be subjected to the law of
order, implied in the doctrine of Scripture, "God hath made all
things by weight and measure." The author, then, might be
understood as attempting, by his knowledge of the physical
sciences, to prove _à posteriori_ that this is true, and to
show that this law of order reigns in the world of matter and in
the realm of mind, in the plant and in the animal, in science and
in faith, in religion and in politics, as the universal law of
creation. Hence, the possibility and reality of science, which
consists in recognizing this law and tracing it in all things,
little or great.
Some things, the author says, may be construed in favor of such a
purpose, but he seems sometimes to be asserting the universal
reign of law and at others to be censuring those who do assert
it, and refuting those who maintain that life is the product of
law: plainly showing that he does not understand law in the sense
supposed, nor always in the same sense. His definitions of law
also prove that he is a stranger to the view we suggest, and has
his mind fixed on something quite different. The "root idea" of
law, he says, is that of force; and he defines law to be in its
primary sense "will enforcing itself with power"--a very
erroneous definition, by the way, for law is will directed by
reason. He also understands by it the means, medium, or
instrument by which will creates, for he does not seem to hold
that God creates from nothing, or without means distinguishable
from himself; so we are thrown back, and again puzzled to
determine what he really does mean. We ask ourselves if he is not
a really profound theologian, master of the deepest Christian
philosophy, and simply endeavoring to translate it into the
language of the _savans_, or if he is not totally ignorant
of that philosophy, suggesting to those who know it far more than
he has ever dreamed of himself? Something almost inclines us to
think the former; but upon the whole we incline to the latter,
and conclude that the less profound in philosophy and theology we
regard him, the greater the justice we shall do him.
The author, as near as we can come at his meaning, holds that all
action of the divine will is by law, and that law is the means or
instrument by which it acts and produces its effects; or, in
other words, God always and everywhere makes use of natural laws
or forces to effect his purposes.
{597}
The definition he has given of law in its primary sense, "will
enforcing itself with power," would seem to identify it with God
himself, or at least with God willing and effecting his purpose;
but he says: "Law is taken in certain derivative senses, in which
hardly a trace of the primary sense is retained:
1. Law as applied simply to an observed order of facts.
2. To that order as involving the action of some force or
forces, of which nothing more may be known.
3. As applied to individual forces the measure of whose
operation has been more or less defined or ascertained.
4. As applied to those combinations of force which have
reference to the fulfilment of purpose or the discharge of
function.
5. As applied to the abstract conceptions of mind, not
corresponding with any actual phenomena, but deduced therefrom
as axioms of thought necessary to our understanding of
them--not merely to an order of facts, but to an order of
thought." (Pp. 64, 65.)
The last sense given to law proves clearly enough that the author
knows nothing of philosophy, for it supposes the ideal or the
intelligible is an abstract mental conception deduced from
sensible phenomena, and therefore is objectively nothing, instead
of being an objective reality affirmed to and apprehended by the
mind. He is one who places the type of his God in the creature,
not the type of the creature in God, and represents God to
himself as the creature fulfilled or perfected, as do all
inductive philosophers. But we will pass over this, as having
been already amply discussed in this magazine.
We confess that we find very little that is definite in these
pretended definitions of law. They tell us to what classes of
facts law is applied, but do not tell us what law is, or define
whether it is the force which produces the facts to which it is
applied or simply the rule according to which they are produced;
whether it designates the order of their production or is simply
their classification. The author may reply that it is applied in
all these senses and several more, but that defines nothing. What
is it in itself, apart from its application, or the manner of its
use? A word, and nothing more? Then it is nothing, is unreal, a
nullity, and how then can it ever be a force, or even an
instrument of force? "These great leading significations of the
word law," he continues, "all circle round the three great
questions which science asks of nature, the What, the How, and
the Why:
1. What are the facts in their established order?
2. How, that is, from what physical causes, does that order
come to be?
3. Why have those causes been so combined? What relation do
they bear to purpose, to the fulfilment of intention, to the
discharge of function?" (P. 65.)
This would be very well, if the sciences raised no questions
beyond the order of second causes, but this is not the case. The
author himself brings in other than physical causes. Will is not,
in the ordinary sense of the word, physical; and he defines law
to be, in its primary sense, will enforcing itself with power;
and the question comes up, If these facts of nature are the
product of will, of whose will? Does nature will or act from
will? Is it by its will fire melts wax, the winds propel the ship
at sea, or the lightning rends the oak? The author speaks of the
_facts_ of nature. _Fact_ is something done, and
implies a doer; what or who, then, is the doer? Here is a great
question which the author raises, and which his definitions of
law exclude. The whence is as important as the what, the how, or
the why.
{598}
Moreover, the author mistakes the sense of the how. The answer to
the question, how? is not the question, from or by what cause or
causes, but in what mode or manner. Law in "these great leading
significations" which circle round the what, the how, and the
why, does in no sense answer the question whence, or from what or
by what cause, and leaves, by the way, both the first cause and
the medial cause, the principle and medium of the facts observed
and analyzed. How then can he assert the universal reign of law?
As far as we can collect from the senses of the word given, law
does not reign at all; it lies in the order of natural facts, and
simply marks the order, manner, and purpose of their existence in
nature, or their arrangement or classification in our scientific
systems. Nothing more.
Yet his grace means more than this. He means, sometimes at least,
that to arrange facts under their law is to reduce them to their
physical cause or principle of production. Such and such facts
owe their existence to such and such a law, that is, to such or
such a natural cause or productive force. And his doctrine is
that all causes are natural, and that there is no real
distinction between natural and supernatural. "The truth is," he
says, pp. 46-47, "that there is no such distinction between what
we find in nature, and what we are called upon to believe in
religion, as men pretend to draw between the natural and the
supernatural. _It is a distinction purely artificial,
arbitrary, unreal_. Nature presents to our intelligence, the
more clearly the more we search her, the designs, ideas, and
intentions of some
'Living will that shall endure,
When all that seems shall suffer shock.'"
But, does nature when she presents the designs, the ideas,
intentions, present the will whose they are? And if so, does she
present it as her own will, or as a will above herself?
Undoubtedly, the will presented by religion is the same will that
is operative in nature, but religion presents that will not as
nature, but as above nature, therefore as supernatural, for
nothing can be both itself and above itself. Nobody pretends,
certainly no theologian pretends, that the will presented by
religion is above the will that is operative in nature, and calls
it for that reason supernatural. The will in both is one and the
same, but religion asserts that it is alike supernatural whether
in religion or in nature. That will is the will of the creator:
and does the author mean to assert that the distinction between
the creator and the creature is unreal? Certainly not. Then he
must be mistaken in asserting that the distinction between the
natural and supernatural is "purely artificial, arbitrary,
unreal," and also in controverting, as he does, the assertion of
M. Guizot that "a belief in the supernatural is essential to all
positive religion." He himself admits, p. 48, that M. Guizot's
affirmation is true in the special sense that "belief in the
existence of a living will, of a personal God, is indeed a
requisite condition," and we will not be so unjust as to suppose
that he either identifies this living will, this personal God
with nature, or denies that he is above nature, its first and
final cause, its principle, medium, and end, its sovereign
proprietor and supreme ruler; for this lies at the very threshold
of all true religion, is a truth of reason, and a necessary
preamble to faith.
"But," the author continues, "the intellectual yoke, in the
common idea of the supernatural, is a yoke which men impose upon
themselves. Obscure thought and confused language are the main
source of the difficulty."
{599}
In the case of the noble duke, perhaps so; but if he had been
familiar with the clear thought and distinct language of the
theologians, he probably would have experienced no difficulty in
the case. What he really denies is not the _super_natural,
but, if we may so speak, the _contra_natural, which is a
very different thing, and which all real theologians are as ready
and as earnest to deny as any one is or can be; for they all hold
grace is supernatural, and yet adopt the maxim, _gratia
supponit naturam_, as we have heretofore shown in an article
on _Nature and Grace_. The author very conclusively shows
that the contradictory of what is true in nature cannot be true
in religion. Some pretended philosophers in the time of Pope Leo
X. maintained that the immortality of the soul is true in
theology, but false in philosophy. The pope condemned their
doctrine and vindicated common sense, which teaches every one
that what is true in theology cannot be false in philosophy, or
what is true in philosophy cannot be false in theology. Truth is
truth always and everywhere, and never is or can be in
contradiction with itself. But we cannot agree with the author
that "the common idea" of the supernatural is that it is
something antagonistic to nature. There may be some heterodox
theologians that so teach, or seem to teach, and many men who are
devoted to the study of the natural sciences suppose that
approved theologians assert the supernatural in the same sense,
and this is one reason why they take such a dislike to theology
and become averse to faith in supernatural revelation. But we
hold them mistaken; at least we are not accustomed to see the
supernatural presented by learned and orthodox theologians as
opposed to the natural. If such is the teaching of the heterodox,
it is very unfortunate for his grace that he has taken their
teaching to be that of the Christian church, or the faith of
orthodox believers.
But the author's difficulty about the supernatural has its
principal origin in his theology, not in his science. We do not
like his habit of speaking of the divine action in nature as the
action of will, for God never acts as mere will. We may
distinguish in relation to our mode of apprehending him, between
his essence and his attributes, and between one attribute and
another; indeed we must do so, for our powers are too feeble to
form an adequate conception of the Divine Being; but we must
never forget that the distinctions we make in our mode of
apprehending have no real existence in God himself. He is one,
and acts always as one, in the unity of his being, and his action
is always identically the action of reason, love, wisdom, will,
power. When we speak of him as living will, we are apt to divide
or mutilate him in our thought, and to forget that he never acts
or produces effects by any one attribute alone. But pass over
this--though we cannot approve it, for God is eternal reason as
really and as fully as he is eternal will; the noble duke,
following his theology, makes in reality this one living will the
only actor in nature, the direct and immediate cause of all the
effects produced in the universe. He thus denies second causes,
as Calvin did when he asserted that "God is the author of sin."
Taking this view, what is nature? Nature is only the divine will
and its direct effects, or the one living will enforcing itself
with power, using what are called natural laws or forces, not as
second causes, but as means or instruments for effecting its
purpose or purposes. Recognizing no created or second causes, and
therefore no _causa eminens_ or _causa causarum_, but
only one direct and immediate cause, he can of course find no
ground for a distinction between natural and supernatural.
{600}
All is natural or all is supernatural, for all is identical, one
and the same. Hence, denying very properly all contrariety or
antagonism between natural and supernatural, the author can
accept miracles only in the sense of superhuman and supermaterial
events. They are not supernatural, as men commonly suppose: they
are wrought by the one invincible will at work in every
department of nature, are in nature, and as natural as the most
ordinary events that occur--only they are the effects of more
recondite laws, which come into play only on extraordinary
occasions, and for special purposes. They belong to what Carlyle,
in the _Sartor Resartus_, calls "natural-supernaturalism,"
which is no real supernaturalism at all. The author's theology,
which resolves God into pure will and power, has forced him to
adopt his conclusion. His theology hardly admits, though it may
profess not to deny, that God creates second causes, capable of
acting from their own centre, and in their own order producing
effects of their own. The difficulty he finds in admitting and
understanding miracles as real supernatural facts, arises
precisely from his not distinguishing between the first cause and
second causes. His failure to make this distinction is caused by
his misconception or confused conception of the real character of
the divine creative act. Indeed, he hardly recognizes the fact of
creation at all, as we might infer from his reducing the whole
matter of science to the questions of the what, the how, and the
why, omitting entirely the whence. His science deals solely with
facts of the secondary order, and omits or rejects the ideal, in
which all things have their origin and cause, as unknowable,
imaginary, unreal.
The author speaks frequently of creation, and we are far from
supposing that he means to deny it; but if we understand him, he
does deny that the divine will creates without natural means or
instrumentalities, and this appears to be what he means by
"Creation by law." He asks, p. 14, "By supernatural power do we
not mean power independent of the use of means, as distinguished
from power depending on knowledge, even infinite knowledge of the
means proper to be employed?" We think his question is not well
put; certainly we never heard before of such a definition of the
supernatural, unless by means is meant natural means; but as he
denies all supernatural power as operating independent of the use
of natural means, he must be understood as denying all creation
from nothing, or that God creates all things by the word of his
power, with no other means or medium than what is contained in
himself. "The real difficulty," he says, "lies in the idea of
will exercised without the use of means, not in the exercise of
will through means which are beyond our knowledge." But what
means were there through which the will could operate when
nothing besides itself existed? Does the scientific author not
see, unless he admits the eternal existence of something besides
God, that on his ground creation must precede creation as the
condition or means of creation? In the chapter on _Creation by
Law_, pp. 280, 281, he says: "I do not know on what authority
it is that we so often speak of creation as if it were not
creation, unless it works from nothing as its material, and by
nothing as its means.
{601}
We know that out of the 'dust of the ground,' that is, out of the
ordinary elements of nature are our bodies formed, and the bodies
of all living things." But out of what was the "dust of the
ground" or "the ordinary elements of nature" formed? He
continues: "Nor is there anything which should shock us in the
idea that the creation of new forms, any more than in their
propagation, has been brought about by the instrumentality of
means. In a theological point of view it matters nothing what
those means have been." It, however, matters something in a
theological point of view whether we assert that God creates
without other means than is contained in his own divine being, or
only by working with preexisting materials, which are independent
of him, and eternal like himself.
The author professes not to know on what authority creation is
denied to be creation unless from nothing as its materials, and
by nothing as its means; but he must have said this without well
weighing the words he uses. A man makes a watch out of materials
which are supplied to his hand, and by availing himself of a
motive force which exists and operates independently of him; but
nobody calls him the creator of the watch. Man has, strictly
speaking, no creative powers, because he can operate only on and
with materials furnished him by God or nature, and cannot himself
originate his own powers nor the powers he uses. He can form,
fashion, utilize, to a limited extent, what already exists, but
he cannot originate a new law nor a new force. The Gentile
philosophers, finding in man no proper creative power, concluded
that there is no proper creative power in God, and hence they
substituted in their systems for creation emanation, generation,
or formation; and you will search in vain through Plato or even
Aristotle for the recognition of the fact of creation. Holding
that God cannot, any more than man, work without materials, even
the soundest of the Gentile philosophers, say Pythagoras, Plato,
and Aristotle, asserted the eternity of matter, and explained the
origin of things by supposing that God impresses on this eternal
matter, as the seal on wax, or in some way unites with it, the
ideas or forms eternal in his own mind. Here is no creation, for
though there is combination of the preexisting, there is no
production of something where nothing was before; yet we cannot
go beyond them, if we deny that creation proper is creation from
nothing, or, as we have explained, that God creates without any
material, means, or medium distinguishable from himself.
Yet no theologian pretends that God, in creating, works without
means. No work, no act is possible or conceivable without
principle, medium, and end. God can no more create without a
medial cause than man can build a house without materials; but if
the author had meditated on the significance of the dogma of the
Trinity, he would have understood that God has the means or
medium in himself, in his own eternal Word, by whom all things
are made, and without whom was made nothing that was made. God in
himself, in the unity of his own being, the mystery of the
Trinity teaches us, is eternally and indissolubly, principle,
medium, and end, in three distinct persons. The Father is
principle, the Son or Word is medium, and the Holy Ghost is end
or consummator. Hence God is complete, being in its plenitude, in
himself, most pure act, as say the theologians, and, therefore,
able to do what he wills without going out of himself, or using
means not in himself. The medium of creation is the Word who was
in the beginning, who was with God, and who is God.
{602}
Hence not only by and for God, but also in him "we live and move
and have our being." To suppose otherwise is, as we have seen, to
suppose God does not and cannot create by himself alone, or
without the aid of something exterior to and distinguishable from
himself, and nothing is distinguishable from him and his own
creatures, but another being in some sort eternal like himself,
which philosophy, as well as theology, denies.
Rectifying the noble author's mistake as to the creative act, and
bearing in mind that God creates existences by himself alone, and
creates them substances or second causes, capable of producing
effects in the secondary order, we are able to assert a very real
and a very intelligible distinction between the natural and the
supernatural. Nature is the name for all that is created, the
whole order of second causes, and as God creates and sustains
nature, he must be himself supernatural. God has, or at least may
have, two modes of acting; the one directly, immediately, with no
medium but the medium he is in himself, and this mode of acting
is supernatural; the other mode is acting in and through nature,
in the law according to which he has constituted nature, or the
forces which he has given her, called natural laws, and this mode
is natural, because in it nature acts as second cause. God
himself is above this order of nature, but is always present in
it by his creative act, for the universe, neither as a whole nor
in any of its parts, can stand save as upheld by the Creator. A
miracle is a sensible fact not explicable by the laws of nature,
and, therefore, a fact that can be explained only by being
referred to the direct and immediate or supernatural action of
God. Whether a miracle is ever wrought is simply a question of
fact, to be determined by the testimony or evidence in the case.
That God can work miracles may be inferred from the fact that
creation does not exhaust him, and from the fact, the noble duke
has amply proved, that the natural laws do not bind him to act
only through them, or in any way restrain his freedom or liberty
of action. In working a miracle, God does not contravene or
violate the natural laws, or the order of second causes, that is,
the order of nature; he simply acts above it, and the fact is not
contranatural, but supernatural. It does not destroy nature; for
if it did, there would be no nature below it, and it would,
therefore, not be supernatural.
The author very properly rejects the origin of species in
development, at least in the higher forms of organic life, and
shows that Darwin's theory of the formation of new species by
natural selection does not form new species, but only selects the
most vigorous of preexisting species, such as survive the
struggle for life. Old species indeed become extinct and new
species spring into existence; but those new species or new forms
of life which science discovers are not developments, but new
creations. Creation, he holds, has a history, and is successive,
continually going on. We doubt whether science is in a condition
to say with absolute certainty that any species that once existed
are now extinct, or that new species have successively sprung
into existence; but assuming the fact to be as alleged, and we
certainly are unable to deny it, we cannot accept the author's
explanation. We agree with him that the creative will is as
present and as active as it was in the beginning, or that
creation is always a present act; but for this very reason, if
for no other, we should deny that it is successive, or resolvable
into successive acts, since that would imply that it is past or
future as well as present.
{603}
Regarded on the side of God, there can be no succession in the
creative act. Succession is in time; but God dwells not in time,
he inhabiteth eternity. His act on his side must be complete from
the instant he wills to create, and can be successive only as
externized in time. Individuals and species when they have served
their purpose disappear, and others come forward and take their
places, not by a new creation from nothing, but because in the
one creative act the appointed time and place for their external
appearance have come. It is rather we who come successively to
the knowledge of creation than creation that is itself
successive. The creative act is one, but its externization is
successive. The divine act effecting the hypostatic union of
human nature with the divine person of the Word was included in
the one creative act, and in relation to God and his act was
complete from the first; but as a fact of time it did not take
place till long after the creation of the world. It is very
possible then to accept fully all the facts with regard to the
appearance of new species that science discovers, without
asserting successive creations; they are only the successive
manifestations of the original creative act, revealing to us what
we had not before seen in it.
In point of fact the author does not, though he thinks he does,
assert successive creations, for he contends that the new are in
some way made out of the old. He supposes the creative will
prepares in what goes before for what comes after, and that the
forms of life about to be extinguished approach close to and
almost overlap the forms that are coming to be, and are in some
way used in the creation of the new forms or species. This, as we
have seen, is not creation, but formation or development, and
hardly differs in substance from the doctrine of development that
was held by some naturalists prior to Darwin's theory of natural
selection. It supposes the material of the new creation, the
_causa materialis_, is in the old, and the development
theory only supposes that the material exists in the old in the
form of a germ of the new. The difference, if any, is not worth
noticing. The development again can, on any theory, go on only
under the presence and constant action of the cause to which
nature owes her existence, constitution, and powers.
For ourselves, we have no quarrel with the developmentists when
they do not deny the conditions without which there can be no
development, or understand by development what is not development
but really creation. There is no development where there is no
germ to be developed, and that is not development which places
something different in kind from the nature of the germ. In the
lower forms of organic life, of plants and animals, where the
differences of species are indistinct or feebly marked, there may
be, for aught we know, a natural development of new species, or
what appears to be new species, that is, organic forms, not
before brought out, or not perceived to be wrapped up in the
forms examined; but in the higher forms of life, where the types
are distinct and strongly marked, as in the mammalia, this cannot
be the case, for there is no germ in one species of another. We
object also to the doctrine that the higher forms of life are
developed from the lower forms. Grant, what is possible, perhaps
probable, but which every naturalist knows has not scientifically
been made out, that there is a gradual ascent without break from
the lowest forms of organic life to the highest, it would by no
means follow that the higher form but develops and completes the
lower.
{604}
Science has not proved it, and cannot from any facts in its
possession even begin to prove it. The law of gradation is very
distinguishable from the law of production, and it is a grave
blunder in logic to confound them; yet it seems to us that this
is what the noble author does, only substituting the term natural
creation for that of natural development. He seems to us to mean
by the universal reign of law, which he seeks to establish, that
through all nature the divine will educes the higher from the
lower, or at least makes the lower the stepping-stone of the
higher; yet all that science can assert is that the lower in some
form subserves the higher, but not that it is its _fons_, or
principle, or the germ from which it is developed.
On the side of God, who is its principle, medium, and end,
creation is complete, consummated, both as a whole and in all its
parts; but as externized, it is incomplete, imperfect, in part
potential, not actual, and is completed by development in time.
Looked at from our side or the point of view of the creature, we
may say it was created in germ, or with unrealized possibilities.
Hence development, not from one species to another, but of each
species in its own order, and of each individual according to its
species; hence progress, about which we hear so much, in
realizing the unrealized possibilities of nature, or in reducing
what is potential in the created order to act, is not only
possible, but necessary to the complete externization of the
creative act. This development or this progress is effected by
providence acting through natural laws or natural forces, that
is, second or created causes, and also, as the Christian holds,
by grace, which is supernatural, and which, without destroying,
superseding, or changing nature, assists it to attain an end
above and beyond the reach of nature, as we have shown in the
article on _Nature and Grace_.
We, as well as the author, assert the universal reign of law, but
we do not accept his definition of law, as "will enforcing itself
with power," whether we speak of human law or the divine law, for
that is precisely the definition we give to will or power acting
without law, or from mere arbitrariness. The Duke of Argyle is a
citizen of a constitutional state, and professes to be a liberal
statesman; he should not then adopt a definition of law which
makes might the measure of right, or denies to right any
principle, type, or foundation in the divine nature. We have
already suggested the true definition of law--will directed by
reason; and God's will is always law, because in him his eternal
will and his eternal reason are inseparable, and in him really
indistinguishable. His will is, indeed, always law, because it is
the will of God, our creator; but if it were possible to conceive
him willing without his eternal reason, his will would not and
could not bind, though it might compel. The law is not in will
alone, or in reason alone, but really in the synthetic action of
both. Hence St. Augustine tells us that unjust laws are violences
rather than laws, and all jurists, as distinguished from mere
legists, tell us that all legislative acts that directly
contravene the law of God, or the law of natural justice, do not
bind, and are null and void from the beginning.
{605}
Law in the other senses the author notes, and has written his
work, in part at least, to elucidate and defend, in so far as the
natural or inductive sciences, without theology or philosophy,
that is, so called metaphysics, can go, is not law at all, but a
mere fact, or classification of facts, and simply marks the order
of coexistence or of succession of the various facts and
phenomena of the natural world. The so-called law of gravitation
states to the physicist simply an order or series of facts, not
the cause or force producing them, as Hume. Kant, the
Positivists, J. Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, and virtually even
Sir William Hamilton, and his disciple Mr. Mansel, who exclude
the ontological element from science, have amply proved. The idea
of cause, of force, is not an empirical idea, but is given _à
priori_.
There are several other points in the work before us on which we
intended to comment, but we are obliged by our diminishing space
to pass them over. The author says many true and important
things, and says them well too; but we think in his effort to
reconcile theology and science he fails, in consequence of being
not so well versed in theology as he is in the sciences. He does
not take note of the fact that the sciences are special, and deal
only with facts of a secondary order, and are, therefore,
incomplete without the science of the first cause, or theology.
He does not keep sufficiently before his mind the distinction
between God, as first cause, and nature, as second cause; and
hence when he asserts the divine action he inclines to pantheism,
and when he asserts the action of nature he inclines to
naturalism. Yet his aim has been good, and we feel assured that
he has wished to serve the cause of religion as well as that of
science.
For ourselves, we hold, and have heretofore proved, that theology
is the queen of the sciences, _scientia scientiarum_, but we
have a profound regard for the men of real science, and should be
sorry to be found warring against them. There is nothing
established by any of the sciences that conflicts with our
theology, which is that of the Church of Christ; and we have
remarked that the quarrels between the _savans_ and the
theologians are, for the most part, not quarrels between science
and theology, but between different schools of science. The
professors of natural science, who had long taught the geocentric
theory, and associated it with their faith, when Galileo brought
forward the heliocentric theory, opposed it, and found it easier
to denounce him as a heretic than to refute him scientifically. A
quarrel arose, and the church was appealed to, and, for the sake
of peace, she imposed silence on Galileo, which she might well
do, since his theory was not received in the schools, and was not
then scientifically established; and when he broke silence
against orders, she slightly punished him. But the dispute really
turned on a purely scientific question, and faith was by no means
necessarily implicated, for faith can adjust itself to either
theory. Men of science oppose the supernatural not because they
have any scientific facts that militate against it, but because
it appears to militate against the theory of the fixedness of
natural laws, or of the order of nature. The quarrel is really
between a heterodox theology, or erroneous interpretation of the
supernatural on the one side, and the misinterpretation of the
natural order on the other, that is, between two opinions. A
reference to orthodox theology would soon settle the dispute, by
showing that neither militates against the other, when both are
rightly understood. There is no conflict between theology, as
taught by the church, and anything that science has really
established with regard to the order of nature.
{606}
We cannot accept all the theories of the noble duke, but we can
accept all the scientific facts he adduces, and find ourselves
instructed and edified by them. It is time the quarrel between
theologians and _savans_ should end. It is of recent origin.
Till the revival of letters in the fifteenth century, there was
no such quarrel--not that men did not begin to think till then,
or were ignorant till then of the true method of studying
nature--and there need be none, and would be none now, if the
theologians never added or substituted for the teaching of
revelation unauthorized speculations of their own, and if the
_savans_ would never put forward, as science, what is not
science. The blame, we are willing to admit, has not been all on
one side. Theologians in their zeal have cried out against
scientific theories before ascertaining whether they really do or
do not conflict with faith, and _savans_ have too often
concluded their scientific discoveries conflict with faith, and
therefore said, Let faith go, before ascertaining whether they do
so or not. There should, for the sake of truth, be a better
mutual understanding, for both may work together in harmony.
----------
"Beati Mites, Quoniam Ipsi
Possidebunt Terram."
Thy song is not the song of morn,
O Thrush! but calmer and more strong,
While sunset woods around thee burn,
And fire-touched stems resound thy song.
O songstress of the thorn, whereon
As yet the white but streaks the green,
Sing on! sing on! Thou sing'st as one
That sings of what his eyes have seen.
In thee some Seraph's rapture tells
Of things thou know'st not! Heaven draws near:
I hear the Immortal City's bells:
The triumph of the blest I hear.
The whole wide earth, to God heart-bare,
Basks like some happy Umbrian vale
By Francis trodden and by Clare,
When anthems sweetened every gale.
When greatness thirsted to be good,
When faith was meek, and love was brave,
When hope by every cradle stood,
And rainbows spanned each new-made grave.
Aubrey De Vere.
--------
{607}
The Story of a Conscript.
Translated From The French.
XII.
But, as Sergeant Pinto said, all we had yet seen was but the
prelude to the ball; the dance was now about to commence.
The sergeant had formed a particular friendship for me, and on
the eighteenth, on relieving guard at the Warthan gate, he said:
"Fusilier Bertha, the emperor has arrived."
I had yet heard nothing of this, and replied respectfully:
"I have just seen the sapper Merlin, sergeant, who was on duty
last night at the general's quarters, and he said nothing of it."
Then he, closing his eye, said with a peculiar expression:
"Everything is moving; I feel his presence in the air. You do not
yet understand this, conscript, but he is here; everything says
so. Before he came, we were lame, crippled; but a wing of the
army seemed able to move at once. But now, look there, see those
couriers galloping over the road; all is life. The dance is
beginning; the dance is beginning! Kaiserliks and the Cossacks do
not need spectacles to see that he is with us; they will feel him
presently."
And the sergeant's laugh rang hoarsely from beneath his long
mustaches; and he was right, for that very day, about three in
the afternoon, all the troops stationed around the city were in
motion, and at five we were put under arms. The Marshal-Prince of
Moskowa entered the town surrounded by the officers and generals
who composed his staff, and, almost immediately after, the
grey-haired Sunham followed and passed us in review upon the
_Place_. Then he spoke in a loud, clear voice so that every
one could hear.
"Soldiers!" said he, "you will form part of the advance-guard of
the third corps. Try to remember that you are Frenchmen. _Vive
l'Empereur!_
All shouted "_Vive l'Empereur_" till the echoes rang again,
while the general departed with Colonel Zapfel.
That night we were relieved by the Hessians, and left Erfurt with
the Tenth hussars and a regiment of chasseurs. At six or seven in
the morning we were before the city of Weimar, and saw the sun
rising on its gardens, its churches, and its houses, as well as
on an old castle to the right. Here we bivouacked, and the
hussars went forward to reconnoitre the town. About nine, while
we were breakfasting, suddenly we heard the rattle of pistols and
carbines. Our hussars had encountered the Russian hussars in the
streets, and they were firing on each other. But it was so far
off that we saw nothing of the combat.
At the end of an hour the hussars returned, having lost two men.
Thus began the campaign.
We remained five days in our camp, while the whole third corps
were coming up. As we were the advance-guard, we started again by
way of Sulza and Warthan. Then we saw the enemy; Cossacks who
kept ever beyond the range of our guns, and the further they
retired the greater grew our courage.
{608}
But it annoyed me to hear Zébédé constantly exclaiming in a tone
of ill-humor:
"Will they never stop; never make a stand!"
I thought that if they kept retreating we could ask nothing
better. We would gain all we wanted without loss of life or
suffering.
But at last they halted on the further side of a broad and deep
river, and I saw a great number posted near the bank to cut us to
pieces if we should cross unsupported.
It was the twenty-ninth of April, and growing late. Never did I
see a more glorious sunset. On the opposite side of the river
stretched a wide plain as far as the eye could reach, and on
this, sharply outlined against the glowing sky, stood horsemen,
with their shakos drooping forward, their green jackets, little
cartridge-boxes slung under the arm, and their sky-blue trousers;
behind them glittered thousands of lances, and Sergeant Pinto
recognized them as the Prussian cavalry and Cossacks. He knew the
river, too, which, he said was the Saale.
We went as near as we could to the water to exchange shots with
the horsemen, but they retired and at last disappeared entirely
under the blood-red sky. We made our bivouac along the river, and
posted our sentries. On our left was a large village; a
detachment was sent to it to purchase meat; for since the arrival
of the emperor we had orders to pay for everything.
During the night other regiments of the division came up; they,
too, bivouacked along the bank, and their long lines of fires,
reflected in the ever-moving waters, glared grandly through the
darkness.
No one felt inclined to sleep. Zébédé, Klipfel, Furst, and I
messed together, and we chatted as we lay around our fire.
"To-morrow we will have it hot enough, if we attempt to cross the
river! Our friends in Phalsbourg, over their warm suppers,
scarcely think of us lying here, with nothing but a piece of
cow-beef to eat, a river flowing beside us, the damp earth
beneath, and only the sky for a roof, without speaking of the
sabre-cuts and bayonet-thrusts our friends yonder have in store
for us."
"Bah!" said Klipfel; "this is life. I would not pass my days
otherwise. To enjoy life we must be well to-day, sick to-morrow;
then we appreciate the pleasure of the change from pain to ease.
As for shots and sabre-strokes, with God's aid, we will give as
good as we take!"
"Yes," said Zébédé, lighting his pipe, "when I lose my place in
the ranks, it will not be for the want of striking hard at the
Russians!"
So we lay wakeful for two or three hours. Leger lay stretched out
in his great coat, his feet to the fire, asleep, when the
sentinel cried:
"Who goes there?"
"France!"'
"What regiment?"
"Sixth of the Line."
It was Marshal Ney and General Brenier, with engineer and
artillery officers, and guns. The marshal replied "Sixth of the
Line," because he knew beforehand that we were there, and this
little fact rejoiced us and made us feel very proud. We saw him
pass on horseback with General Sunham and five or six other
officers of high grade, and although it was night we could see
them distinctly, for the sky was covered with stars and the moon
shone bright; it was almost as light as day.
{609}
They stopped at a bend of the river and posted six guns, and
immediately after a pontoon train arrived with oak planks and all
things necessary for throwing two bridges across. Our hussars
scoured the banks collecting boats, and the artillerymen stood at
their pieces to sweep down any who might try to hinder the work.
For a long while we watched their labor, while again and again we
heard the sentry's "_Qui vive?_" It was the regiments of the
third corps arriving.
At daybreak I fell asleep, and Klipfel had to shake me to arouse
me. On every side they were beating the reveille; the bridges
were finished, and we were going to cross the Saale.
A heavy dew had fallen, and each man hastened to wipe his musket,
to roll up his great-coat and buckle it on his knapsack. One
assisted the other, and we were soon in the ranks. It might have
been four o'clock in the morning, and everything seemed grey in
the mist that arose from the river. Already two battalions were
crossing on the bridges, the officers and colors in the centre.
Then the artillery and caissons crossed.
Captain Florentin had just ordered us to renew our primings, when
General Sunham, General Chemineau, Colonel Zapfel, and our
commandant arrived. The battalion began its march. I looked
forward expecting to see the Russians coming on at a gallop, but
nothing stirred.
As each regiment reached the further bank it formed square with
ordered arms. At five o'clock the entire division had passed. The
sun dispersed the mist, and we saw, about three fourths of a
league to our right, an old city with its pointed roofs, slated
clock-tower, surmounted by a cross, and, further away, a castle;
it was Weissenfels.
Between the city and us was a deep valley. Marshal Ney, who had
just come up, wished to reconnoitre this before advancing into
it. Two companies of the Twenty-seventh were deployed as
skirmishers and the squares moved onward in common time, with the
officers, sappers, and drums in the centre, the cannon in the
intervals and the caissons in the rear.
We all mistrusted this valley--the more so since we had seen, the
evening before, a mass of cavalry, which could not have retired
beyond the great plain that lay before us. Notwithstanding our
distrust, it made us feel very proud and brave to see ourselves
drawn up in our long ranks--our muskets loaded, the colors
advanced, the generals in the rear full of confidence--to see our
masses thus moving onward without hurry, but calmly marking the
step; yes, it was enough to make our hearts beat high with pride
and hope! And I thought that the enemy might still retire and no
blood be spilt, after all.
I was in the second rank, behind Zébédé, and from time to time I
glanced at the other square which was moving on the same line
with us, in the centre of which I saw the marshal and his staff,
all trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on ahead.
The skirmishers had by this time reached the ravine, which was
bordered with brambles and hedges. I had already seen a movement
on its further side, like the motion of a corn-field in the wind,
and the thought struck me that the Russians, with their lances
and sabres, were there, although I could scarcely believe it. But
when our skirmishers reached the hedges, the fusilade began, and
I saw clearly the glitter of their lances. At the same instant a
flash like lightning gleamed in front of us, followed by a fierce
report.
{610}
The Prussians had their cannon with them; they had opened on us.
I know not what noise made me turn my head, and there I saw an
empty space in the ranks to my left.
At the same time Colonel Zapfel said quietly:
"Close up the ranks!"
And Captain Florentin repeated:
"Close up the ranks!"
All this was done so quickly that I had no time for thought. But
fifty paces further on another flash shone out; there was another
murmur in the ranks--as if a fierce wind was passing--and another
vacant space, this time to the right.
And thus, after every shot from the Prussians, the colonel said,
"Close up the ranks!" and I knew that each time he spoke there
was a breach in the living wall! It was no pleasant thing to
think of, but still we marched on toward the valley. At last I
did not dare to think at all, when General Chemineau, who had
entered our square, cried in a terrible voice:
"Halt!"
I looked forward, and saw a mass of Prussians coming down upon
us.
"Front rank, kneel? Fix bayonets! Ready!" cried the general.
As Zébédé knelt, I was now, so to speak, in the front rank. On
came the line of horses, each rider bending over his saddle-bow,
with sabre flashing in his hand. Then again the general's voice
was heard behind us, calm, tranquil, giving orders as coolly as
on parade:
"Attention for the command of fire! Aim! Fire!"
The four squares fired together; it seemed as if the skies were
falling in the crash. When the smoke lifted, we saw the Prussians
broken and flying; but our artillery opened, and the cannon-balls
sped faster than they.
"Charge!" shouted the general.
Never in my life did such a wild joy possess me. On every side
the cry of _Vive l'Empereur!_ shook the air, and in my
excitement I shouted like the others. But we could not pursue
them far, and soon we were again moving calmly on. We thought the
fight was ended; but when within two or three hundred paces of
the ravine, we heard the rush of horses, and again the general
cried:
"Halt! Kneel! Charge bayonets!"
On came the Prussians from the valley like a whirlwind; the earth
shook beneath their weight; we heard no more orders, but each man
knew that he must fire into the mass, and the file-firing began,
rattling like the drums in a grand review. Those who have not
seen a battle can form but little idea of the excitement, the
confusion, and yet the order, of such a moment. A few of the
Prussians neared us; we saw their forms appear a moment through
the smoke, and then saw them no more. In a few moments more the
ringing voice of General Chemineau arose, sounding above the
crash and rattle:
"Cease firing!"
We scarcely dared obey. Each one hastened to deliver a final
shot; then the smoke slowly lifted, and we saw a mass of cavalry
ascending the further side of the ravine.
The squares deployed at once into columns; the drums beat the
charge; our artillery still continued its fire; we rushed on,
shouting:
"Forward! forward! _Vive l'Empereur!_"
We descended the ravine, over heaps of horses and Russians; some
dead, some writhing upon the earth, and we ascended the slope
toward Weissenfels at a quick step. The Cossacks and chasseurs
bent forward in their saddles, their cartridge-boxes dangling
behind them, galloping before us in full flight. The battle was
won.
{611}
But as we reached the gardens of the city, they posted their
cannon, which they had brought off with them, behind a sort of
orchard, and reopened upon us, a ball carrying away both the axe
and head of the sapper Merlin. The corporal of sappers, Thorné,
had his arm fractured by a piece of the axe, and they were
compelled to amputate his arm at Weissenfels. Then we started
toward them on a run, for the sooner we reached them the less
time they would have for firing.
We entered the city at three places, marching through hedges,
gardens, hop-fields, and climbing over walls. The marshals and
generals followed after. Our regiment entered by an avenue
bordered with poplars, which ran along the cemetery, and, as we
debouched in the public square, another column came through the
main street.
There we halted, and the marshal, without losing a moment,
dispatched the Twenty-seventh to take a bridge and cut off the
enemy's retreat. During this time the rest of the division
arrived, and was drawn up in the square. The burgomaster and
councillors of Weissenfels were already on the steps of the
town-hall to bid us welcome.
When we were re-formed, the Marshal-Prince of Moskowa passed
before the front of our battalion and said joyfully:
"Well done! I am satisfied with you! The emperor will know of
your conduct!"
He could not help laughing at the way we ran on the guns. General
Sunham cried:
"Things go bravely on!"
He replied:
"Yes, yes; but in blood! in blood!"
The battalion remained there until the next day. We were lodged
with the citizens, who were afraid of us and gave us all we
asked. The Twenty-seventh returned in the evening and was
quartered in the old chateau. We were very tired. After smoking
two or three pipes together, chatting about our glory, Zébédé',
Klipfel, and I went together to the shop of a joiner on a heap of
shavings, and remained there until midnight, when they beat the
reveille. We rose; the joiner gave us some brandy, and we went
out. The rain was falling in torrents. That night the battalion
went to bivouac before the village of Clépen, two hours march
from Weissenfels.
Other detachments came and rejoined us. The emperor had arrived
at Weissenfels, and all the third corps were to follow us. We
talked only of this all the day; but the day after, at five in
the morning, we set off again in the advance.
Before us rolled a river called the Rippach. Instead of turning
aside to take the bridge, we forded it where we were. The water
reached our waists; and I thought how terrible this would have
seemed to me when I was so much afraid of taking cold at Monsieur
Goulden's.
As we passed down the other bank of the river in the rushes, we
discovered a band of Cossacks observing us from the heights to
the left. They followed slowly, without daring to attack us, and
so we kept on until it was broad day, when suddenly a terrific
fusilade and the thunder of heavy guns made us turn our heads
toward Clépen. The commandant, on horseback, looked at us over
the reeds.
The sounds of conflict lasted a considerable time, and Sergeant
Pinto said:
{612}
"The division is advancing; it is attacked."
The Cossacks gazed, too, toward the fight, and at the end of an
hour disappeared. Then we saw the division advancing in column in
the plain to the right, driving before them the masses of Russian
cavalry.
"_En avant!_ Forward!" cried the commandant.
We ran, without knowing why, along the river bank, until we
reached an old bridge where the Rippach and Gruna met. Here we
were to intercept the enemy; but the Cossacks had discovered our
design, and their whole army fell back behind the Gruna, which
they forded, and, the division rejoining us, we learned that
Marshal Bessières had been killed by a cannon-ball.
We left the bridge to bivouac before the village of Gorschen. The
rumor that a great battle was approaching ran through the ranks,
and they said that all that had passed was only a trial to see
how the recruits would act under fire. One may imagine the
reflections of a thoughtful man under such circumstances, among
such hare-brained fellows as Furst, Zébédé, and Klipfel, who
seemed to rejoice at the prospect, as if it could bring them
aught else than bullet-wounds or sabre-cuts. All night long I
thought of Catharine, and prayed God to preserve my life and my
hands, which are so needful for poor people to gain their bread.
XIII.
We lighted our fires on the hill before Gross-Gorschen and a
detachment descended to the village and brought back five or six
old cows to make soup of. But we were so worn out that many would
rather sleep than eat. Other regiments arrived with cannon and
munitions. About eleven o'clock there were from ten to twelve
thousand men there and two thousand and more in the village--all
Sunham's division. The general and his ordnance officers were
quartered in an old mill to the left, near a stream called
Floss-Graben. The line of sentries were stretched along the base
of the hill a musket-shot off.
At length I fell asleep, but I awoke every hour, and behind us,
towards the road leading from the old bridge of Poserna to Lutzen
and Leipzig, I heard the rolling of wagons, of artillery and
caissons, rising and falling through the silence.
Sergeant Pinto did not sleep; he sat smoking his pipe and drying
his feet at the fire. Every time one of us moved, he would try to
talk and say:
"Well, conscript?"
But they pretended not to hear him, and turned over, gaping, to
sleep again.
The clock of Gross-Gorschen was striking six when I awoke. I was
sore and weary yet. Nevertheless, I sat up and tried to warm
myself, for I was very cold. The fires were smoking, and almost
extinguished. Nothing of them remained but the ashes and a few
embers. The sergeant, erect, was gazing over the vast plain where
the sun shot a few long lines of gold, and, seeing me awake, put
a coal in his pipe and said:
"Well, fusilier Bertha, we are now in the rear-guard."
I did not know what he meant.
"That astonishes you," he continued; "but we have not stirred,
while the army has made a half-wheel. Yesterday it was before us
in the Rippach; now it is behind us, near Lutzen; and, instead of
being in the front, we are in the rear; so that now," said he,
closing an eye and drawing two long puffs of his pipe, "we are
the last, instead of the foremost."
{613}
"And what do we gain by it?" I asked.
"We gain the honor of first reaching Leipzig, and falling on the
Prussians," he replied. "You will understand this by and by,
conscript."
I stood up, and looked around. I saw before us a wide, marshy
plain, traversed by the Gruna-Bach and the Floss-Graben. A few
hills arose along these streams, and beyond ran a large river,
which the sergeant told me was the Elster. The morning mist hung
over all. We saw no fires on the hills save those of our
division; but the entire third corps occupied the villages
scattered in our rear, and headquarters were at Kaya.
At seven o'clock the drums and the trumpets of the artillery
sounded the reveille. Ammunition-wagons came up, and bread and
cartridges were distributed. Two cantinières arrived from the
village; and, as I had yet a few crowns remaining, I offered
Klipfel and Zébédé a glass of brandy each, to counteract the
effects of the fogs of the night. I also presumed to offer one to
Sergeant Pinto, who accepted it, saying that bread and brandy
warmed the heart.
We felt quite happy, and no one suspected the horrors the day was
to bring forth. We thought the Russians and the Prussians were
seeking us behind the Gruna-Bach; but they knew well where we
were. And suddenly, almost ten o'clock, General Sunham, mounted,
arrived with his officers. I was sentry near the stacks of arms,
and I think I can now see him, as he rode to the top of the hill,
with his grey hair and white-bordered hat; and as he took out his
field-glass, and, after an earnest gaze, returned quickly, and
ordered the drums to beat the recall. The sentries at once fell
into the ranks, and Zébédé, who had the eyes of a falcon, said:
"I see yonder, near the Elster, masses of men forming and
advancing in good order, and others coming from the marshes by
the three bridges. We are lost if all those fall upon our rear!"
"A battle is beginning," said Pinto, shading his eyes with his
hands, "or I know nothing of war. Those beggarly Prussians and
Russians want to take us on the flank with their whole force, as
we defile on Leipzig, so as to cut us in two. It is well thought
of on their part. We are always teaching them the art of war."
"But what will we do?" asked Klipfel.
"Our part is simple," answered the sergeant. "We are here twelve
to fifteen thousand men, with old Sunham, who never gave an enemy
an inch. We will stand here like a wall, one to six or seven,
until the emperor is informed how matters stand, and sends us
aid. There go the staff officers now."
It was true; five or six officers were galloping over the plain
of Lutzen toward Leipzig. They sped like the wind, and I prayed
God to have them reach the emperor in time to send the whole army
to our assistance; for there is something horrible in the
certainty that we are about to perish, and I would not wish my
greatest enemy in such a position as ours was then.
Sergeant Pinto continued:
"You will have a chance now, conscripts; and if any of you come
out alive, they will have something to boast of. Look at those
blue lines advancing, with their muskets on their shoulders,
along Floss-Graben. Each of those lines is a regiment. There are
thirty of them.
{614}
That makes sixty thousand Prussians, without counting those lines
of horsemen, each of which is a squadron. Those advancing to
their left, near the Rippach, glittering in the sun, are the
dragoons and cuirassiers of the Russian Imperial Guard. There are
eighteen or twenty thousand of them, and I first saw them at
Austerlitz, where we fixed them finely. Those masses of lances in
the rear are Cossacks. We will have a hundred thousand men on our
hands in an hour. This is a fight to win the cross in!"
"Do you think so, sergeant?" said Zébédé, whose ideas were never
very clear, and who already imagined he held the cross in his
fingers, while his eyes glittered with excitement.
"It will be hand to hand," replied the sergeant;" and suppose
that, in the mêlée, you see a colonel or a flag near you, spring
on him or it; never mind sabres or bayonets; seize them, and then
your name goes on the list."
As he spoke, I remembered that the Mayor of Phalsbourg had
received the cross for having gone to meet the Empress Marie
Louise in carriages garlanded with flowers, and I thought his
method much preferable to that of Sergeant Pinto.
But I had not time to think more, for the drums beat on all
sides, and each one ran to where the arms of his company were
stacked and seized his musket. Our officers formed us, great guns
came at a gallop from the village, and were posted on the brow of
the hill a little to the rear, so that the slope served them as a
species of redoubt. Further away, in the villages of Rahna, of
Kaya, and of Klein-Gorschen, all was motion, but we were the
first the Prussians would fall upon.
The enemy halted about twice a cannon-shot off, and the cavalry
swarmed by hundreds up the hill to reconnoitre us. I was in utter
despair as I gazed on their immense masses, and thought that all
was ended; nothing remained for me but to sell my life as dearly
as I could; to fight pitilessly, and die.
While these thoughts were passing through my head, General
Chemineau galloped along our front, crying:
"Form squares."
The officers in the rear took up the word and it passed from
right to left; four squares of four battalions each were formed.
I found myself in the third, on one of the interior sides, a
circumstance which in some degree reassured me; for I thought
that the Prussians, who were advancing in three columns, would
first attack those directly opposite them. But scarcely had the
thought struck me when a hail of cannon-shot swept through us.
They had thirty pieces of artillery playing on us, and the balls
shrieked sometimes over our heads, sometimes through the ranks,
and then again struck the earth, which they scattered over us.
Our heavy guns replied to their fire, but could not silence it,
and the horrible cry of "Close up the ranks! Close up the ranks!"
was ever sounding in our ears.
We were enveloped in smoke without having fired a shot, and I
thought that in another quarter of an hour we should have been
all massacred without having a chance to defend ourselves, when
the head of the Prussian columns appeared between the hills,
moving forward, with a deep, hoarse murmur, like the noise of an
inundation. Then the three first sides of our square, the second
and third obliquing to the right and left, fired. God only knows
how many Prussians fell. But instead of stopping they rushed on,
shouting "_Vaterland! Vaterland!_" and we fired again into
their very bosoms.
{615}
Then began the work of death in earnest. Bayonet-thrust,
sabre-stroke, blows from the butt-end of our pieces crashed on
all sides. They tried to crush us by mere weight of numbers, and
came on like furious bulls. A battalion rushed upon us, thrusting
with their bayonets; we returned their blows without leaving the
ranks, and they were swept away almost to a man by two cannon
which were in position toward our rear.
They were the last who tried to break our squares. They turned
and fled down the hillside, we firing as they ran, when their
cavalry dashed down upon our right, seeking to penetrate by the
gaps made by their artillery. I could not see the fight, for it
was at the other end of the division, but their heavy guns swept
us off by dozens as we stood inactive. General Chemineau had his
thigh broken; we could not hold out much longer when the order
was given to beat the retreat.
We retired to Gross-Gorschen, pursued by the Prussians, both
sides maintaining a constant fire. The two thousand men in the
village checked the enemy while we ascended the opposite slope to
gain Klein-Gorschen. But the Prussian cavalry came on once more
to cut off our retreat and keep us under the fire of their
artillery. Then my blood boiled with anger, and I heard Zébédé
cry, "Let us fight our way to the top rather than remain here!"
To do this was fearfully dangerous, for their regiments of
hussars and chasseurs advanced in good order to charge. Still we
kept retreating, when a voice on the top of the ridge cried
"Halt!" and at the same moment the hussars, who were already
rushing down upon us, received a terrific discharge of case and
grape-shot which swept them down by hundreds. It was Girard's
division who had come to our assistance from Klein-Gorschen and
had placed sixteen pieces in position to open upon them. The
hussars fled faster than they came, and the six squares of
Girard's division united with ours at Klein-Gorschen, to check
the Prussian infantry, which still continued to advance, the
three first columns in front and three others, equally strong,
supporting them.
We had lost Gross-Gorschen, but the battle was not yet ended.
I thought now of nothing but vengeance. I was wild with
excitement and wrath against those who sought to kill me. I felt
a sort of hatred against those Prussians whose shouts and
insolent manner disgusted me. I was, nevertheless, very glad to
see Zébédé near me yet, and as we stood awaiting new attacks,
with our arms resting on the ground, I pressed his hand.
"We have escaped narrowly enough," said he. "God grant the
emperor may soon arrive, for they are twenty times our strength."
He no longer spoke of winning the cross.
I looked around to see if the sergeant was with us yet, and saw
him calmly wiping his bayonet; not a feature showed any trace of
excitement. I would have wished to know if Klipfel and Furst were
unhurt, but the command, "Carry arms!" made me think of myself.
The three first columns of the enemy had halted on the hill of
Gross-Gorschen to await their supports. The village in the valley
between us was on fire, the flames bursting from the thatched
roofs and the smoke rising to the sky, and to the left we saw a
long line of cannon coming down to open upon us.
{616}
It might have been midday when the six columns began their march
and deployed masses of hussars and cavalry on both sides of
Gross-Gorschen. Our artillery, placed behind the squares on the
top of the ridge, opened a terrible fire on the Prussian
cannoneers, who replied all along their line.
Our drums began to beat in the squares to warn that the enemy
were approaching, but their rattle was like the buzz of a fly in
the storm, while in the valley the Prussians shouted altogether,
"_Vaterland! Vaterland!_"
Their fire, as they climbed the hill, enveloped us in smoke--as
the wind blew towards us--and hindered us from seeing them.
Nevertheless, we began our file-firing. We heard and saw nothing
but the noise and smoke of battle for the next quarter of an
hour, when suddenly the Prussian hussars were in our squares. I
know not how it happened, but there they were on their little
horses, sabring us without mercy. We fought with our bayonets;
they slashed, and fired their pistols. The carnage was horrible.
Zébédé, Sergeant Pinto, and some twenty of the company held
together. There they fought the pale-faced, long-mustached
hussars, whose horses reared and neighed as they dashed over the
heaps of dead and wounded. I remember the cries, French and
German in a horrid mixture, that arose; how they called us
"_Schweinpelz,_" and how old Pinto never ceased to cry,
"Strike bravely, my children; strike bravely!"
I never knew how we escaped; we ran at random through the smoke,
and dashed through the midst of sabres and flying bullets. I only
remember that Zébédé every moment cried out to me, "Come on! come
on!" and that finally we found ourselves on a hillside behind a
square which yet held firm, with Sergeant Pinto and seven or
eight others of the company.
We were covered with blood, and looked like butchers.
"Load!" cried the sergeant.
Then I saw blood and hair on my bayonet, and I knew that in my
fury I must have given some terrible blows. Old Pinto told us
that the regiment was totally routed; that the beggarly Prussians
had sabred half of it, but we should find the remainder by and
by. "Now," he cried, "we must keep the enemy out of the village.
By file, left! March!"
We descended a little stairway which led to one of the gardens of
Klein-Gorschen, and, entering a house, the sergeant barricaded
the door leading to the fields with a heavy kitchen-table; then
he showed us the door opening on the street, telling us that
there lay our way of retreat. This done, we went to the floor
above, and found a pretty large room, with two windows looking
out upon the village, and two upon the hill, which was still
covered with smoke and resounding with the crash of musketry and
artillery. At one end was a broken bedstead and near it a cradle.
The people of the house had no doubt fled at the beginning of the
battle, but a dog, with ears erect and flashing eyes, glared at
us from beneath the curtains.
The sergeant opened the window and fired at two or three Prussian
hussars who were already advancing down the street. Zébédé and
the others standing behind him stood ready. I looked toward the
hill to see if the squares had yet remained unbroken, and I saw
them retreating in good order, firing as they went from all four
faces on the masses of cavalry which surrounded them on every
side.
{617}
Through the smoke I could perceive the colonel on horseback,
sabre in hand, and by him the colors, so torn by shot that they
were mere rags hanging on the staff.
Beyond, a column of the enemy were debouching from the road and
marching on Klein-Gorschen. This column evidently designed
cutting off our retreat on the village, but hundreds of disbanded
soldiers like us had arrived, and were pouring in from all sides;
some turning ever and anon to fire, others wounded, trying to
crawl to some place of shelter. They took possession of the
houses, and, as the column approached, musketry rattled upon them
from all the windows. This checked the enemy, and at the same
moment the divisions of Brenier and Marchaud, which the Prince of
Moskowa had dispatched to our assistance, began to deploy to the
right.
The Prussians halted, and the firing ceased on both sides. Our
squares and columns began to climb the hills again, opposite
Starsiedel, and the defenders of the village rushed from the
houses to rejoin their regiments. Ours had become mingled with
two or three others; and, when the reënforcing divisions halted
before Kaya, we could scarcely find our places. The roll was
called, and of our company but forty-two men remained; Furst and
Leger were dead, but Zébédé, Klipfel, and I were unhurt.
But the battle was not yet over, for the Prussians, flushed with
victory, were already making their dispositions to attack us at
Kaya; reënforcements were hurrying to them, and it seemed that,
for so great a general, the emperor had made a gross mistake in
stretching his lines to Leipzig, and leaving us to be overpowered
by an army of over a hundred thousand men.
As we were reforming behind Brenier's division, eighteen thousand
veterans of the Prussian guard charged up the hill, carrying the
shakos of our killed on their bayonets in sign of victory. Once
more the fight began, and the mass of Russian cavalry, which we
had seen glittering in the sun in the morning, came down on our
flank; the sixth corps had arrived in time to cover it, and stood
the shock like a castle wall. Once more shouts, groans, the
clashing of sabre against bayonet, the crash of musketry and
thunder of cannon shook the sky, while the plain was hidden in a
cloud of smoke, through which we could see the glitter of
helmets, cuirasses, and thousands of lances.
We were retiring, when something passed along our front like a
flash of lightning. It was Marshal Ney surrounded by his staff,
and his eyes sparkled and his lips trembled with rage. In a
second's time he had dashed along the lines, and drew up in front
of our columns. The retreat stopped at once; he called us on,
and, as if led by a kind of fascination, we dashed on to meet the
Prussians, cheering like madmen as we went. But the Prussian line
stood firm; they fought hard to keep the victory they had won,
and besides were constantly receiving reënforcements, while we
were worn out with five hours' fighting.
Our battalion was now in the second line, and the enemy's shot
passed over our heads; but a horrible din made my flesh creep; it
was the rattling of the grape-shot among the bayonets.
In the midst of shouts, orders, and the whistling of bullets, we
again began to fall back over heaps of dead; our first divisions
reentered Klein-Gorschen, and once more the fight was hand to
hand. In the main street of the village nothing was seen or heard
but shots and blows, and generals fought sword in hand like
private soldiers.
{618}
This lasted some minutes; we checked them again, but again they
were reënforced, and we were obliged to continue our retreat,
which was fast becoming a rout. If the enemy forced us to Kaya,
our army was cut in two. The battle seemed irretrievably lost,
for Marshal Ney himself, in the centre of a square, was
retreating; and many soldiers, to get away from the _mêlée_,
were carrying off wounded officers on their muskets. Everything
looked gloomy, indeed.
I entered Kaya on the right of the village, leaping over the
hedges, and creeping under the fences which separated the
gardens, and was turning the corner of a street, when I saw some
fifty officers on the brow of a hill before me, and behind them
masses of artillery galloping at full speed along the Leipzig
road. Then I saw the emperor himself, a little in advance of the
others; he was seated, as if in an arm-chair, on his white horse,
and I could see him well, beneath the clear sky, motionless and
looking at the battle through his field-glass.
My heart beat gladly; I cried "_Vive l'Empereur!_" with all
my strength, and rushed along the main street of Kaya. I was one
of the first to enter, and I saw the inhabitants of the village,
men, women, and children, hastening to the cellars for
protection.
Many to whom I have related the foregoing have sneered at me for
running so fast; but I can only reply that when Michel Ney
retired, it was high time for Joseph Bertha to do so too.
Klipfel, Zébédé, Sergeant Pinto, and the others of the company
had not yet arrived, when masses of black smoke arose above the
roofs; shattered tiles fell into the streets, and shot buried
themselves in the walls, or crashed through the beams with a
horrible noise.
At the same time, our soldiers rushed in through the lanes, over
the hedges and fences, turning from time to time to fire on the
enemy. Men of all arms were mingled, some without shakos or
knapsacks, their clothes torn and covered with blood; but they
retreated furiously, and were nearly all mere children, boys of
fifteen or twenty; but courage is inborn in the French people.
The Prussians led by old officers who shouted "_Forwärts!
Forwärts!_"--followed like packs of wolves, but we turned and
opened fire from the hedges, and fences, and houses. How many of
them bit the dust I know not, but others always supplied the
places of those who fell. Hundreds of balls whistled by our ears
and flattened themselves on the stone walls; the plaster was
broken from the walls, and the thatch hung from the rafters, and
as I turned for the twentieth time to fire, my musket dropped
from my hand; I stooped to lift it, but I fell too; I had
received a shot in the left shoulder and the blood ran like warm
water down my breast. I tried to rise, but all that I could do
was to seat myself against the wall while the blood continued to
flow, and I shuddered at the thought that I was to die there.
Still the fight went on.
Fearful that another bullet might reach me, I crawled to the
corner of a house, and fell into a little trench which brought
water from the street to the garden. My left arm was heavy as
lead; my head swam; I still heard the firing, but it seemed a
dream, and I closed my eyes.
{619}
When I again opened them, night was coming on, and the Prussians
filled the village. In the garden, before me, was an old general,
with white hair, on a fall brown horse. He shouted in a
trumpet-like voice to bring on the cannon, and officers hurried
away with his orders. Near him, standing on a little wall, two
surgeons were bandaging his arm. Behind, on the other side, was a
little Russian officer, whose plume of green feathers almost
covered his hat. I saw all this at a glance--the old man with his
large nose and broad forehead, his quick glancing eyes, and bold
air; the others around him; the surgeon, a little bald man with
spectacles, and five or six hundred paces away, between two
houses, our soldiers reforming.
The firing had ceased, but between Klein-Gorschen and Kaya I
could hear the heavy rumble of artillery, neighing of horses,
cries and shouts of drivers, and cracking of whips. Without
knowing why, I dragged myself to the wall, and scarcely had I
done so, when two sixteen pounders, each drawn by six horses,
turned the corner of the street. The artillery-men beat the
horses with all their strength, and the wheels rolled over the
heaps of dead and wounded. Now I knew whence came the cries I had
heard, and my hair stood on end with horror.
"Here!" cried the old man in German; "aim yonder, between those
two houses near the fountain."
The two guns were turned at once; the old man, his left arm in a
sling, cantered up the street, and I heard him say, in short,
quick tones to the young officer as he passed where I lay:
"Tell the Emperor Alexander that I am in Kaya. The battle is won
if I am reënforced. Let them not discuss the matter, but send
help at once. Napoleon is coming, and in half an hour we will
have him upon us with his Guard. I will stand, let it cost what
it may. But in God's name do not lose a minute, and the victory
is ours!"
The young man set off at a gallop, and at the same moment a voice
near me whispered:
"That old wretch is Blücher. Ah, scoundrel! if I only had my
gun!"
Turning my head, I saw an old sergeant, withered and thin, with
long wrinkles in his cheeks, sitting against the door of the
house, supporting himself with his hands on the ground as with a
pair of crutches, for a ball had passed through him from side to
side. His yellow eyes followed the Prussian general; his hooked
nose seemed to droop like the beak of an eagle over his thick
mustache, and his look was fierce and proud.
"If I had my musket," he repeated, "I would show you whether the
battle is won."
We were the only two living beings among heaps of dead.
I thought that perhaps I should be buried in the morning, with
the others in the garden opposite us, and that I would never
again see Catharine; the tears ran down my cheeks and I could not
help murmuring:
"Now all is indeed ended!"
The sergeant gazed at me and, seeing that I was yet so young,
said kindly:
"What is the matter with you, conscript?"
"A ball in the shoulder, _mon sergeant._"
"In the shoulder! That is better than one through the body. You
will get over it."
And after a moment's thought he continued:
"Fear nothing. You will see home again!"
{620}
I thought that he pitied my youth and wished to console me; but
my chest seemed crushed, and I could not hope.
The sergeant said no more, only from time to time he raised his
head to see if our columns were coming. He swore between his
teeth and ended by falling at length upon the ground, saying:
"My business is done! The villain has finished me at last!"
He gazed at the hedge opposite, where a Prussian grenadier was
stretched, cold and stiff, the old sergeant's bayonet yet in his
body.
It might then have been six in the evening. I was cold and had
dropped my head forward upon my knees, when the roll of artillery
called me again to my senses. The two pieces in the garden and
many others posted behind them threw their broad flashes through
the darkness, while Russians and Prussians crowded through the
street. But all this was as nothing in comparison to the fire of
the French, from the hill opposite the village, while the
constant glare showed the Young Guard coming on at the
double-quick, generals and colonels on horseback in the midst of
the bayonets, waving their swords and cheering them on, while the
twenty-four guns the emperor had sent to support the movement
thundered behind. The old wall against which I leaned shook to
its foundations. In the street the balls mowed down the enemy
like grass before the scythe. It was their turn to close up the
ranks.
I paid no further attention to the sergeant, but listened to the
inspiring shouts of "_Vive l'Empereur!_" ringing out in the
momentary silence between the reports of the guns.
The Russians and the Prussians were forced back; the shouts of
our troops grew nearer and nearer. The cannoneers at the pieces
before me loaded and fired at their utmost speed, when three or
four grape-shots fell among them and broke the wheel of one of
their guns, besides killing two and wounding another of their
men. I felt a hand seize my arm. It was the old sergeant. His
eyes were glazing in death, but he laughed scornfully and
savagely. The roof of our shelter fell in; the walls bent, but we
cared not, we only saw the defeat of the enemy and heard the
nearer and nearer shouts of our men, when the old sergeant gasped
in my ear:
"Here he is!"
He rose to his knees, supporting himself with one hand, while
with the other he waved his hat in the air, and cried in a
ringing voice:
"_Vive l'Empereur!_"
They were his last words; he fell on his face to the earth, and
moved no more.
And I, raising myself too from the ground, saw Napoleon, riding
calmly through the hail of shot--his hat pulled down over his
large head--his grey great-coat open, a broad red ribbon
crossing his white vest--there he rode, calm and imperturbable,
his face lit up with the reflection from the bayonets. None stood
their ground before _him_; the Prussian artillerymen
abandoned their pieces and sprang over the garden-hedge, despite
the cries of their officers who sought to keep them back.
I saw no more, our victory was certain; and I fell like a corpse
in the midst of corpses.
{621}
XIV.
When sense returned, all was silent around. Clouds were scudding
across the sky, and the moon shone down upon the abandoned
village, the broken guns, and the pale upturned faces of the
dead, as calmly as for ages she had looked on the flowing water,
the waving grass, and the rustling leaves. Men are but insects in
the midst of creation; lives but drops in the ocean of eternity,
and none so truly feel their insignificance as the dying.
I could not move from where I lay in the intensest pain. My right
arm alone could I stir; and raising myself with difficulty upon
my elbow, I saw the dead heaped along the street, their white
faces shining like snow in the moonlight. The sight thrilled me
with horror, and my teeth chattered.
I would have cried for help, but my voice was no louder than that
of a sobbing child. But my feeble cry awoke others, and groans
and shrieks arose on all sides. The wounded, thought succor was
coming, and all who could cried piteously. And I heard, too, a
horse neigh painfully on the other side of the hedge. The poor
animal tried to rise, and I saw its head and long neck appear;
then it fell again to the earth.
The effort I made reopened my wound, and again I felt the blood
running down my breast. I closed my eyes to die, and the scenes
of my early childhood, of my native village, the face of my poor
mother as she sang me to sleep, my little room, with its niched
Virgin, our old dog Pommer--all rose before my eyes; my father
embraced me again, as he laid aside his axe at his return from
work--all rose dreamily before me.
How little those poor parents thought that they were rearing
their boy to die miserably far from friends, and home, and
succor! Would that I could have asked their forgiveness for all
the pain I had given them! Tears rolled down my cheeks; I sobbed
like a child.
Then Catharine, Aunt Grédel, and Monsieur Goulden passed before
me. I saw their grief and fear when the news of the battle came.
Aunt Grédel running to the post-office to learn something of me,
and Catharine prayerfully awaiting her return, while Monsieur
Goulden searched the gazette for intelligence of our corps. I saw
Aunt Grédel return disappointed, and heard Catharine's sobs as
she asked eagerly for me. Then a messenger seemed to arrive at
Quatre-Vents. He opened his leathern sack, and handed a large
paper to Aunt Grédel, while Catharine stood, pale as death,
beside her. It was the official notice of my death! I heard
Catharine's heart-rending cries and Aunt Grédel's maledictions.
Then good Monsieur Goulden came to console them, and all wept
together.
Toward morning, a heavy shower began to fall, and the monotonous
dripping on the roofs alone broke the silence. I thought of the
good God, whose power and mercy are limitless, and I hoped that
he would pardon my sins in consideration of my sufferings.
The rain filled the little trench in which I had been lying. From
time to time a wall fell in the village, and the cattle, scared
away by the battle, began to resume confidence and return. I
heard a goat bleat in a neighboring stable. A great shepherd's
dog wandered fearfully among the heaps of dead. The horse, seeing
him, neighed in terror--he took him for a wolf--and the dog fled.
I remember all these details, for, when we are dying, we see
everything, we hear everything, for we know that we are seeing
and hearing our last.
But how my whole frame thrilled with joy when, at the corner of
the street, I thought I heard the sound of voices! How eagerly I
listened!
{622}
And I raised myself upon my elbow, and called for help. It was
yet night; but the first grey streak of day was becoming visible
in the east, and afar off, through the falling rain, I saw a
light in the fields, now coming onward, now stopping. I saw dark
forms bending around it. They were only confused shadows. But
others beside me saw the light; for on all sides arose groans and
plaintive cries, from voices so feeble that they seemed like
those of children calling their mothers.
What is this life to which we attach so great a price? This
miserable existence, so full of pain and suffering? Why do we so
cling to it, and fear more to lose it than aught else in the
world? What is it that is to come hereafter that makes us shudder
at the mere thought of death? Who knows? For ages and ages all
have thought and thought on the great question, but none have yet
solved it. I, in my eagerness to live, gazed on that light as the
drowning man looks to the shore. I could not take my eyes from
it, and my heart thrilled with hope. I tried again to shout, but
my voice died on my lips. The pattering of the rain on the ruined
dwellings, and on the trees, and the ground, drowned all other
sounds, and, although I kept repeating, "They hear us! They are
coming!" and although the lantern seemed to grow larger and
larger, after wandering for some time over the field, it slowly
disappeared behind a little hill.
I fell once more senseless to the ground.
--------
The Old Religion;
Or, How Shall We Find Primitive Christianity?
We Americans, generally, have got the name of being the most
"go-ahead" people on earth. We are always looking out for "the
last new thing," and, when we have got it, we try to sail past
it, to do something better. We have tried our hands at everything
under the sun; we have had our fair share in original invention,
and when we have not invented we have brought out the last
improvements. Amongst other things, we have tried our hands at
the manufacture of religions, and if man could have made a
religion, there is not a doubt that we should have succeeded. As
it is, we worked the religious element with considerable
originality. We have made tracks which no other people have ever
thought of, and our imitations of religion have been a prodigious
success.
But, in truth, the great majority of thinking people in this
country have always remained deeply convinced of the truth of the
old original Christianity as the work of God's revelation to man,
not as the result of human thought. As a revelation, they know it
must have been given once for all as a heavenly treasure, to be
preserved in its antiquity to the end, not to be improved upon
and adapted and remodelled by human ingenuity.
{623}
Hence, as a people, we are convinced of the claims of the
Christian religion upon our allegiance, and understand moreover
that not "the newest thing in religions," but the "veritable old
religion," is not only the best, but is the _only truth_;
our strength in life, our hope in death; the only thing we have
to seek after, if as yet we have not found it, the pearl of
priceless value, the purchase of our admission into heaven.
The question, therefore, as between Christians, narrows itself to
the simple issue, Which is the old religion, and what was
primitive Christianity?
But, again, we may narrow the question still more. All admit, as
beyond all doubt, that there is one church, and one only, which
is historically in possession of the old religion. Other churches
in this country have their history, and we know when each began;
some are not as old as the Declaration of Independence, none are
older than the era of the Reformation, 300 years ago. The
Catholic Church stands alone in her ancient descent and undaunted
lineage amongst the churches of the modern creation. "True," it
is answered, 'the Catholic Church is _the old church_' In
the line of her bishops she can, no doubt, trace her descent
until, as Macaulay says, 'history is lost in the twilight of
fable.' If _she_ cannot count name by name the long
succession of her pontiffs up to the apostles, there is certainly
no other church that can put in the shadow of a claim to
apostolic succession. But ancient as she is, she is not old
enough to be primitive, and we should hardly think that any
educated Catholic would venture to stand up before the public and
say honestly that he believed, and was ready to give proof, that
the Catholic Church of the present day and primitive Christianity
are identical."
Such, strange as it seems to Catholics, is very much the attitude
of the educated Protestant mind, when least prejudiced toward the
church. Protestants, even of this class, do not know that the
identity of the Catholic religion and primitive Christianity is a
first principle with us, and has always been so, centuries before
Protestantism was heard of; that this is the one only basis on
which the Catholic Church rests her exclusive right to "teach all
nations," and has always rested it. Disprove the justness of this
claim, and you have reduced the Catholic Church to the level of
one of the sects. So ancient and world-wide a challenge can only
seem new and strange to Protestants, because they do not know
even our first principles, still less the reasonings on which
they rest. But clearly it cannot be rash and foolhardy in us to
put forward claims to which the intellect of the vast majority of
Christians, for nearly twenty centuries, has given in its
adhesion. But to come to our own age and to facts of our own
experience which meet us at every turn, we hear every day and
have heard for the last thirty years, here and in England, and in
all other Protestant countries, of great numbers of conversions
to the Catholic religion. Amongst them there have been many of
the leading minds of the day, high-classed men, the flower of the
universities, now holding eminent positions in different walks of
science and literature, at the bar, in the senate, and in the
church.
{624}
To name Dr. Newman as the leading intellect amongst recent
converts to the Catholic Church, is to name one who possesses a
more than European reputation, nay, who is as well known on this
as on the other continent for acuteness and accuracy of thought,
sobriety of judgment, and indefatigable research into every
question involving the history of Christian antiquity, primitive
belief and practice; and such men are but a reproduction, in our
day, of the same type which we find in all those other men of
high moral and intellectual endowments who, from the days of St.
Augustine, have brought to the service of the church the mental
powers which had been trained in the camp of her enemies. What do
all such conversions involve but the emphatic admission, on the
part of such converts, that the Catholic religion has made out
her claim to identity with primitive Christianity?
Perhaps we, in this country, are more than others averse to
bowing down to the authority of great names. Still it cannot be
denied that _peritus in arte sua_, the man who has made any
art or science his particular study is and always must be an
authority. We may examine a question for ourselves, or try an
experiment in physics, but we must admit that the chances are a
hundred to one that, after having tried it, we shall find only
the predicted result. It is in this sense that we have brought
forward the authority of majorities, and of great names in the
present question, not as deciding the matter, "What is the
truth?" but as justly producing on the minds of unprejudiced
persons a strong presumption in favor of the justness of such
conclusions. If it be said that the undoubtedly great minds which
have embraced the Catholic religion are no proof, or even
presumption, that the Catholic religion is true, we reply, Be it
so; they do, however, afford a strong presumption of the
sincerity of such converts when, as is generally the case, it can
be shown that they embraced the Catholic faith against the force
of early prejudice and to their own temporal loss. And it affords
also a strong persuasion that the reasons which they had for the
change of religion must have been weighty, since they wrought
conviction in the minds of men well capable of judging of the
force of argument, and who knew also all that could be urged on
the other side. In fact, the argument in favor of the Catholic
religion, drawn from the fact of the great and good men who have
in every age embraced it, is similar to that which is very
commonly brought forward in favor of the general evidences of
Christianity, from the fact of their having wrought conviction in
the mind of St. Paul or of Sir Isaac Newton.
The large number of conversions taking place every day amongst
ourselves, not merely of the unlearned but even more in
proportion, of the more educated and the more morally elevated,
and the special weight which the submission of persons specially
eminent for moral and intellectual gifts carries with it, ought
to have, and indeed are found to produce at least this effect on
sensible men, that it makes them pause to consider, and try to
assign a sufficient reason for such conversions. Anyhow, whether
any reason good or bad can be assigned for this movement, it is a
_fact_, to which no one who enters into society can shut his
eyes. Conversion to the Catholic religion is like an epidemic;
there is no neighborhood or profession, scarcely a family in any
class of society in which conversions to the Catholic Church have
not taken place. I enter a railway car or a steamboat; I go to a
dinner party; I stand up with my partner at a ball; and, in the
pauses of the busy hum of voices or of musical sounds, I become
aware that my opposite neighbors are actually discussing with
interest, attacking or defending, the Catholic religion.
{625}
Going into town by the cars the other day, I met my uncle Joe in
a brown study. "Good morning, sir! why so gloomy?"
"Why, John, my eldest son, has become a Papist, sir; sorry for
it; a good, steady lad, but he has got into the hands of the
priests, sir; I fear it is all up with him. I suppose he will
shave his head next, leave his boots at home, and turn out like
one of those bare-footed friars we used to see in Belgium last
fall."
"Well, but, uncle," say I, "it cannot be helped, you see; you
would not have the boy, as you call him--though he is two and
twenty if he is a day--go against his conscience and remain a
nominal Protestant to please you." "No, sir," he replies, "you
have me there; I stand up for the principle of liberty of
conscience, sir. Yes, sir, liberty of conscience. I know all
about it, civil and religious liberty, which the fathers of our
glorious republic established once and for all time as the
palladium of our constitution. But how the boy can fancy the
Catholic religion to be true, and make a matter of conscience to
join it, that is my puzzle, I can tell you."
"Well, but my dear sir, it is no flattery to say to you, your son
is no fool. He knows what he is about; for his age, there is not
a more promising young fellow at our bar; only last week old
Judge Davis complimented him for the way in which he had taken a
very complicated case in equity and literally turned it inside
out and held it up for inspection. He is not a child; he has cut
all his teeth, and is not one to be led by the nose by any man,
be he priest or lawyer--you don't walk round a Yankee lawyer in a
hurry."
"Well, that is true," said my uncle. "He has as sound a head as
any lad I know, and at school and college he was always well up.
Whatever has turned his head to Papacy? Do you know I sometimes
think it is what they call a _monomania_--like the man who
was sensible enough in everything else but mad on one point, and
thought he was a pump; and another took to his room and could not
be got to go out because he thought he was made of glass, and
would not stand jostling in the streets. Then think of Joanna
Southcote, Joe Smith, and the rest. My word! there is no end of
the aberrations of the human intellect."
"Well, sir," I replied, "I don't think that will hold water, for
you and I know a dozen sensible, first-rate men who have turned
Catholics; no fanatics, but cool-headed men of business, good
neighbors, good husbands, honest men. There is Mr. A., Judge B.,
General C., within the present year. They are not men to make a
serious change, which they know would set every one talking and
criticising them, unless they knew well what they were about, and
could give reasons for the change and stand a little criticism."
"Well, that is nothing but common sense," he replied; "still I am
puzzled, I can tell you, to think why they did it."
"Well, my dear sir, I think I can tell you why they did it.
Because they found out that it was the old original religion,
after all."
"Well, you do astonish me. I do believe you must have turned
Catholic yourself, by the way you speak."
"That's a fact uncle! You see, we have not met for more than nine
months. I was led, through the conversion of a very dear friend
of mine, to examine into his reasons, and the result is, that I
became a Catholic just before last Christmas."
{626}
"I am glad I met you to-day," he rejoined, "for to tell you the
truth, I was very much cut up about this business. I have not
seen John since he did it. I thought I should have to meet him
to-day, and I fully intended to cut up rough with him over it.
And so, Philip, you are a Catholic; let me look at you; well, I
wonder how you felt when you went down on your knees and told the
priest everything right away--but I suppose they did not get you
up to that point, did they?"
"As for that," I replied, "set your mind at ease. I went to
confession like any pious old woman, and when it was over, I
never felt so light and happy since I was a boy. I felt as if I
had got rid of a load, like Christian, in the _Pilgrim's
Progress_, when his heavy burden fell off at the foot of the
cross of Christ, and rolled down into his sepulchre, to be buried
out of sight for-ever."
"Ah! well," said he, "if one could really believe in it, and was
sure it was all true, I grant you. But I tell you what, I want to
have some more talk about these matters. You see, I know nothing
except by hearsay against the Catholic religion, and so I have no
right to pronounce an opinion--but you can't deny that they have
a bad name. Go into any of our churches and hear what they all
have to say against the Catholics. I don't believe one half of
it; it is clear out of the question that good moral men, with all
their wits about them like many we know, could be Catholics if
one half of the things said against them were true. Anyhow, they
have got a bad name and there is no denying it."
"That is true enough," I answered; "but do you remember of whom
it was said, 'As for this sect, it is everywhere spoken against,'
and that Christ tells us that in those days he, the great teacher
of truth, was called by those who did not believe in him,
'Beelzebub;' that is, they actually gave out that he was the
devil! And then he goes on to say, 'If they have called the
master of the house Beelzebub, how much more those of his
household;' and I suppose in those days there were sincere,
zealous men, of whom Saul was one, who took up this cry and
repeated it, and so it came to be very generally believed."
"That's true, again," he answered; "but here we are, at your
place, and I must go on to my office to get my letters. But after
business I hope you will not dislike a little more talk on these
matters; so you must go back with me to Linfield." It was agreed,
therefore, that we should go home together, and that I should
stop a few days at his country place, a few miles out of town.
We met accordingly by appointment, and were soon seated together
in his carriage, and before long free from the noise and turmoil
of the city, and driving along the quiet country roads, with the
sights and sounds of harvest all around, and nothing to distract
our converse on grave topics. "Well," he said, "your last words
have been on my mind all day. Because so many speak against the
Catholic religion, and it has got a bad name, that is no proof
that it is not right. The Jews said worse of the early Christians
and of our Lord himself.
"Then there is another thing you said, that what made you a
Catholic was, that you came to see that the Catholic religion and
primitive Christianity are identical--so I understood you. Am I
right in this?"
"Certainly," I replied, "that is precisely my proposition; stated
in that form, the whole question is put, as it were, in a
nutshell."
"Just so," he answered, "if that were proved. So now tell me just
how you proved it to yourself."
{627}
"With all my heart, sir," was the reply. "Then see here, we must
first lay down our definitions of what I mean by primitive
Christianity, and what I mean by the Catholic religion."
"Certainly," he assented.
"Primitive Christianity, then," I continued, "is soon settled. By
it I mean the religion taught by the apostles to their disciples,
and by those disciples taught to others, and so on--the religion
of the New Testament."
"Very good," he broke in; "no one can find fault with that, only
we have always been taught that the religion of the New
Testament, a primitive Christianity, was substantially the same
as Protestantism, so that it never struck me till this moment
that there was any fair doubt that the primitive Christians were
Protestants, all but the name; and of course we know that the
name was not given them at that day."
"All right! We will see about that later on," I continued. "Now
let me tell you, in as few words as I can, what I mean by a
Catholic."
"Well, I am all attention," he said.
"By a Catholic, then," I continued, "I mean a Christian who is a
member of that vast, world-wide society which is generally known
and called, by friend and foe, the Catholic Church, the spiritual
head of which is the Bishop of Rome. This church, or united
body--for you know the word church is the same as _ecclesia_
in Latin or Greek, and means 'an assembly,' or 'united
body'--this united body we call catholic, or universal, because
it has always vastly outnumbered all other divided bodies of
Christians, whether taken singly or all put together. The number
of Catholics in the world is usually stated to be two hundred
millions; of Russian, Greek, and Oriental schismatics about
ninety millions, and Protestants of all denominations about
seventy millions. This vast united body, as it has always borne
the name of Catholic, so is it the only body of Christians that
can be called the catholic or universal church, if we attach any
meaning to the word as a definition of the visible church, such
as we find set down in the Creed, 'I believe in the Catholic
Church.' However, as the name Catholic is sometimes claimed in
some indefinable sense by other bodies of Christians, those to
whom it belongs of right, and by the force of terms, have no
objection, for the sake of distinction, to the term sometimes
applied to them, of Roman Catholic, meaning merely the
_real_ catholics; that is to say, those who, though
universal, or spread everywhere, are yet united in one visible
society, through being all in communion with the Bishop of Rome;
being Roman in their centre of unity, and Catholic in their
world-wide circumference.
"Thus the Catholic Church, alone of all Christian bodies, bears,
as it it were, written on her forehead, that mark of unity
divinely impressed by her Heavenly Founder and preserved by the
power of his dying prayer, as a perpetual note of her heavenly
origin. 'I pray thee, O Father, that they may be one in us, that
the world may believe that thou hast sent me.'
"I think that you will admit that the old church founded by our
Lord was to have on her these marks of unity and universality,
and that these marks are to be found on no church at the present
day but the church Catholic."
"Yes," he replied after a moment's reflection, "I think this may
fairly be admitted; but unity is not all that our Lord prayed
for; in the same prayer he said, 'Holy Father, keep them in thy
truth,' and we say that the old church fell away, and that it no
longer teaches the essential truths of the gospel, or has
obscured them by false doctrines."
{628}
"Well, let that pass for the moment," I replied. "We will see
later on whether you will continue to maintain these
propositions. I will now state the principal points on which we
are agreed with Protestants, and afterward the distinctive points
on which we differ from them. And I think you will admit that the
points on which we are agreed with you are precisely every one of
those points which you would consider to be the great essential,
fundamental doctrines of the gospel. We believe, then, in the
unity and trinity of God, three coequal persons, one in
substance, and in the incarnation of God the Son, who became the
Son of Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, of the substance of his mother
according to his manhood, as he had been from all eternity God
the Son, of one substance with the Father--God of God. So we
believe and hope for redemption and grace, to do good works
acceptable to God, and which he will reward amply and solely from
and through Christ our Lord, and in prayer, love, repentance,
obedience, and holiness, as conditions of our salvation through
him. And we believe that eternal perdition and endless woe will
be the lot of those 'who neglect so great a salvation.' We
believe also that all Holy Scripture is written by divine
inspiration, and when studied and rightly understood, by aid of
God's Holy Spirit, is most profitable for instruction in all
Christian perfection. In a word, Catholics believe all that
religious Protestants consider to be of the essence of true
religion; and they also reject every tenet or position which can
clash with these paramount truths of revelation. A Protestant,
therefore, in becoming a Catholic, has to give up nothing which
he believes essential in religion. No doubt he would have to add
to his faith certain other truths which at present he does not
hold, because he has not come to see that they are parts of
revealed truth."
"I have not lost a word," he replied, "of what you have been
saying. I confess it is quite a new light to me, that all these
doctrines which you have stated are part and parcel of the
Catholic faith; but, my dear Philip, I cannot help fancying that
all Catholics are not like you, for I have always heard that they
denied or obscured nearly every one of these doctrines."
"As for these statements of doctrine not being the authorized
teaching of the church, I can only say that you will find them
all stated fully by the authorities of our church in the canons
and catechism of the Council of Trent, and stated briefly in
every child's catechism. Yet, notwithstanding, as you say,
Protestants generally seem to think that they know our religion
better than we do ourselves; although they seldom read our books,
they insist on denying that we really _do_ hold these points
which we profess to hold in common with them; but I think you
will admit that we ought to be allowed to know our own creed
best. It is a wonder that they do not rather rejoice to believe
that we have so many points of faith in common, and those the
very points in which they consider the essence of true religion
to consist. It seems as if they had an instinctive feeling that
the strength of their position would be broken up if once if
should appear that the differences between themselves and the old
religion were on but few points, and those such as they do not
consider the most essential."
{629}
"Well, anyhow," he rejoined, "whatever be the reason, there is a
strong prejudice on both sides; Protestants are as strongly
convinced that you are in the wrong as you Catholics are
convinced that you are right. One or other of us must be wrong;
and if we assert that you are wrong against such a strong
conviction on your part, and one that has subsisted for so many
ages, and been held by such a vast majority, why, we are forced
to admit that our strong conviction against you is no argument
that we are in the right. But you can't deny that such a strong
conviction as ours must have some foundation in reason."
"Just so," I answered, "I do not deny it at all. These same
reasons seemed so convincing to me once that I could not have
believed that any reasoning could have convinced me that I was
mistaken. I will just touch on some of the reasons which weighed
most with me against the Catholic religion. From my own
experience I am convinced that the difficulty Protestants
generally feel, in admitting that Catholics really _do_ hold
all that they deem to be essential, arises chiefly from this,
that it seems to them clear and evident that certain other
doctrines which we hold, such as the merit of good works, the
invocation of Saints, the inherent efficacy of Sacraments,
Purgatory, the real Presence, and the sacrifice of the Mass, the
use of images, pictures, and relics, the Immaculate Conception,
and devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and perhaps other doctrines
and practices, _must_ necessarily interfere with the
mediatorial office of Christ and with the worship of God, and be
impious or idolatrous."
"Well," he answered, "you have given a long list enough, and it
makes me feel all over just as I was before I met you. I declare,
to my dying day I never could take in all those things; and I
can't see how you, or any sensible man, could come to believe
them. Nay, don't tell me you believe them. Why, your church can't
expect it of an American citizen, whatever may be the case with
Frenchmen and Spaniards, that have been, as one may say, brought
up to it, and had it bred in the bone. I am sure I could easier
turn Jew and go back to the old original religion of all than
become a Catholic."
"Have a care, my dear sir," I answered; "make no rash statements.
I once thought as you do now. I can't answer all objections
against these doctrines in one breath. Give me time, and I am not
afraid of going into them one after the other. But I can't
attempt it now; and now, as we are getting near home, just walk
your horse along this shady bit of road, and I will finish for
to-day. Now, with regard to all these doctrines which seem so
strange and repugnant to you, let me say, as an honest man who
once thought and felt as you do now, but who has come by God's
grace to see things differently--let me say, as one who knows
that he must answer for his every word before Christ's unerring
tribunal, that there is not one of those points which is not
capable of being shown in no degree to interfere with the supreme
prerogatives of our divine Lord and only Saviour, and which is
not capable of conclusive proof. Would to God that Protestants,
instead of reading and hearing only what is said against us,
would hear and read what we have to say for ourselves. These
early prejudices, this 'human tradition,' which 'they have
received to hold,' would be dispersed like the morning mists
before the sun.
"The general answer that I would give to such objections is, read
Catholic books, and you will find that all these allegations are
as old as Protestantism, and that they have been answered a
hundred times over."
{630}
"If we are Catholics, it is simply under God's grace, because we
have read for ourselves, and have been satisfied with the
Catholic answer on every single point. If I am asked to name any
particular works which would be found specially useful--I mean
works of a popular character--I would mention Bishop Milner's
_End of Controversy; The Faith of Catholics_, by Waterworth;
various works of Dr. Newman and Archbishop Manning; _Temporal
Mission of the Holy Ghost_, and _Rule of Faith_; the
works of Archbishop Kenrick; and other works which may be
obtained at any Catholic bookstore. But most Protestants, as was
my own case when a Protestant, have a strong prejudice against
reading Catholic books. I believe the basis of this prejudice
(which would be logical enough if its basis were just) is much
the same as that which would rightly disincline all religious
persons, unless in some way it became a duty, from reading
Socinian and deistical writings. They have been accustomed to
consider that Catholics have this in common with Socinians and
deists, that they all, more or less, reject those doctrines of
redemption through Christ which every baptized and thinking
Christian feels to be part of the inner life of his soul, which
he would die rather than part from. But those who reason thus
against the Catholic religion, and are unwilling to examine its
evidence, forget that Thomas à Kempis, or the author of the
_Imitation of Christ_, was a Catholic, a monk of the middle
ages, devoted to every Catholic doctrine. His fourth book on the
Eucharist manifests, in every page, his belief in the real
Presence, and the sacrifice of the Mass; and he speaks of
invocation of saints, purgatory, priestly absolution, and other
Catholic doctrines. Yet this work, on account of the pure love of
God and trust in a Saviour, which it breathes in every line, is
almost as great a favorite with devout Protestants as it is with
pious Catholics. Translated from beginning to end by John Wesley,
it is to be found as a manual of piety, with his
_imprimatur_, recommended by him, in the hands of all his
followers.
"The same may be said of the works of St. Bernard, Fénélon,
Paschal, all well-known names familiar through translations of
their works to all well-read Protestants. Again, the Jansenist
writers of the school of Port Royal are, I believe, generally
admired by what are called the Evangelical school among
Protestants. Yet the Jansenists all held the creed of Pope Pius,
laid down at the Council of Trent, and all the distinctive
doctrines of the Catholic religion.
"I have spoken before of Dr. Newman as a name honored by all, by
Protestants as well as Catholics. No one has written more ably in
defence of every doctrine of the church. Could he, who is the
author of the lines I am just going to repeat, have written so
truly and touchingly of the love of our Blessed Lord and faith in
him, if he had held any doctrine which interfered with or
overshadowed the supremacy of that Lord and only Saviour?
'Firmly I believe, and truly,
God is three, and God is one.
And I next acknowledge duly
Manhood taken by the Son.
And I hope and trust most fully
In that manhood crucified.
And each thought and deed unruly
Do to death as he hath died.
Simply to his grace, and solely,
Life and light and strength belong.
And I love supremely, solely
Him the Holy, him the Strong.
And I hold in veneration,
For the love of Christ alone,
Holy church, as his creation,
And her teaching as his own.'
_Dream of Gerontius._
{631}
"Now, my dear uncle, you will understand the earnestness of a man
who feels that it is beyond the power of words to express the
depth of his convictions. These, indeed, I cannot impart to you.
I cannot give you the gift of faith. But so far, at least, I feel
sure you will go with me, in admitting that the facts I have just
stated should lead serious Protestants to admit that they have
been wrong in assuming that the Catholic religion, although a
great religious fact, majestic for her antiquity, universality,
and unity, as all must admit, has yet a mark against her which
dispenses them from all search after truth in that direction. My
last words shall be those which, though they seemed to St.
Augustine to be uttered by the voice of a child, were yet, as he
tells us, blessed to his own conversion: _Tolle,
lege_'--Take and read.'"
Just as I had finished my last sentence, we drove into the
approach to the mansion, where the ladies were already assembled
on the lawn, a sign that the arrangements for dinner were
completed, and that all were awaiting only the return of the
master of the house. So, kindly greetings, inquiries after absent
friends in Europe and America, and the other happy little
accompaniments of an evening at home in the country in lovely
autumn weather, effectually put a stop to all further
conversation on the engrossing topics which had occupied us
during the morning.
The next day rose bright and beautiful, almost too cloudless and
sultry, if we had had a journey before us, and six or seven hours
to pass in the stifling heat of ------. But we had agreed to take
a day's holiday in the country, and, after breakfast, we strolled
out together to the summer-house by the brook, where the daily
papers and the last reviews, American and English, were laid out
on the library-table of the cool retreat beneath the broad
chestnut trees, which served my uncle as his study during the
summer months. The other members of the family had their own
reading and work to attend to. So we had the prospect of a long
forenoon of leisure for reading or conversation. After the news
of the day had been read and discussed, we each took up a review
and read on pretty steadily for an hour or more. Then my uncle
began to light his cigar, and I saw that he was watching when I
should have finished the article I was reading, and that he was
ready for a chat. When he saw that I was closing the volume, he
began: "I have thought a good deal over all you said yesterday.
Just give me a memorandum of one or two of the books you spoke
of." I pencilled them down on the back of a letter and handed it
to him; he put the memorandum into his pocket-book.
"Now," he said, "I should like to hear how you make out that the
primitive Christians were Catholics. You know all my family are
strict Episcopalians; there was one of them a bishop over in the
old country, and we always took great pride in the Church of
England; and I know we were always taught, and I've read several
books about the old aboriginal British Church, which seemed to me
to prove pretty clearly that, up to the year 600, or thereabouts,
after Christ, the early Christians in Britain knew nothing of the
authority of the Bishop of Rome, and opposed his claims when they
were put forward by Augustine on his coming over to convert the
Saxons."
{632}
"Well, sir," I replied, "curiously enough, I have just been
reading your last number of the _Saturday Review_, which, as
we all know, is no friend to Catholics, and I have been much
struck by a very able article which, I think, you will find well
worth reading. If you will allow me, I will read you a passage
which may serve me as a text for what I shall have to say in
answer to your question about the British Church, and how I make
out that the early Christians were Catholics: 'The distinctive
principle of the English Reformation was an appeal to Christian
antiquity, as admirable, and probably as imaginary, as the
"Golden Age" of the poets.' The writer then goes on to say, 'that
the era of the Reformation was before the age of accurate
historical criticism. The true method of historical criticism was
as yet uncreated, and it is not too much to say that whatever
accurate knowledge we now possess of the church of the first
centuries, has been obtained within the last fifty years, and
that a better acquaintance with the remains of antiquity has
convinced us that many doctrines and practices which have been
commonly accounted to be peculiarities of later Romanism, existed
in the best and purest ages of Christianity.' (_Saturday
Review_, 1866.)
"Ah! I should not wonder," he replied, "if they had hit the right
nail on the head there; I must read that article--how is it
headed?"
"Oh! you can't miss it," I answered, "the title is _Primitive
Christianity_.[Footnote 57] Well, then, to answer your
question. We argued yesterday as to the great leading doctrines
on which Protestants and Catholics are at one, and which all
Christians hold as essential. Now for what you would call the
distinctive doctrines of the Catholic religion, or as the writer
in _The Saturday_ expresses it, 'what are commonly accounted
(by Protestants) as peculiarities of later Romanism,' but which
we Catholics hold to be no less essential truths of Christianity,
part and parcel of the same revelation which teaches us the
doctrine of the Trinity and the Incarnation. I will name three
which I think you will admit are sufficiently distinctive. We
hold, therefore:
[Footnote 57: _Saturday Review_, winter quarter, 1866.]
"First. That for Christ's sake we are to obey the church, which
he has made his infallible witness in the world, until he shall
come again. 'The church of the living God, the pillar and
foundation of the truth.' (I Tim. iii. 15.)
"Secondly. That for the same reason we are bound to submit to the
spiritual supremacy of the Pope or Bishop of Rome, the successor
of St. Peter, whom Christ, who is himself 'THE ROCK,' or sure
foundation of his church, left, when he ascended up out of sight,
to be the _Visible Rock_, on which he willed to build up his
church in unity.
"Thirdly. That God is to be worshipped by sacrifice, and that in
place of the _typical sacrifices_ offered to God, from the
time of Adam to Moses, and from Moses to the time of Christ in
the Levitical worship, he has instituted the _great reality of
the eucharistic_ sacrifice of Christ's body and blood,
commonly called the Mass.
"Of course there are other doctrines which I might name, but
these three are sufficient for my purpose. My proposition is,
that these doctrines were as distinctively characteristics of
primitive Christianity as they are of the Catholic Church of the
present day, or what our friend in _The Saturday_ calls
'Later Romanism.'"
{633}
"Well! go on," he rejoined, "I am all attention. I do not want to
raise objection to details. I want to hear your whole argument to
the end, then I shall see what I may find to say about
it--meantime, I am much interested, and want to see how you make
out your points. I like your mode of stating the question; it is
straightforward, right up and down, and no mistake, as far as the
statement of the case goes, only I want to see how you set about
proving it. But, here, I am smoking all the cigars; don't you
smoke?"
"Why, bless the man! how can I smoke and talk? There, you do all
the smoking, and I'll do the talking just now; and then, when
I've done, you may turn on the steam, and I'll do the
smoking--turn about is fair play!
"Well, then, learned Protestants are now beginning to admit 'that
many doctrines and practices which (at the time of the
Reformation) were commonly accounted to be peculiarities of later
Romanism, existed in the best and purest ages of Christianity.'
"Now, this is precisely what we Catholics have always maintained;
only my proposition is, that the _distinctive features_ of
the Catholic religion are precisely those which mark the
primitive church and the British Church in primitive ages,
centuries before the time when St. Augustine, the first Bishop of
Canterbury, came from Rome to convert our Anglo-Saxon
forefathers, about the year of our Lord 600.
"Those who delight in the dream of a golden age of primitive
Christianity, which was Protestant in all but the name, and only
not Protestant in name because, as they imagine, there was then
no pope to protest against, take special delight in dwelling on
imaginary pictures of an early British Church, and this for a
very simple reason, because here they can strike out boldly on
the wings of fancy, without much danger of coming to grief
against the hard stone wall of historical facts. There is no
British writer, of whose works we have any vestige, earlier than
the historian Gildas, who wrote about the year of our Lord 550!
All they have to rely on for proof of any difference between the
British Church and the other churches of Christendom is one
single fact, which they learn from the historian Bede, who wrote
in the eighth century. He relates that about the year 600 certain
British bishops were found differing from the Roman Church on
certain points, not of doctrine, but of discipline, and acting
with a considerable amount of contumaciousness toward St.
Augustine, the Roman missionary and first Archbishop of
Canterbury. All this we fully admit, and are quite prepared to
account for. But my proposition concerns the British Church, not
in the year of our Lord 600, but centuries before, in the early
primitive times, from the first conversion of Britain."
"Yes, that is the point; I'm all attention to hear how you make
it out."
"Christianity was probably established, partially in Britain, in
very early times, possibly in the days of the apostles, not
impossibly by St. Paul himself, and, if so, it must have been the
same in all essential features as that religion which the
apostles and their immediate disciples preached and established
everywhere else. History, however, records nothing definite
concerning the Christianity of Britain, earlier than the fact
related by the historian Bede, that, in the reign of Marcus
Aurelius, emperor of Rome, at the request of Lucius, a British
king, Pope Eleutherius sent missionaries into Britain.
{634}
Next, as to what kind of Christianity this was. I shall show that
it was sharply marked with the characteristics of the Catholic
religion which I laid down just now. Submission to the authority
of the Bishop of Rome as head of the church, and a belief in the
Real Presence and Eucharistic Sacrifice, commonly called the
Mass.
"With regard to the authority of the Bishop of Rome, as Head of
the Church, I will quote a well-known ancient writer, St.
Irenaeus, Bishop of Lyons in Gaul, born A.D. 120, martyred A.D.
202. He was a native of Asia Minor, a disciple of St. Polycarp,
Bishop of Smyrna, who was himself a disciple of St. John the
Evangelist. He was a contemporary of Pope Eleutherius, and
visited Rome during his pontificate, as we learn from the
historian Eusebius. Irenaeus is, therefore, a witness of peculiar
value, since he was in a position to testify as to the belief of
all Christians in his day, as well of the Eastern Church, in
which he was trained, as of the Western Church, of which he
became a bishop. The presumption is, also, that he taught to
others what had first been taught to him by his master, St.
Polycarp, and that St. Polycarp taught what he had learned from
the inspired apostle. In the work of Irenaeus, _Adversus
Hiereses_, (Book III., chap, ii., n. 1 and 2,) which may be
consulted in any good library, we find it written. I will read
from some short manuscript notes which I have here in my
pocket-book, and which I made at the time I was looking into
these matters before I became a Catholic.
"'As it would be a long task to enumerate the successions of all
the churches, I will point out that tradition which is of the
greatest, most ancient, and universally known church, founded and
constituted at Rome by the most glorious apostles, Peter and
Paul, and which derives from the two apostles that faith
announced to all men, which, through the succession of her
bishops, has come down to us.'
"Here, let me observe, by the way, in passing, we have the
testimony of a great writer, who lived within fifty years of St.
John the Evangelist, and was instructed by his immediate
disciple, that the Church of Rome was founded by St. Peter and
St. Paul. What then becomes of the statement, so often
repeated--shall I call it ignorant, or impudent?--that the Bishop
of Rome can have no claim to authority as successor of St. Peter,
because there is no evidence that St. Peter was ever at Rome in
his life?"
"Well, certainly," he interposed, "that statement will not hold
water, for Irenaeus is an unexceptionable witness. But I
interrupt your narrative. Pray, go on."
"Well, then, to continue what I was saying, before I made this
digression, St. Irenaeus goes on in the same passage, 'With this
church, (namely, the Church of Rome,) on account of its more
powerful headship, (or primacy,) it is necessary that every
church, that is, the faithful on every side, should be in
accordance, in which church has always been preserved the
tradition which is from the apostles. The blessed apostles, then,
having founded and built up this church, committed the office of
the episcopacy to Linus, of whom Paul makes mention in his
Epistle to Timothy. And to him succeeded Anacletus, and after him
Clement, who had also seen the blessed apostles, and conferred
with them, and had before his eyes their familiar preaching and
the tradition of the apostles; and not he alone, but there were
many at that time, still alive, who had been instructed by the
apostles.
{635}
To Clement succeeded Evaristus, Alexander Sixtus, Telesphorus,
Hyginus, Pius Anicetus, Sater, and to him Eleutherius, who now in
the twelfth place from the apostles, holds the office of the
episcopate. By this order, and by his succession, that tradition
which is from the apostles, and the preaching of the truth, have
come down to us.'
"Here then we have the testimony of one who wrote only fifty
years after the death of the last apostle, that the existing pope
was the successor of Peter in the see of Rome, and there could
have been as little doubt about the past as there is now as to
the succession of the presidents of the United States or the
sovereigns of England during the last century.
"And the testimony of St. Irenaeus as to the authority of the
bishops of Rome over the whole church, since we learn from
Eusebius, that Irenaeus had offered a firm but respectful
opposition to two successive pontiffs, Eleutherius and Victor, on
the question of the time of keeping Easter, a point on which some
of the Eastern churches as also later the churches of Ireland and
Britain, followed a different custom from the church of Rome. St.
Irenaeus visited Rome on the matter, and dissuaded the pope from
making this question at that time a term of communion. He
succeeded in his endeavors, and so different churches were left
to follow their own custom, until the matter was finally decided,
and the Roman practice made obligatory on all, at the general
Council of Nicaea, A.D. 325.
"Such then is the testimony of St. Irenaeus concerning the
general belief of all Christians of his day as to the rights and
authority of the bishops of Rome, or holy and apostolic see, as
it was generally termed in very early times. He taught that it
was the duty of all churches and of each one of the faithful,
that is to say, of all who believe in Christ, to adhere to the
faith and the communion of the holy see, which by Christ's
institution had been constituted in the person of Peter and his
successors the necessary centre of unity of all other
churches--which held on this account the supremacy of more
powerful headship or primacy of authority in the universal
church, under Christ our Lord.
"It is manifest therefore, that this doctrine concerning the
authority of the pope must have been taught, together with all
other doctrines of the universal church, by the missionaries sent
into Britain by Pope Eleutherius. St. Irenaeus tells us in
another place that the faith of the whole church was one and the
same. He says, for instance, in the following passage, 'The
church spread over the whole world to the earth's boundaries,
having received the faith, ... sedulously guards it, as though
dwelling in one house,' 'as having one soul,' and 'one heart,'
and 'teaching uniformly as having one mouth, ... nor do the
churches of Spain or Gaul, or the East, or Egypt, or Africa,
believe or deliver a different faith.' (_Adv. Hieres._ b. i.
c. x.)
"But we are not left to conjecture as to the relation of Britain
to the rest of Christendom, and to the see of Rome in primitive
times. The next notice we have of the British Church is, that
British bishops were sitting with the other Catholic bishops at
the Council of Aries in Gaul in 314, when the Roman practice as
to the time was confirmed and accepted, and at the Council of
Sardica in Illyricum in 347, where the right of appeal from all
bishops to the apostolic see was confirmed by a special decree.
{636}
This council, at the conclusion of its deliberations, writes to
Pope Julius in the following terms: 'That though absent in body,
he had been present with them in spirit,' and that it was best
and most fitting that the bishops of each particular province
should have recourse to him who is their head, that is, to the
see of the Apostle Peter. (See _Labbe's Councils_, ii. 690.)
"That the primacy of the Roman see involved a real right of
jurisdiction over other churches is manifest from the next fact
of history bearing on the British Church. St. Prosper of
Aquitain, a contemporary of the events he describes, writing in
430, tells us how a British priest, by name Morgan or Pelagius,
had invented a heresy, (which still bears his name,) in which he
denied the necessity of Divine Grace. That this heresy spread
greatly in Britain, whereupon Pope Celestine, the same pope who
sent Palladius and Patrick to Ireland, dispatched St. Germanus,
Bishop of Auxerre in Gaul, as 'his vicar with Britain, and that
he might drive away heresy, and restore Britain to the Catholic
faith.' He tells us that he was received by the British bishops
and presided at several national synods. St. Prosper also states
as an existing fact then, just as any Catholic might make the
same statement at the present day, that 'Rome as the See of Peter
is head of the episcopal order in the whole world, and holds in
subjection through the influence of religion, more nations than
ever had been subdued by her arms.' (_St. Prosper de
Ingratitudine et Vocatione Gentium_.)
"With the mission of St. Germanus the early history of the
British Church closes. A dark and calamitous period of a hundred
years succeeds, in which Britain is heard of no more until the
time of Gildas, the British historian, who wrote about the year
of our Lord 550, that is to say, about fifty years before the
coming of St. Augustine.
"Britain, during this period finally abandoned by the Roman
armies, is left a prey to continual invasion, first by the Picts
and Scots, and then by the Saxons, who had settled down like a
swarm of locusts upon the country, and driving the Britons before
them into the natural fastnesses of Wales and Cornwall, had
completely occupied the country and made it their own. At length
the very name of Britain is lost; it had now become England, and
a heathen land once more.
"The native historian Gildas describes the condition of his
miserable countrymen, isolated from the rest of Christendom,
overwhelmed by foreign invasion and by civil wars. As to
religion, he tells us that it was at the lowest ebb, and that no
heresy had arisen in the church which had not effected a lodgment
in Britain: as to morals, he informs us that princes, nobles, and
people were infected with the most shameful vices, and that even
a large portion of the clergy were sunk in profligacy. There were
still many bright exceptions amongst all classes, especially in
the monasteries, which were numerous and filled with a multitude
of holy souls, who had fled from the almost universal corruption
of morals in that miserable age.
"Gildas, moreover, upbraids the clergy for their want of charity,
and because through hatred of their Saxon conquerors they could
not be induced to attempt their conversion to the faith of
Christ.
"And be it remembered that Gildas wrote all this as an
eye-witness of the state of the British Church in his day, and
that he wrote only fifty years before the arrival of St.
Augustine to preach the faith to the Anglo-Saxons.
{637}
Can we wonder then that when he invited the remnant of the
British clergy to join him in his holy mission he met with a
contumacious refusal, at least from some of them?
"I quote from a Protestant historian, (_Hart's Ecclesiastical
Record_.) He quotes as follows from Bede's Ecclesiastical
History. 'In many things,' says St. Augustine, 'ye act contrary
to our custom, and those of the universal church; yet if in these
three respects you will obey me, to celebrate Easter at the
proper time, to perform the rites of baptism according to the
custom of the Roman Apostolic Church, and to join me in preaching
the Gospel to the English nation the word of the Lord, all other
changes which you do, although contrary to our customs, we will
bear with equanimity.' These terms they refused to comply with,
and the above-named Protestant writer thus comments on their
refusal. 'While we triumphantly cite these testimonies to our
original independence, let us not seek to palliate the
contumacious spirit displayed by the British clergy in their
conference with Augustine. As Christians they ought cheerfully to
have assisted in evangelizing the pagan Saxons. The terms which
he proposed were mild and reasonable, and the faith which he
professed was as pure and orthodox as their own.'
"It is quite clear that the faith of the British Church was
essentially the same as that of St. Augustine, otherwise he would
certainly have taken exception to such differences in essentials,
and not solely of accidental points of discipline, and moreover
it is inconceivable that he should have invited them to preach to
the Saxons a faith different from his own. That the faith taught
to our forefathers by St. Augustine was the same as that of the
Catholic Church of the present day, does not require proof to any
one who has made the most superficial study of the annals of the
Anglo-Saxon Church. The supremacy of Rome, the doctrines of the
real Presence, the sacrifice of the Mass, purgatory, devotion to
the blessed Virgin and the Saints, are written on every page of
her history, as narrated by Bede and the ancient chroniclers, and
came to be incorporated into the very language and customs of the
people.
"As for the grounds of the opposition of the British bishops to
St. Augustine, this can be fully accounted for. The decay of
faith and morals amongst clergy and people, isolation from the
rest of Christendom, natural pride and hatred of the Saxons, all
which Gildas tells us existed in the British Church in his day,
are quite enough to account for their opposition to St.
Augustine, and this opposition cannot in the truth of history be
attributed to any primitive independence of Rome in the British
Church. In the whole early history of British Christianity there
is not one fact which proves any difference in faith whatever, or
any variation in discipline inconsistent with that obedience to
the Bishop of Rome as successor of St. Peter, which Irenaeus
tells us was in his time considered essential for all churches,
and which is at the present day as then, an essential feature of
Catholic Christianity.
"In the absence, then, of all proof to the contrary, and in the
presence of the positive evidence which I have given that the
British Church stood in the same relation to Rome during the
earlier and purer ages of her history, as all the other churches
of Christendom, it is surely disingenuous not to admit the fact.
It seems to me that thoughtful and candid persons can hardly fail
to admit that as a controversial argument against the Catholic
Church the less said about the British Church the better."
{638}
"Well, upon my word, my boy, I must say that my first
impression--but mind, I reserve my judgment till after I have
had time to reflect on the matter, read up your quotations in the
original, and compare them with the context--I say my first
impression is, that you have a good case, and that you have
handled it very fairly. A good deal is involved in your being
right or wrong in this matter; so much that, if you please, I
would rather not pursue the question any further at present; but
I shall not let it sleep. And now I see your cousins coming this
way with their brother John. I must go and meet the old fellow,
and shall treat him as if nothing had happened. I am very glad I
happened to meet you yesterday; the truths you have suggested to
my mind are serious ones."
"That is so," I replied, "and may they ripen in your mind and
prove refreshing to your soul as they have to mine! Good-by!"
--------
Sub Umbra.
The hills that like billows swell clear in the dawn,
Seem heaving with conscious existence this morn;
For all the broad woods on their bosom serene
Are waving their ocean of green!
II.
How fair! Save yon cloud sailing up from the west,
Whose shadow falls dark on that bright, leafy breast
But softly 'tis rocked: while beneath it is heard,
In wood haunts, the note of the bird.
* * *
III.
O heart! in yon shadow and soft-heaving sea,
Thy God hath unfolded a lesson for thee;
For oft while reposing 'neath sunniest skies,
A cloud o'er thy rest may arise.
IV.
But when from that cloud the dark shadow shall fall,
Heave gently, heave gently though under the pall!
And 'neath the dark shadow let, sweet as the bird,
Thy low, quiet music be heard!
Richard Storrs Willis.
--------
{639}
Translated From The German.
Forget-Me-Not.
Or, The Picture That Was Never Seen.
The lord chamberlain, who had just returned from Italy, had
become the subject of the greatest attention with the brilliant
but not extensive circle which the queen was accustomed to
assemble around her, in the king's secluded summer residence.
The narratives of the count's travels served to shorten an
unpleasant, stormy evening, which visited the shady park
surrounding the castle with gusts of rain and hail, interspersed
with streaks of lightning and heavy reechoing claps of thunder.
The imagination of the queen revelled in the recollections which
the stories of the count awakened; but the king, more interested
in business of state, interrupted the speaker suddenly, with the
question as to whether anything new had transpired in the capital
city, which he had passed through on his return. The lord
chamberlain praised the quiet and elegance of the city, not
neglecting to extol the wisdom of the sovereign to whom all this
prosperity must be attributed, and closed with the assurance
that, excepting the exhibition of industry and art, the
inhabitants of the city were occupying themselves, at present,
with nothing but their own homes and amusements. The Princess
Eliza inquired interestedly concerning the success of that
institution which owed its existence to her suggestion, and the
count, passing slowly from one thing to another, ran easily into
the enumeration of the articles exhibited in the tasteful
gallery. He left till the last what he considered the crowning
glory of the collection--the paintings by native artists--and
described with the versatility of a cicerone all the pictures of
Madonnas, pictures from every-day life, historical pictures and
portraits, which were worthy of attention. Having come to the
end, he interrupted himself suddenly, as if rebuking himself, and
said--
"I had almost forgotten to mention a picture, which, although
anonymous, and very unfavorably placed, deserves to be named as
the gem of the gallery, both in idea and execution. I have seen
nothing more wonderful in my life, and even now, when I speak of
it, all the details of the striking picture appear clear and
decided before the mind, so that I can give them without omitting
anything essential."
This preliminary was calculated to raise the greatest curiosity,
and the queen, with the company, formed a narrow circle around
the narrator.
"Imagine, your majesties, a medium-sized tablet divided into two
parts, of which each represents a single picture," began the lord
chamberlain; "the conditions of space divide this picture in
form: the character is one and the same. In the first, the
principal figure is a maiden in the full blooming freshness of
youth. The flowing drapery flutters lightly in the wind. One foot
already rests upon the edge of the barge which wavers in
suspended dance, and which the stream, curling up into foaming
waves, seems about to drive from the shore, without rudder or
anchor.
{640}
The eyes of the maiden look longingly into the distance: in her
features lies romantic enthusiasm. On the shore which the mariner
leaves, stand sympathizing friends. An old man, with silver hair,
waves a farewell: a group of maidens, blooming as she, and
familiarly clinging to each other, wave handkerchiefs and ribbons
after the departing: a youth, handsome and earnest, folds his
hands together, and out of the clouds, a friendly, loving,
sorrowful countenance looks down upon her. Luxuriant roses signal
from the beautiful shore, and form a rare contrast to the
lurking, green-haired water-fairies who swim under the mirror of
the water in scarcely defined outlines, and seem to pull the
frail boat forward. The maiden, it is plain, goes hence on a
dangerous journey; but a tender, shimmering cloud-figure,
doubtless the ever young Hegemone, hovers near her, and by
solicitous glance and imploring gesture, seems to express
admonition and prayer. Whether the mariner shall be saved by the
grace of this guardian angel, or fall by the wiles of the waiting
fairies, is the question with which the gazer unwillingly leaves
the charming picture to turn to its companion piece.
"In the picture which we now consider, the principal figure is a
young man with walking-staff and travelling-bag, who passes
rapidly away from the narrow doorway of a house, and steps out
boldly on the broad highway. He breathes freely, and an earnest
satisfaction speaks from his eyes. Joyfully starting out to meet
life, he takes notice neither of the noble matron who would hold
him back, nor of the affectionate maiden who longingly extends
her hands to him, nor of the faithful dog that, although fastened
by the chain, nevertheless raises himself entreatingly. From the
windows of an inn may be seen a waiter, standing at a counting
table and swinging his hat: a Jew stands in the way and holds out
a paper, which the wanderer refuses: at the well in the
foreground a thoughtless maid nods saucily and piquantly to the
youth; and so far the picture represents a gay scene, a little
saddened by the quiet grief in the background; but, before the
wanderer, who looks carelessly around, gapes an abyss, in which
is suspended a frightful dead body, with a severe but honest
countenance. Its eyes are shut, but it raises the right hand
warningly toward the approaching youth, while the left rests on
the breast in quiet consciousness.
"And so," continued the narrator, "the picture is finished."
A short silence reigned in the company. The king rested gloomily
in his chair; while the queen, on whom the affectionate daughters
were leaning, at length replied:
"The picture is finished, and we have an obscure allegory, to
find the key to which will not be difficult. Man and woman going
from the narrow home-circle to enter upon life, leaving behind
them the sheltering paternal roof, and the innocent joys of
childhood; the youthful desire to toss upon tempestuous waters,
or to journey on the parched highway; these are--or my feeling
must be very much at fault--the subjects which the poetical
painter wishes to represent."
"Your majesty's penetration is equal to the solution of the most
obscure enigma," replied the count; "but in the attractive double
picture lies still more, if one leave not out of notice that it
is surrounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots; that the mariner
wears these flowers in her hair, and the wanderer on his bosom.
{641}
The artist thought to give the signification of the harmless
little flower, and how well he has succeeded in painting its
characteristics. The departing is for those remaining behind a
forget-me-not; but even these who remain on the spot which the
loved one leaves, desire to impress their remembrance on the bird
of passage just as firmly. 'Forget me not!' call after her the
silver-haired father, the youthful friend, and the play
companions of the maiden. 'Forget me not!' whispers the glorified
mother out of the clouds, and the protecting spirit hovering over
the waters. Well for the mariner if she fail not to hear the
warning voice. Well for the youth, if the forget-me-not of the
mother, the bride, and the creditor, cling long to his heart: he
will return true and noble, scorning the temptations on the way
of life, and remembering the paternal honor, which, through the
dumb mouth of the dead body, calls to him 'Forget me not!'"
The queen rose hastily, nodded, as it seemed, overcome by tears,
to the narrator, leaned upon the arm of her daughter, and
apparently struggling to hide her emotion, left the room. The
king threw a disapproving glance after her, which finally met
that of the count, who stood transfixed in the middle of the
hall, without knowing how or why so peculiar a circumstance had
transpired.
The courtiers had fallen back and were whispering among
themselves.
"Will your majesty condescend to point out to me whether any
indiscretion of mine has caused the present event, or whether it
may be attributed to an unfortunate coincidence," said the count
timidly. Instead of answering, the ruler gave those standing
around the signal of departure, and commanded the count to
remain. Being called nearer, and permitted to sit opposite the
king, he waited impatiently for the discourse which his commander
should direct to him.
"Your ignorance is excused," commenced the latter, in his usual
short manner of speaking, "but the queen is unpleasantly affected
by the name Forget-me-not. It is an old wound that has to-day
been opened afresh, and hence the strange scene. It is, perhaps,
nineteen years since I undertook the rule of this state. The care
of it called me into the field against the enemy formed by the
exiled royal family. I was but just married. In order to acquaint
my aged father-in-law with the fortunate result of a battle, I
sent to the capital a young ordnance officer. He returned to the
camp at the time designated, but at the same time came secret
dispatches from my zealous agents, who noted the disposition of
the people, and kept guard on the actions of the crown-princess,
my wife. The ordnance officer, who had long loved my wife in
secret, had, in special audience, received from her hands, a
bouquet of forget-me-nots. My jealousy knew no bounds. In the
next tournament, the officer found his death, and--as it is
said--on his breast lay the fatal flowers. After I had returned
as victor, it became clear that my wife had intended this present
for me, and that she was unacquainted with the feelings of the
unsafe messenger who had retained for himself the love-gift of a
queen. But now it was too late. Mother and sister mourned on his
grave, and the tender heart of my wife was so shocked by such a
catastrophe that even to-day, after so many years, her grief has
again been manifested." The king was silent, and leaned his head
on his hand. The count, overcome by the unusual confidence of his
sovereign, and feeling himself inadequate to console, did not
venture to reply.
{642}
The king, instead of dismissing him, remained in troubled
thought, while a bitter smile played around his mouth. "Finally,"
he continued, "my position at that time was difficult. My zealous
temperament was bent on vanquishing the obstacles in the way of
my successful career. My motto was, 'Onward!' The people were
dissatisfied that a man not of royal descent should have the
audacity to claim the crown. I had, by force of arms, held the
old king on his throne, banished the pretenders, and rescued the
people, the property, and the church. I had shown that no one
understood better how to readjust the disorganized affairs of
state; but when the eyes of the old man closed, and I seized the
sceptre, according to agreement, then arose a cry of
consternation. The fools had believed that I would give the house
which I had built up to the alienated Merovingians, and myself be
satisfied with the position of major-domo. A conspiracy was
formed. You remember that the flower forget-me-not passed for the
symbol of rebellion. The faction of the refugees have not yet
forgotten the day on which I gave the command which the times
demanded. The first name which met me upon the list of those
seized was Albo. The family of that officer bore this name. I
knew that the baroness had hated me irreconcilably since the
death of her son; that her daughter hated me not less, and that a
determined ally of the exiles was about to offer his hand to the
latter. Now burst the bombshell. In the house of Albo were said
to have been held meetings. The baroness was said to have sworn
to give her daughter to the one among her countless suitors who
would take the most prominent part in my overthrow. My sternness
passed the sentence of death upon the women; but the entreaties
of my wife to whom it had been represented that the accusations
which had been heaped upon the mother and daughter were only the
work of envy and private hatred--disarmed my sentence. I banished
the women, and confiscated their property. The bridegroom died in
prison; and so the fate of that family was mournfully fulfilled."
The king then continued in a monotonous tone: "I will not deny
that later I have thought of these poor women who must wander in
exile, with a certain unwilling pity, and that still later I made
inquiries concerning them. No trace of them could be found. But I
see that I have allowed myself to say more than is customary for
me. We will pass to something else. Who is the painter who
executed the picture of which you have spoken?"
"Sire," replied the count, "I do not know. He cannot, however, be
unknown to the inspector of the gallery. I know only that he is
not one of your majesty's subjects, and that he begged permission
to exhibit the double picture for a few days. For the present he
remains in the capital."
"Yes, yes," replied the king; "no one but Cremati can have
created this picture; his power alone manifests itself in such
allegorical compositions; and the allusion to the
forget-me-not--yes, yes, watchful man we will make peace, and thy
pride of art shall melt in the sunshine of my favor. I wish to
see the painter, count. You will take pains to bring him here. He
will not willingly obey, but an autographic command shall place
all authority at your disposal. Depart as early as possible, and
the day after to-morrow I shall expect to see the painter. Good
night, count!"
{643}
The count departed, and the king retreated to his cabinet. After
a few fruitless struggles, he overcame the melancholy which
clouded his soul, and went to the table, on which lay in great
numbers the reports and dispatches just brought in by the
courier. He sought impatiently among the letters for one, which
when found, he broke with anxiously suspended breath; but after
the first line, the restless expectation vanished from his
features; cheerfulness spread over them, and with a light "Good,
good!" he took up the silver candlestick, impatient to share his
satisfaction, and opened the tapestry door which led into the
corridor connecting his rooms with the queen's. As he approached
the door, he heard voices, and upon entering found the queen
sitting in an arm-chair, and leaning, in pleasant resignation,
upon Eliza's shoulder. At their feet, on an ottoman, sat Sophia,
the younger princess, resting her smiling face on the mother's
lap. The beautiful family picture charmed the king, and he
commanded the ladies, who would have risen in his honor, to
remain in their positions. The group remained, but the former
spirit was gone; and the king himself, after a few moments'
thought, broke the restraint.
"I forgot," he said, as he gave his daughters a sign to leave
their places, "I forgot that my wish serves only to govern the
_actions_ of my family, but cannot charm away a grief. I
cannot approve of the tears which I see in your eyes, madame. You
have given to the court a spectacle, the cause of which is too
antiquated to render it any longer excusable, and too unimportant
to have been entrusted to your daughters, as I must imagine has
been done."
"You err, sire!" replied the queen, drying the last traces of
tears from her eyes; "the tenderness, not the curiosity of my
daughters has comforted me."
The princesses kissed the queen's hands caressingly, and the king
replied:
"Right; that I must commend; and to prove that it pleases me to
give pleasure, I will confide to you what gladdens my heart and
somewhat lightens my paternal cares. This letter from my
ambassador in a neighboring kingdom makes the heavens look
joyful. The dissensions which have for so long a time threatened
to separate that country and mine, are peacefully settled, and I
hope to see soon at my court an ambassador with instructions to
sue for Eliza's hand. So I have finally succeeded in entering
fully into the band of sovereigns. The fortunate soldier is
forgotten, and hereafter kings will speak to a king, and make
room in their ranks for him whom fortune raised to their level.
My name and the remembrance of my deeds will not pass away with
my body. If I am blessed with no son, my grandchildren will wear
my crown, and enjoy the fruits of my labors."
The queen gave him her hand softly, and spoke:
"May fortune still further attend you, gracious sire. Your wife
willingly submits to your wisdom, and your daughters will fulfil
the duties which your position imposes upon them."
"Have you not taught me early, beloved mother, that renunciation
and offering is our destiny?" said Eliza calmly, but sighing
softly. "I will obey my royal father without objection, without
complaint, if--"
"If the prince do not disappoint the ideal that a maiden's heart
is accustomed to create," said the king, "Be without fear, my
daughter; the prince is renowned as a second Bayard, whose
bravery goes hand in hand with the most pleasant courtesy.
{644}
He is not remarkably beautiful, as I understand, but moderately
so, and possesses all those brilliant accomplishments which
pertain to a royal education. At least you will be able to boast
of a better suitor than your mother, whom I, having neither the
advantage of beauty nor of birth, and grown up in the rough
customs of the camp, won by the power of my sword, to the
astonishment of her father. The brazen age ruled in the land
then, and my sword must cut out for your grandfather the royal
robe that he had taken from his cousins, as the people demanded.
But with your marriage, daughter Eliza, shall begin the golden
age. I will give _fêtes_, and the world shall wonder before
my splendor as it has before my renown. This old Frankish
building shall put on a festival dress, and gleam with gay
pictures as for a carnival. Cremato comes again, and his brush
shall prove worthy of my generosity."
"Cremato!" repeated the queen wonderingly; "Cremato," cried the
princesses together, as they recalled the wonderful, sprightly
Italian, who had many times appeared at the court like a flying
shadow, and as quickly disappeared; and who did not fear to
express the strongest criticisms on the drawings of the royal
children, but from whom the little students learned more in a
quarter of an hour--when he sometimes condescended to
instruct--than from their well-paid court teacher in months. The
queen thought proper to send the curious princesses to their
apartments, a command that was quietly obeyed.
"What will Cremato here?" she asked her husband who, sunken in
plans for the brilliant future, walked silently back and forward.
"His name wakes only sorrowful recollections. Is there a new
conspiracy to denounce? Shall blood flow again? Shall the
innocent again wander in misery? Speak, my husband! Why shall the
terrible accuser, who has the misery of thousands on his soul,
return?"
"Woman condemns as quickly and as thoughtlessly as she excuses,"
replied the king earnestly. "Cremato, having by accident become
acquainted with the first threads of the conspiracy, fulfilled
the duty of a brave citizen in disclosing them. Cremato owed this
service to the land and the prince who then gave him protection
and security. The most indifferent stranger would have been to
that extent under moral obligations. Cremato rescued _thy_
throne through his denunciation. Neither for this favor nor the
disinterestedness which refused every reward does he deserve the
unthankfulness which thy mouth has spoken against him. It is true
that many persons fell, but the pressure of necessity absolutely
demanded them. Therefore, no word more about it! For all I have
done--except one--I will answer before Him who judges the most
powerful."
"And must this one example of vengeance work on for ever? Thy
suspicious jealousy drove poor Albo to a certain death; and
still, after my innocence was manifest, must make his family the
offering of an ever insatiate revenge. Cremato's accusation--"
"Not so," replied the king, with vexation. "The guilt of the
women came to my ear from another source. A report was spread
that Albo was sacrificed ... enough; the mother breathed
vengeance, and for this the law demanded her life. I was gracious
still!"
{645}
"Fearful grace," cried the queen, "which drove the unfortunate
from their home and the graves of their dead, to wander in
poverty and misery in a strange land. That was not what I asked
when I prayed for mercy for the innocent. That was not what they
expected when they sent petitions to thy throne to recall the
sentence, and to allow them to return to their native land, even
if it must be in poverty and want."
"A ruler does not play with law and verdict like the conjurer
with a snake," spoke the king sharply. "The women who were
thirsting for revenge could not be allowed to come back at that
time: they cannot now: nevermore. And you, madame, might better
let the dead rest. Your feelings lead you to a false conclusion.
The gift of a few flowers caused the death of the thoughtless
Albo. Your tears for that are shed in vain. The youth's destiny
and my passion bear all the blame. You are free from all
responsibility. Do not disturb yourself longer with frightful
fancies. Leave the burden to my conscience. Admonishing to
repentance is of no use, and only embitters. Such attempts it
was, madame, that drove from my side the painter Cremato, to whom
I had given my confidence. He did not accuse Albo's family, as
you falsely believe; he defended them only too boldly. He took
the liberty to speak to my conscience--to play the Massillon to
me. I am tolerant only to a certain extent, and for nine years he
has avoided the court, at which he so often appeared and went
like a bird of passage."
"I did not know the man as you have painted him to me, sire,"
said the queen, only half convinced. "My heart shudders before
extreme punishment and severe retribution, therefore I trembled
before the informer who called forth both at that time. You say
he comes again? Where has he lived, and how, until now?"
"I must explain," replied the king, "that I have no correct
account of this man's residence for some time. He was a person
worthy to be the friend of a king. I am not a chief of police. I
need to know nothing more. Had he any settled dwelling-place? I
do not know. In my dominions he has only wandered back and forth
since that time. But, so much as I desire to see him again, I do
not know whether I should not rather dread the meeting, as for
many years I preserve his remembrance in fear."
"Fear!" asked the queen, with wondering eyes; "does the hero, my
husband, know the possibility of fear?"
"The heart of iron trembles before the Eternal Judge, even when
he speaks through the fearless tongue of a human being," answered
the king, with anxiety depicted on his countenance. "Cremato's
last words might convince thee, my guileless wife! He pleaded
with impetuous eloquence for Albo's sentenced family; painted
their suffering, that they must die far from the land that bore
them, and asked their recall in the name of humanity. I refused.
"'Well!' spoke then the peculiar man, coldly and threateningly to
me. 'I desist from further attempts to move the cold heart of the
conqueror. Fortune's son no longer recognizes the unfortunate.
But, from now on, another shall speak to him in my stead. Albo's
fall, and the accompanying circumstances, are no secret, and my
brush shall immortalize the unfortunate. His picture, in the pale
mask of death--his picture--the herald of bloody tyranny, be my
next work, and the recollection that I leave to you, sire.
{646}
Take it as my legacy; and as often as an injustice or cruelty
comes into your soul, or on your lips, so often may this pale
face, swaying on black ground, stand before your eyes. May it
serve to moderate your vengeance: may it be to presumption a
reminder of annihilation: may it sharpen the penitence of your
conscience.' He went, but the sting of his words remained with me
from that hour. My self-consciousness turned, thousands and
thousands of times, back to the terrible picture which he had
left to torture me. Many times, as my dreaming thoughts wandered
over my battle-fields, arose, from all the bodies only this one
giant countenance, ghost-like, before me. Often, when overcome by
the weariness of business, I rested upon a chair, I have seen on
the wall the promised picture--like to the old countenances of
Christ, which swung on a black ground without neck or robe--
frightfully and threateningly coming nearer, as a phantasmagoric
image."
"Stop!" cried the queen, in terror, for, in addition to the shock
which the reference to Albo had given her, the countenance of her
husband had, while he had been speaking, become like that of a
ghost, and his voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. "The dreadful
Cremato," continued she, "has he kept his word? How long has the
unholy gift been in your hands? and have you destroyed it?"
The king shook his head. "I have never seen the painting," he
answered. "Cremato has not kept his word; but I feel--I know
certainly--that the picture is ended; that it exists, and that,
if it came into my hands, the strength to destroy it would fail
me; but look upon it I could not, for my fancy has already
created it to break my heart. Countless sentences has it
mitigated, countless misfortunes arrested; for, whenever I have
taken the pen or opened the mouth to decide over the life,
happiness, or honor of any subject, I saw him--I saw Cremato's
dreadful work opposite me."
The king stopped suddenly, took a few thoughtful steps through
the room, and went out; but the overpowering feeling which the
disclosure of the long-kept secret had aroused in him, prevented
the monarch's enjoying his rest. He left his couch, opened the
window, and looked out into the still, cool summer night. The
trees of the grove whispered, while here and there a drop,
condensed from the moist air, fell sounding from leaf to leaf,
and from the distance came an indistinct harmony, disturbing the
song of the nightingale. As the listener's ear became accustomed
to the rustling of the forest, the distant sounds became more
distinct and figured themselves into a song that the king
recognized, while it recalled a sweet tide of youthful
recollections. The past, lying far back behind the confusion of
endless wars, behind the tumultuous years of ambition and seeking
for glory, worked its nameless magic on his soul. He saw himself
again a boy on the rocks of the Mediterranean sea; he heard again
as then--with never-ending satisfaction, the melodious song of
the fishermen as they rowed out in the golden gleaming of the
morning red, on in the rosy shimmer of evening when returning
into secure harbors and the peace of their homes.
O sanctissima,
O piissima
Dulcis Virgo Maria!
Mater amata,
Intemerata,
Ora pro nobis!
{647}
But now it was no longer the strong tenor voices of the south,
but two sweet female voices, so low and melodious, that rest and
peace came back to him, and turning to his couch, he murmured
softly:
"Holy, blessed fatherland. The rolling fates have taken me from
thy lap to fasten me in a strange land, with a strange crown, but
with blessings I think of thee; and blessed, thrice blessed,
may'st thou be, O my loved fatherland, my sweet home!"
......
"That is not Cremato," spoke the king, as the count, according to
the command, presented the modest painter, a slender, handsome
youth, scarcely arrived at manhood.
"I am called Guido, sire!" answered he fearlessly.
"Guido was always a fortunate name for one of your art," replied
the king, as he dismissed the count. "I have heard good of you.
Have you brought with you the picture of which the count has
spoken?"
"No, sire," said the painter; "a liberal connoisseur had bought
it and taken it away, before the command of your majesty reached
me."
"What a misfortune!" said the king condescendingly. "I am a
patron of art, and desire to employ your brush."
"I am sorry," replied Guido, "that I have no specimen of my poor
talent to show to your majesty. But I have brought with me a work
which I hope will obtain your favor, sire. I was on my way to
your court, and have Cremato's masterpiece to give to your
majesty."
The king became pale at these words. He looked at the painter
piercingly, but as he received the glance without restraint,
questioned him further.
"Cremato! His last work? You, sir; perhaps his son?"
"His student, gracious sire! his student who buried him a few
months ago at Naples, and promised the dying man to bring the
picture to your majesty."
"Cremato dead!" sighed the king. "In him died a true artist, a
peculiar but noble man. I have never inquired further concerning
him. He was to me only a human being whom I could protect," added
he slowly. "The last sign of his independence! You have brought
it with you?"
"Yes, your majesty," replied Guido. "It stands in the anteroom. I
hasten to bring it."
"Yet a word," began the king disturbedly to the artist. "The
subject of the picture?"
"For me a secret," answered Guido. "The master worked on it with
closed door--embellished it with his own hands, and locked it in
the box. It stood long so, ready for departure. Cremato would
entrust it only to me, and said to me, on his dying-bed, that
only your majesty knew what that picture designated."
The king's countenance cleared, and he allowed that Guido should
bring the box, in which the picture was locked, into the room.
With a kind of grim horror, he refused to have it opened.
"Some other time," he said abruptly, "I will see if you are the
student of your teacher. Did Cremato leave relatives to whom I
can return the price of this masterpiece?"
"A mother and two daughters," replied Guido. "It is true, they
are not pressed by want, but from a painter's inheritance is
seldom left a surplus. Yet, do not pay for this gift in gold.
Weighty grounds compel them to remain in a foreign land, and they
wished to find a refuge in the kingdom that your majesty's wisdom
makes happy."
{648}
"To take care of Cremato's daughters shall be my work, but
perhaps his student has found his way to the heart of one of
them?"
Guido bowed blushingly and denied.
"I am already bound," said he, "but to take to them the hope of
your majesty's grace will be my first duty. They will soon thank
you in person." The king bowed and said:
"Let yourself be presented to the queen and look at the drawings
of my two young daughters. Cremato's pupil has certainly
inherited quickness in art from him. His spirit is in your eyes.
You please me."
He dismissed the joyful painter and turned toward the secret
picture. "It seems to me," he said to himself, "as if Albo's eyes
looked through the wood in order to wound me. Angry friend! On
thy death-bed, hast thou after so many years kept thy pledge and
made the shade of the murdered one at home in my court? When will
I obtain the strength to look at thy earnest work? To look at it!
Never! I think I should die from the glance. I will never see it.
I know it already too well. Away with it!"
With his own hands he set the box away behind the heavy silken
curtain that fell down in long folds before a window. Then he
threw himself into an arm-chair and asked himself, "How is it
possible that one single deed performed in unjust revenge must
perpetually swing its whip over my wounded heart? The fields
which my battles have enriched with blood, the scaffolds which
have been erected in the course of time--these disappear when my
eyes look into the past; but Albo's grave lies ever open before
them."
......
It had become late in the evening. Government cares occupied the
king. He had worked with his counsellors. The reception room was
deserted; but the tapers still burned in the rooms of the queen.
The Princess Sophia, overcome by weariness, had gone to her room.
The more beautiful sister kept her mother company. She endured
impatiently the reading of the governess. An indescribable unrest
spoke in every movement of the beautiful maid. Her eyes rambled
from the ceiling to the walls, then looked fixedly down at the
floor. The light work with which she employed herself did not
increase in her hands, and dropped, finally, entirely from them.
With growing unrest she changed her place a few times and started
when the clock struck the departure of another hour.
The queen, a careful, loving mother, delayed not to notice this
unusual behavior, and herself becoming anxious, took advantage of
the first suitable pause which came in the reading, and released
the lady from further duty for the evening. Mother and daughter
remained alone.
"Please do me the favor to play something on the harp," said the
mother to Eliza. "The instrument that I once played so readily
will not do duty under my neglectful fingers. Quick young fingers
succeed better in bringing feeling out of its strings. Play, my
child; I need the enlivening."
Eliza obeyed. Her tender fingers glided over the strings in
prelude. But the affectionate performer could not long hold the
measured run of the selected piece. The restless, trembling
spirit betrayed itself in the rising and falling tones. Andante
became presto, and presently broke out into a striking
dissonance.
"Forgive me, mother," cried the princess, springing up. "I cannot
play any longer. My heart will break that I have since morning
kept something secret, and secrecy must not be between you and
me."
{649}
"It shall not," replied the mother, calmly, "because thy own
feelings lead thee to confide."
The princess came closer to the mother, and related that in the
morning, in her sister's room, almost under the eyes of Aja,
while the strange painter was looking over Sophia's crayon
sketches, a paper was dropped into her hands, on which she, with
astonishment, read the words, 'Most gracious princess! Doubtless
your heart is what your lovely features speak, noble, tender,
gracious, and charitable. Oh! will you plead for the unfortunates
who are hidden by Hergereita in the forest, and wait for a gleam
of hope? Hear their prayer. Interest your elevated mother in this
work of love. Protect the most humble from the anger of your
father.' These strange, entreating words," continued the
princess, "took possession of my heart. The painter must have
placed the paper in my hands. My searching glance read in his the
answer, 'Yes.' I should, perhaps, have scorned the boldness; but
his entreating glance disarmed me. I could not shame him before
my sister and the instructress. I concealed the paper, and this
afternoon my devoted maid has spoken to Hergereita, and found an
old, troubled-looking woman and two beautiful young girls, and,
at my command, requested them to be in my room at eleven o'clock
to hear how I can be useful to them. I should have liked to hear
what the grieving ones wanted before speaking to you of them,
dearest mother, but my unrest has betrayed me, and so, if you
allow, I will bring the petitioners immediately before you."
"Thou hast done rightly, my daughter," said the queen, kissing
Eliza's brow. "Thy trust excuses the censurable indiscretion of
taking a paper from a stranger's hand. We will together find out
what the circumstances of the strangers are, and deal with the
young artist according to the truthfulness of his
representation."
"The maid of her royal highness waits in the ante-room," said a
maid to the queen.
Eliza blushed.
"The pointer stands on the eleventh hour," whispered she. "The
petitioners are certainly already in attendance, and, if you will
allow it, I will command that they be conducted here."
The queen consented. The princess gave the necessary command, and
in a short time a lady, dressed in mourning, entered the room.
She seemed astonished at finding herself in the presence of the
queen; but this circumstance failed to deprive her of the
security of carriage which immediately betrayed her acquaintance
with life of the highest stand, although her dress belonged to a
time long past. Her noble, expressive countenance betrayed her
great age, but the firm, erect gait almost denied the white hairs
which spread out thinly under the black veil. With the usual bow,
the matron approached the queen, kissed, before she could prevent
it, the hem of her robe, then arose, and spoke with a voice
filled with emotion:
"Your majesty sees before you a woman who has had the misfortune
to become gray under sorrow, and older than her years would
speak. Unjust fate has finally overcome my pride, and now when I
have lost all except two hearts which love me, I pray only for
the favor to be allowed to die within the borders of this
kingdom. The making of a new throne could not so rejoice your
illustrious husband as a grave in this land would rejoice me."
{650}
"Madame," replied the queen, astonished and overcome by the weary
sadness in the suppliant's voice, "before you speak further, who
are you Your name?"
At this moment the tapestry door opened, through which the king
was accustomed to enter, and the monarch appeared suddenly before
the women. The queen and Eliza were silent in terror. The
stranger looked him fearlessly in the eyes. His wrathful look
fell only on her. With a curious mixture of hardness,
astonishment, and anger, he finally broke out into the words:
"Whom do I see here? What is passing here? How did you come into
this room, Frau von Albo?"
"Albo!" cried the queen, and threw herself upon the arm of her
trembling daughter.
"You have not forgotten me, sire!" answered the lady, earnestly
and firmly. "For many years I have been unaccustomed to this
name, and just here where it is proscribed I hear it again. Your
presence, sire, decides my fate, which I would have intrusted to
friendly hands. Unjustly banished from your state, I know only
too well that I stand before you now as a criminal. I have
stepped over the ban, and death is my fate. Dispose of this gray
head as you will, only protect my grand-daughters, my king! Their
mother has departed. They do not bear the hated name of Albo. Let
them live in the home of their mother, to plant flowers on mine
and their uncle's grave."
For a long time the king made no reply, but his expression was
dark and menacing.
"I am no tyrant who thirsts for your blood," said he finally,
"but guilty you are. I must know how all this has come about."
Eliza threw herself at her father's feet, and related to him what
had happened.
"Guido!" replied the king, and pulled the bell, "this
presumptuous stranger shall answer to me on the spot."
The servant, who had come, was ordered to bring the painter
immediately into the royal presence. The lady appeared to hear
nothing of all that was passing. Her eyes raised toward heaven
and her lips moving as if in prayer, she stood there as if
separated from her surroundings and belonging to another world.
The queen spoke conciliatingly to her husband, but his features
remained hard and dark.
"Must pictures of a miserable past swing for ever before me?"
murmured he. "Must death resign the booty long due him in order
to torment me? And what could have induced you, Frau von Albo,
now that you are on the verge of the grave, and have lived so
long away, to put yourself into such a position?"
"Age makes me a child again," replied the baroness quietly. "I
was miserable in the strange land; I must, even at the price of
my life, see once again the spot which bore me. It remains my
fatherland, in whose bosom my bones would gladly rest near those
of my son."
"O sanctissima!" sang the two angel voices through the forest,
and the tones came through the open window, and the king thought
again of his fatherland, and sighed deeply.
At that moment the painter Guido entered, quickly and boldly.
"Your command, your majesty," said he. The baroness interrupted
him with the words, "I have lost my play, most gracious prince,
and I commend to you the orphans whom I must leave."
"That will God and the brave king's magnanimity not allow,"
replied the betrayed, and went reverently to the royal pair.
{651}
"I am Prince Julius," said he. "I wished to convince myself,
without being recognized, whether the soul of the beautiful
princess, whose hand I wish to gain, were like her rare charms.
My hope has not deceived me, and my confidence in your majesty's
grace will surely be justified to the favor of the two innocent
suppliants whom I recommend to your mercy."
The queen bowed pleasantly to the prince. Eliza, overcome by
delighted surprise, clung bashfully to her mother. The king
reached his hand to the prince and spoke with light reproach.
...
"The young hero, who is so welcome to my court, had no need of
dissimulation in order to call out my justice. His word alone"
....
"Sire!" The prince interrupted him, "I flattered myself that the
circumstances themselves would speak to the heart of the wisest
of kings more than any word of the undistinguished man who would
consider himself happy if the ruler whom he so admires would
allow him to become his student and belong to his family."
The ambition of the king was so flattered by these words from a
descendant of an old royal family that he, with joyful pride, led
the exultant Julius to Eliza, with the words, "My prince, your
bride." Turning toward the baroness, he spoke, "You have placed
yourself under the protection of the queen. I will not have seen
you, but a woman who conspires against me I will not endure in my
kingdom. Go back. An amount sufficient to meet your expenses
shall show that I do not allow private vengence to work against
you--I cannot do more."
"Away from the home!" cried Frau von Albo sorrowfully; "no, no,
never! Be merciful, your majesty! I have never plotted against
you. The mother's heart commanded itself. I have never cursed
you. The calumniation of your dead chancellor ruined me and
chased me into banishment, and still I have never cursed you.
Therefore show mercy. Do not keep an old woman in doubt. My
daughter found her grave in the waves. I cannot seek it out to
die on it. The grave-mound of my son is in this land. I cannot
leave it again. Keep the gift of your graciousness, sire! Keep
the property which was unjustly taken from us. Take my life. Take
the last treasure, the legacy of my son; only let me finish my
days here where I was born." In the outburst of feeling, the
baroness had pulled a letter from her bosom, and with trembling
hands handed it to the king. A few withered forget-me-nots,
sprinkled with drops of blood, fell out on the floor. The king
and queen stood trembling, and "O sanctissima!" sounded anew,
blessing and entreating, through the silent grove.
"Whence these wonderfully entrancing tones of home?" asked the
king quickly.
"Cremato's daughters it is," answered Prince Julius, "and here
stands his mother. Albo's sister was Cremato's wife, and, shortly
before his death, perished on a pleasure excursion near the
coast. Grief for her loss hastened his death, and his family, to
whom your majesty to-day promised your protection, pray for a
home in their fatherland. Shall they pray in vain?"
"Cremato the husband of your daughter?" asked the king,
astonished. "Riddles multiply."
{652}
"In our humiliation and poverty in a foreign land, the strange
man found us," answered the lady. "Less love than the warmest
thankfulness which we owed gave him my daughter. God bless the
noble man!" "God bless him!" said Julius quickly. "He was nobler
than even his family knew. I was his student. To me he disclosed
himself. His conscience had compelled him to discover that plot.
His feelings tortured him when he discovered that Albo's innocent
family had, through calumniation, become entangled in the
terrible affair. Unable to disarm the anger of the insulted
monarch, he sought untiringly the helpless family; found them,
and compelled himself to take the yoke of marriage in order to
become the protector of those whom he had undesignedly and
unknowingly driven into ruin. The noble man kept his relations
secret from the king, and left his court after he had proved that
the hatred against the name of Albo was ineradicable. The king
had never discovered that Cremato was his countryman. On his
death-bed he confided to me his family and that picture which I
have never seen. A picture which I finished after Cremato's plan,
and had exhibited, attracted the notice of the lord chamberlain,
and brought me here more quickly. Cremato's remembrance; that
fatherland song that Cremato had taught his children; the sight
of this worthy matron, of the noble queen, and your angel
daughter's entreaties, shall finally move the heart of the king;
and if I see rightly, if these be really tears which fill the
eyes of the most noble-hearted monarch, then has my plan
succeeded, and this night makes three happy."
The king was silent, struggling with his emotion. All eyes were
fixed on him.
"Take up the flowers," said he. Then, deeply moved, to Albo's
mother: "I am not able to give you anything more precious, even
when I return to you all the property that you have lost. Albo's,
Cremato's mother, be greeted! forget as I forget. The few days
that remain to you shall be peaceful, and your granddaughters
shall be my care."
"Most noble king!" cried Julius, and fell on his breast. Wife and
daughter embraced him. The baroness folded her hands and prayed.
... "Oh! see, my Albo, how he redeems the past! Oh! forgive him,
the repentant, as I forgive him!"
As the king freed himself from this embrace, two beautiful
maidens lay at his feet and moistened his hands with their tears.
They were Cremato's daughters. "O sanctissima!" he sighed, and
softly left the room to hide his tears.
The monarch kept his word, and peace reigned in his kingdom. But
Cremato's picture he ventured not to look upon, and for long
years it stood locked behind that curtain. The baroness had long
since slept in her grave, and her granddaughters were happy
mothers by their own firesides.
A host of blooming grandchildren, Eliza's and Sophia's sons, had
made the king himself a grandfather. Then death came upon him
slowly, and warned him to quit the stage of life. Joyfully he
made himself ready, and willingly allowed the crown, so valueless
to the dying, to glide from his hands. Satisfied with life, and
resigned to death, he asked calmly to see Cremato's picture. "I
am strong," he said to the weeping wife, the only one entrusted
with that secret. "Myself in the arms of death, the countenance
of the dead will no longer terrify me." The cover fell;
courageously the king threw his glance upon the glowing
background, and the light of transfiguration came over his face.
"It was no ghastly figure of death. A cherub, beaming in heavenly
light and glory, nodded from the clouds. Ethereally beautified,
Albo's features smiled upon him; the right hand of the angel
pointed above, and the left reached out conciliatingly the wreath
of forget-me-nots, taken from the golden hair.
The work of the noble painter, a sign of his love for man and his
trust in God, transformed the last struggle of the monarch to the
gentlest peace.
"Cremato! Albo!" stammered he, going smilingly. "Wife! Children!
My people! farewell! and thou, my fatherland, Forget me not!"
--------
{653}
"Couture's Book."
Perhaps it would have been more according to rule to have headed
this article, "Painting-Room Method and Conversations," which is
the title the author gives his work. But as it is invariably
spoken of and thought of as "Couture's Book," I have but followed
in the wake of others. The fact is, this is no regular book; it
is but a series of printed talks, so characteristic, so entirely
stamped with the individuality of the writer, that those who know
him recognize his peculiar expressions, his eccentricities of
manner, and almost seem to see his familiar gestures through its
pages. Therefore it seems perfectly natural to call it "Couture's
Book."
Couture, as all those well know who are at all familiar with
modern French art, is one of those who has done most to raise and
invigorate it. His great picture, the Roman Orgie, is in the
principal room of the Luxembourg, of which it is one of the
greatest ornaments. It is not my province to criticise him as an
artist; others, far more capable, have given a favorable verdict
long since. My purpose is to speak of his book, and to say
something of the author personally, as the best means of
understanding it.
In his tenth chapter, M. Couture gives us an interesting glimpse
of his early days, and of the gradual development of his powers.
All through life, one of his most striking characteristics seems
to have been his utter inability to learn by rule; as a child, he
was looked upon as almost a dunce, and his elder brother, who, as
he expresses it, was "nibbling at Latin," looked down upon him
from his height. From his earliest years, however, he had the
passion of reproduction. Before he understood the use of pencils,
he would cut out, with his mother's scissors, the outlines of all
he saw. Later, he became painter-in-ordinary to all the boys of
the neighborhood, and, by the help of the little men and women he
drew and painted, became rich in tops and marbles. But, when his
father, a man of remarkable intelligence for his station in life,
placed him with a drawing-master, the "petit Thomas" could do
nothing; he did not understand his master's instructions; he
could not copy the models placed before him; he longed for
nature, and for liberty to imitate just what struck his fancy.
The result was, that the drawing-master, after a few months'
trial, declared him to be wanting in capacity, and he was taken
away!
{654}
The child is father to the man, and all through life, the cause
of nearly all his trials and disappointments, and perhaps, too,
of his successes, has been this inability to subject himself to
established rules. He entered the _atelier_ of Gros, as
student, and fell sick with disappointment when, on a certain
occasion, spurred on by the master's encouragement and advice, he
produced what he calls a most pitiable failure; while, on the
other hand, several of his attempts--the unaided works of his
own inspiration--excited great admiration, and turned the public
attention on the young painter. Finally, he determined to
renounce master and rules, to trust to his own instinct, and to
turn to public opinion for judgment. He succeeded; the public
recognized and appreciated him. Nevertheless, this same disregard
for established criterions, for academic dignities, etc., has
proved the source of much annoyance to him; and, for some years
past, M. Couture has refused to exhibit, or to bring himself
forward in any way, as an artist. Abandoning himself to the joys
and cares of a happy home-circle, enjoying his modest fortune as
only a man who has known poverty, and has fought hard against it
for nearly thirty years can, he lets people say what they will of
him, and, with sturdy independence, works when he likes, and at
what he likes. Of course, all sorts of reports circulate about
him, and I have been told more than once, "Oh! as for Couture, he
is dead; he can produce nothing more."
Not long ago, an artist, a firm friend of M. Couture, took me to
see him. We were told by the _concierge_ that monsieur was
at home, _au premier, à droite_. So _au premier, à
droite_ we went; rang; the door was opened by a respectable
man-servant; but just behind him was an extraordinary looking
personage; it was M. Couture himself, who, with the curiosity of
a child, wanted to see who was there. Imagine a figure scarcely
five feet high, immensely fat--stout is not the word--with a red
scarf tied round the huge waist, the shirt-collar open,
untrammelled by any vestige of a cravat, and luxuriating in a
sort of loose woollen jacket. There he stood, shaking his
friend's hand, slapping him on the back, a hearty, kindly,
puffing, panting engine of humanity. When I heard him talk,
however, I forgot his unpoetic exterior; the flashing eye, the
wonderful power of mimickry, the modulating of the voice,
fascinated me. I have seen many good actors, but none who
possessed the art of bringing scenes, people, expressions, so
completely before one, as M. Couture. Everything he touches upon
becomes a picture, color and truth everywhere. This is eminently
the case with his book; he himself could only be taught through
pictures--brought to his mind by the colors of the painter, the
words of a writer, or the harmonies of the musician; through
pictures he instructs others.
But to return to my visit. We were hospitably dragged into his
den; a simple room joining the parlor, with no pretensions of
being a studio about it. There was a picture on the easel, casts
and drawings scattered around, an admirable portrait of his
father, for whom he had an unbounded admiration, and a charming
little flower-piece which was the bouquet he presented to his
wife on her birthday; a few flowers in a glass, nothing more, but
these few flowers, with the dewy softness and fragrance of nature
about them, revealed the master's hand to me, as clearly as the
more pretentious picture on which he was then working.
{655}
"You have read my book, they tell me?"
"Yes, M. Couture, and I admire it; for it is so simple, so easy
to be understood."
This seemed to please him.
But I find I have allowed myself to gossip on, and have not given
you as yet any of those foretastes of the book which I promised
myself should be the staple of this article. I want, by these
foretastes, to interest Americans in this work which, by the
simple wisdom of its maxims, the result of thirty years' work and
experience, is eminently fitted to be a guide to young artists.
Then, too, it is dedicated to America. M. Couture has a real
sympathy and admiration for our vigorous, ever-growing country.
Some of his favorite pupils were Americans, and of late years,
most of the pictures which have left his easel have been
purchased by our wealthy countrymen. I cannot resist the
temptation of telling you an anecdote _à propos_, which I
heard from a reliable source, and which is very characteristic:
A New York amateur went to M. Couture, and bespoke a picture. But
the artist was probably in a lazy mood, and the picture lagged.
Some friends of the New York gentleman warned him that it was
often years before Couture would finish a commission, as he never
worked unless the fancy took him.
"But," added one of them, "he is a strictly honorable man; attack
him from that point, and you will have your picture."
So the amateur, writing a very polite note to the artist,
enclosed the sum agreed upon as the price of the picture.
Before long, panting and puffing from the unusual exertion,
Couture rushed to the gentleman's apartments, exclaiming, as soon
as he could get breath:
"But you other Americans, you are a people of very singular
customs! Here; what for you send me the pay before you get the
picture?"
"O M. Couture! I have such perfect faith in your honor."
The artist stopped, seemed to think it over a few moments, then
exclaimed:
"You shall have it, your picture!"
Accordingly, shortly after, the picture was finished and
delivered.
In his original and clever introduction he says:
"I am an unlearned man; I know nothing; having had no
instruction, I feel that I can inspire sympathy, only by a
profound sincerity. Can a man, owing what he has only to his
battle of life, his observations, and the shreds of knowledge and
glimpses of books which came to him like real godsends, inspire
interest? I doubt it, and I am even pretty sure that many people
will find it preposterous that one should dare to write a book
without having gone though the necessary studies. To these
persons I will answer by my book itself wherein I try to prove
that in everything a simple, sincere expression of sentiment is
preferable to a learned expression thereof; for this plain
reason, that men, getting their instruction through books are apt
to forget, in the multiplicity of documents which absorb them,
the good and true road--nature; to such I will say, 'You have the
university on your side; well, as for me, I have my God, and do
not fear you.' ...
"It would be well, I think, to reassure the humble. Therefore, I
say, have faith in your soul; follow your God who is within you,
express what he inspires, and do not fear to oppose your divine
lights to the horrible Chinese lanterns of the university.
Enlighten and guide in your turn those who would restrain you by
ridicule.
{656}
"If you are a farmer, speak of the products of the earth; if you
are a business man, speak of that business which you understand;
if you are an artist, speak of your art. Do not fear the
inelegance of your language; it will always be excellent.
Whatever you may say, you who understand that of which you speak,
you can never express yourself more foolishly than those who make
an art of words. ...
"I compare myself, in my literary mishaps, to a man surprised in
a storm. He seeks a refuge to save the brightness of his boots;
but the hour of rendezvous is close at hand, and it still pours.
He makes a dash, keeping close to the houses; the rain redoubles
its fury, and he is glad to find shelter under a
_porte-cochère_. There he stoops and examines himself; his
boots have lost their lustre, his pantaloons are covered with
mud; a porter, companion of his misfortune, has wiped the load of
vegetables he carried, on his back. The irreproachableness of his
attire is gone; he need no longer protect it; he accepts his fate
bravely, and ceases to concern himself. He starts with a firm,
grave step, and, as a first success, obtains the admiration of
others less brave. Encouraged in his new resolution, he walks on
unheeding the water which rises above the ankle; he comes to a
torrent; he throws himself in without hesitation, and swimming,
reaches the other side; another step, and he pulls the doorbell.
The door opens. What a triumph! Misfortune has crowned him with
her poetic charms. He is surrounded, cared for, and soon finds
himself clad in comfortable clothes, with his feet in the host's
slippers; he enlivens the guests with the recital of his Odyssey.
"This is my portrait, dear reader; all bespattered with ink, I
come to ask you to take me in.
...
"Let us return now to that which has given me courage to write.
"I received my second lesson from the greatest writer of the age.
Madame George Sand was good enough to give me a seat in her box,
to hear the _Champi_. You know that in this charming play, a
young lover wants to speak too well to her he loves; he has
prepared his discourse with such care, and has so many fine
things to say, that, when the decisive moment comes, all his
ideas get inextricably mixed; the lover soon perceives that he is
talking very badly and that his defeat is owing to his unlucky
head; fortunately for him, however, his heart is on fire, and
will be heard; then he speaks as he feels, and you know if he
speaks well!"
So much for the introduction; now let us turn to the real object
of his book--artistic instruction. I am sure all those who have
felt the difficulties to be undergone by all beginners in art,
will feel grateful to M. Couture for the simple, concise way in
which he explains what the experience of many years has taught
him. They will observe how carefully he avoids any fine phrases
which seem to say much, and which in reality merely serve to
bewilder the student. Listen to what he says of
{657}
Elementary Drawing.
"What is to be done in order to draw well?
"Place yourself in front of the object to be represented; have
good tools, which must be kept neat and clean; look at what you
see with much greater attention than at your own reproduction of
it; keep--pardon my arithmetic--three quarters of an eye for the
model, and one quarter for the drawing.
"Commence your drawing from a first distance, compare those which
follow, making them subservient to the first.
"Establish either an imaginary or a real horizontal and
perpendicular line before the objects to be represented; this
means is an excellent guide which should always be adhered to.
"When, by slight indications, you have determined, established
your places, look at nature with your eyes half closed. This
manner of looking simplifies objects; details disappear; you then
perceive nothing but the great divisions of light and shade. Then
establish your masses; when these are correctly placed, open your
eyes completely, and add the details, but with great moderation.
"Establish what I call dominants for your lights and shades. Look
at your model attentively, and ask yourself which is its
strongest light, and place it on your drawing there, where it is
in nature; as, by this means you establish a dominant, you must
of course, not exceed it; all other lights must be subordinate to
it. The same thing must be said, the same calculation must be
made, for the shadows; rub in your strongest vigor, your most
intense black; then use it as a guide, a diapason, in order to
find the value of your different shadows and half-tints."
Nothing can be more to the point, more simple than this, and
surely M. Couture exemplifies what he says in his introduction:
that what is felt strongly, and understood clearly, will be
expressed with equal strength and clearness. He goes on to say
with regard to
Elementary Principles Of
Drawing From Nature.
"You will only be able to copy the mobile objects of nature, when
you are very certain of finding your places with rapidity; the
means are always the same, but their application is more
difficult. Therefore constant practice is necessary. A musician
would say to you, Scales, more scales! and I say to you, Draw,
draw incessantly! Draw from morning to night, in order to
exercise your eye, and to acquire a steady hand."
The practical part of his book, M. Couture enlivens and
illustrates by anecdotes taken from his own experience; these are
the pictures by which, principally, he seeks to convey
instruction. I will translate one of them for you:
"A young German entered my _atelier_ to perfect himself, as
he said, in his art; he made, as a beginning, a drawing which
showed much technical ability.
"I complimented him on his cleverness, but at the same time told
him that he had not copied his model faithfully, and that it
would give me great pleasure to see his talent dedicated to the
service of nature.
"'But indeed, sir,' said the young man, 'I assure you that I
copied with the greatest exactitude.'
"'You think so; did you look at your model very attentively?'
"'Yes, sir, I did.'
"'It may be so,' and while talking, I turned his drawing around.
'With whom did you study in Germany?'
"The conversation continued--then looking at the model who was
standing, I said to him:
"'That is a superb model of yours; beautiful form, fine color, is
it not so, what think you?'
"'Yes, sir.'
{658}
"'See now, how the light inundates the chest; evidently that is
the most luminous part of the body.'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Are you certain of it?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Then show me.'
"'See,' said he showing me the part where the light struck most
forcibly; 'it is evidently there, that the most brilliant spot is
found.'
"'I am willing to believe, and perceive with pleasure, that to a
skilful hand you join a sound judgment. Decidedly you have a
delicate perception of the value of light and shade; you will be
able to render me great services. Let us see now, which is the
most luminous point in your drawing.'
"Not seeing my purpose, he replied with great _naivete_ that
it was found on the knee.
"'It is not possible.'
"'Yes, sir; permit me to observe to you that if one were to
compare that light to the other lights of the drawing, this one
would be found to be decidedly the brightest.'
"'Very well, then; why is your light not placed as it is in
nature? You see very clearly that it is found on the chest, and
you put it on the knee; why not on the heel? And you will tell me
that you copy your model faithfully! You will allow me to tell
you that you have paid no attention to your differences of light.
... Very well; one may easily make mistakes;' and I once more
turned his drawing around. 'You have great painters in Germany.
Overbeck, Cornelius, Kaulbach, all have talent of a high order.
... Oh! just see how, at this moment, the model is well lighted;
what brightness; what vigor in the shadows! See that hair; it is
like velvet, and the shadows of the head, how transparent and
strong; it reminds one of Titian; do you not think so? the
crisping hair, matted; the blood rising to the head and the
throat; all this is splendid in color, and is of far greater
importance than all the rest. What think you? Suppose we turn
your drawing to see if you have rendered the effect we have just
been admiring. Let us see! Why, it is singular; you have
forgotten that too!'
"'Yes, sir. I see it now.'
"'You see your head is colorless, and gives the idea, of
papier-mache; you have the same fault in your shadows as in your
lights. ... In your work you compared nothing; absorbed by
details, you saw them only; drawing small parts, you forgot the
rest, and went on blindly.'
......
Occupations Of A Young Artist
Outside Of His Art.
"'You know it now; you are to draw morning, noon, and night; you
have to bedaub a great many canvases, to use up a great many
colors, and that for a long time. These exercises, these
gymnastics not being very fatiguing, you can make good use of
this period, to improve your mind with reading good books; the
old classics, and our French classics too, it is well to study.
But for you, artist, there are certain authors which I wish to
point out to you, and which you will find of great use. Homer,
Virgil, Shakespeare, Molière, Cervantes, Rousseau, Bernardin de
Sainte Pierre.
"In the first three, you will find grand lessons, useful to your
art. Homer gives us primitive simplicity; Virgil, rhythm;
Shakespeare, passion. Molière, too, will make you understand how
you may ally fine language, beauty of form, to the expression of
truth.
{659}
"Read a great deal; absorb much; you are young, you will find
digestion easy.
"Keep good company, and frequent especially the society of young
men already advanced in art.
"Above all, beware of wanting to appear more than you really are;
beware especially of using the sentiments of others, instead of
your own; there is ruin; there, is darkness. Dare to be yourself:
there is light. Be truly Christian; soften your heart; above all,
be humble; in the art of painting, humility is your greatest
strength.
......
"Being prepared by excellent reading, give your studies a good
direction. Be careful to avoid ugliness.
"You should always carry about with you a small sketch-book, and
dash in, with a few lines, the beauties which impress you; any
striking effects, natural poses, etc. Do not forget to make
yourself ant, bee; work indefatigably, and make for yourself, as
soon as possible, a treasure-house of abundance. Exercise
yourself early in composition, but always with elements gathered
from your own experience.
"Form the habit of absolute truth." ....
Notice how in the foregoing admirable passages, the author
inculcates the spirit of truth, as the fundamental principle of
all art. This has proved the secret of his own success; his
honest, child-like faith in nature, and his simple earnestness in
copying it, are noticeable in all his works. It would be well if
our young artists took this lesson to heart. We have talent in
our country, great talent even; but it has no stamp of
individuality; it imitates, it is half afraid of being original,
therefore it stops short of greatness. This perhaps is the case
with other things beside painting, and plausible excuses are to
be found for it; we are a young nation, composed of heterogeneous
elements; this is true, but we shall not thoroughly command the
respect of the nations, and take our proper place among them,
until, as they say of young folks, our character is more formed.
Then we shall see more earnest truthfulness in everything. Art
will take shape and consistency, and we shall hear people talk of
the American school as an established fact, like those of France,
Belgium, England, etc. This exposition year has naturally been
one of comparison. It is a grand thought to have all the schools
brought together, to compete for superiority. Our place in the
huge building is a small one, and though there are clever
pictures in the American art department, yet we shall have to
make immense progress, before we conquer a place by the side of
the French and Belgians. But our time will come, I feel
confident.
But I must interrupt my patriotic prophecies, and let you enjoy,
as I did, this anecdote of Béranger. I select it from others, for
I thought it would be interesting, both as giving an insight into
the artist's theory, and as affording a life-like glimpse of a
great poet. Couture relates it _à propos_ to his remarks on
portrait-painting; of the necessity under which the artist
labors, of being two men in one; of amusing, enlivening his
sitter, of bringing out his best expression, so that the light of
the inner man may shine through the features; and at the same
time of being the artist, watchful, eager, earnest, with his mind
intent on his work; catching the gleams of intelligence he
evokes, and transfixing them to the canvas.
There are but few who possess this quality.
{660}
Béranger.
"I was urged to paint a portrait of Béranger. This I did not care
to do. I had a great admiration for his talent and for his
character; I feared that seeing him, becoming acquainted with his
person, might lower the ideal I had formed of him. ...
"At last a charming letter from Madame Sand, which was to serve
as an introduction, decides me; I start, and soon find myself in
Rue d'Enfer.
"I ask the _concierge_ for M. Béranger. 'The right-hand
staircase, there, in the court.' I direct my steps toward said
staircase, ascend; before long I am stopped by a door; I. knock.
Shuffling steps are heard, an old man appears, wrapped in a gray
dressing-gown made of some common stuff.
"'M. Béranger?'
"'I am he.'
"While answering, he held his door tight, leaving but a small
opening.
"'What do you want?'
"It would have been easy to present my letter of introduction;
but I had had the evil thought to keep it. It was a precious
autograph, signed with a very celebrated name. In it, it is true,
I was judged in terms far too flattering, but one willingly
abides by such kindly exagerations. In it too, my favorite poet
was spoken of--the temptation was too strong to be resisted. I
began to expiate my fault; I stammered a few words; I showed the
paper and crayon which I had brought with which to make my
drawing, for it was necessary to add action to words, so hostile
was the aspect of the great man ... alas! my defeat was complete,
the door was closing. ...
"'No sir,' he said, 'it is disagreeable to me; there are many
portraits of me: among the number some are excellent; make use of
these portraits, and leave me in peace.'
"Once more the door seemed on the point of being shut; all was
lost.
"'Well, M. Béranger, I only get what I deserve, for I have been
guilty of a bad action; I was to have given you a letter; I kept
it. I thought, so great was my vanity, that I could present
myself without its aid, and commit this petty theft. I am
punished, and it is but just.'
"I turned to go, covered with confusion and shame; the door
opens.
"'What is your name?'
"I turned to answer him.
"'My name is Couture.'
"'You are not Couture who painted the _Décadence des
Romains!_'
"'Yes, sir.'
"I felt myself seized by my waistcoat, pulled in violently, then
I heard the terrible door close but this time I was inside,
pushed up against the wall of the entry.
"'You Couture? is it possible? you so young; why, what was I
about to do--I was going to shut the door in your face!'
"'It was already done, M. Béranger.'
"'But don't you know that I adore you? don't you know that it is
one of the dreams of my old age to have my portrait by you? do I
consent to sit? why, I am entirely at your disposition!'
"Then, taking me by the hand, he presented me to his venerable
wife, saying:
"'This is Couture, and I was on the point of sending him about
his business.'
"I was deeply touched by this reception. When we were both
somewhat calmed, I told him that I could make the drawing at his
house, that I had brought all that was necessary, and that I
should be happy to spare him the trouble of coming to me.
{661}
He would listen to nothing, put himself entirely at my service,
insisted that I should name my own day and hour; and at the
appointed day and hour, he was at my room.
"It was no small affair, for an old man to come all the way from
the Rue d'Enfer to the Barrière Blanche, where I then resided. He
was very tired, and said to me with a benevolent smile:
"'Dear child, for any other but you. ... But come, where shall I
place myself? what if I were to take a little nap?--for I have
come a very long way.'
"I pulled up an arm-chair; he sat down, and soon fell asleep. ...
"I walked about my painting-room on tiptoe, for fear of waking
him; then I came near him to examine him as he slept. He had a
vast brain; by its size, by its form, it was easy to guess the
greatness of the mind. The lower part of the face, however,
seemed out of harmony with the upper. ...
"My task was becoming difficult; to remain true to simple
reality, to give to the public the image of an intelligence in
its decline, was not what I wished. What should I do? I was
making these reflections when he woke. I looked at him for some
time fixedly, and I saw his eyelids lift themselves one after the
other, and then fall again over his eyes. ...
"However, let us not despair; let us try; ... this was my method.
"'Monsieur de Béranger, are you acquainted with that new air
composed for your _Vieux Caporal_?'
"'No,' said he, 'some fellows came to sing it to me; there were
several of them; they said they had brought a piano in a
carriage. As I chose my airs myself, and I doubt whether others
can choose better than I, I do not wish to encourage these
encroachments on my work. Therefore I refused to receive them.'
"'Oh! I know how you refuse like favors! Well, allow me to tell
you that you were in the wrong, for the air composed for the
thing seems to me more dramatic than the one you chose; since
circumstances are favorable to it, and that it need not disturb
you, I will sing you the _Vieux Caporal.'_ And I sang.
"'Yes, you are right, it is very well; sing me the second verse.
... Why, it is charming; sing it all to me; I like to hear you
sing.'
"At the end of the song, his face had changed its character; his
eyelids were sustained, and let me see his bright eyes, which
seemed to be the light of that fine mind. I kept him in this
atmosphere which made him young again; I made him live in the
past; I spoke to him of Manuel, his friend. Ah! then, it was a
veritable resurrection. We were then in 1850, but through the
enchantment of memory, he returned to the struggles of the
Restoration of 1820, thirty years' difference; well, I saw them
disappear as by magic. I saw this genius revive! He would get up,
walk about, come back to his seat, speaking of them, of the two
hundred and twenty-one, as though they were still there; the
arrows of Charles X., the aim reached, the plaudits of the
crowds--he seemed to hear it all. Béranger was before me. All I
had to do was to copy. ...
"I have not been able to resist the temptation of relating an
anecdote, doubtless too flattering for me; but on reflection, I
have been so tormented by fools, that it is excusable in me to
take comfort in the praises of a great mind."
Now let us turn once more to some of his practical instructions.
Of color he speaks thus:
{662}
"It must not be thought that he who reproduces color exactly is a
colorist.
"Like the true draughtsman, the true colorist purifies,
embellishes.
"If he is a true artist, he will bring in his coloring all the
laws of art: Discrimination, development, idealization.
"I cannot help thinking of our critics who, in their innocence,
always make sharply defined divisions of colorists and
draughtsmen; being persuaded that a draughtsman cannot be a
colorist, and that a colorist can never be a draughtsman. They
carry this so far that when a picture seems to them detestable in
color, they feel compelled to find great qualities of drawing in
it; but if, on the contrary, a work is presented, with
incontestable beauties of drawing, it is necessary, and you will
never be able to convince them of the contrary, that the picture
should be wanting in color.
"They do not know that all is in all, and that the value of
execution in a picture is in just proportion with its conception.
"With great artists, there is a certain choice, an impulse toward
a particular beauty which captivates them; like real lovers, they
sacrifice every thing to their passion; but, understand it well;
sacrifice is not abandonment.
"With great masters, such as Raphael, Poussin, the absence of
coloring is a voluntary surrender; besides, they have a coloring
peculiar to themselves, and of a superior order. ...
"Now, let us turn toward the colorists. Rubens presents himself
as their king; but king though he be, he is not the equal of
Raphael, who is a veritable angel."
In their compositions, Couture would have his disciples follow
nature, and the instincts of their own hearts. He wages war
against what he calls dead art, as seen in the works of certain
French artists who tried to imitate the Greeks exclusively. As he
strongly expresses it, they disinterred a dead body, and
galvanized it to give it the appearance of life. He would have
the pleasing scenes of common life represented and spiritualized;
nature, in her dewy, morning aspect, studied and loved. He says
to them: "Be French, be patriotic, be of your own times; create a
strong, healthy, modern school; do not imitate the Greeks; become
their equals." It must not be thought from this that the antique
is not appreciated; on the contrary, the young artist is urged,
after he has become comparatively skilled in drawing--not
before--to study the antique very seriously, and to take it as
the invariable basis of all his works. But what Couture urges
principally is originality and truthfulness. While pressing the
earnest study of nature, he says:
"Love, that is the great secret; love enlightens. We are often
surprised at the tenderness of parents for their children, and at
the qualities which they see in them. We think they are mistaken,
whereas it is we who are mistaken. ...
"Read a book with but little attention; look over the first few
pages; skip twenty pages, then forty; hasten to the conclusion at
once. What pleasure will you find in such reading? You would
certainly not have the audacity to judge of that work; you would
surely wait until you were more familiar with it. But now, when,
with a good will, you read page by page, the work captivates you,
and you leave it only when it is finished; then you say this work
is admirable!
"It will be the same with nature, if you read it page by page.
{663}
"I do not think I am mistaken when I say that we are on the eve
of seeing French high art spring into life. I see guarantees of
it in the return of our young artists to nature; they are, if I
may so express myself, at the first stage of that road which
leads to the highest beauties."
Somewhere about the middle of his book, our original author stops
for a familiar chat, "between the acts," as he calls it but,
after a few pages, the conversation gets more serious again, and
he gives a critique, or perhaps, more properly speaking, an
essay, on various artists. After wandering in the sixteenth
century with Jean Goujon--through the medium of a marvellously
learned coachman--he comes back to modern times, and speaks of
Ingres, Delacroix, and Decamps. It is not my province to question
his opinion of these artists; my task is to give you a correct
idea of his manner of doing so; therefore, leaving the critic to
be criticised by his brother artists, which is pretty sure to
happen, I choose his essay on the last named, Decamps, for
translation. It gives a good idea of his style, and in it he has
put away his severity, and indulges in genuine admiration, which
is certainly pleasanter to listen to.
Decamps.
"Let us now turn toward the light, toward the sunshine; let us
speak of Decamps--that abridgment of all picturesque qualities.
"In the grasp of his genius, he comprises everything; he makes
himself the echo of all.
"His pictures speak to me of Salvator, Teniers, Poussin, Titian,
Rembrandt, Phidias .... they tell the story of our world:
infancy, old age, poverty, sumptuous wealth, war in all its
horrors, smiling hills and dales, shady villas. Here, the
intimacy of the home-circle, there the tempests of the
imagination. The Shakespeare of painters, he translates
everything into an adorable language of his own; he reminds one
of the masters, without copying them; he sings of nature and
exalts it; everything with him becomes lovable, charming, or
terrible; a mere nothing, a simple knife on a table, painted by
this marvellous genius, will awaken in one's mind, a whole poem;
less still, a simple line, a dash of his pencil, is enchanting.
"I had the happiness of seeing this great artist; he was very
simple. Living principally in the country, his dress was that of
a somewhat careless sportsman; he was rather below the medium
height; his head had great delicacy of outline, and was of rather
a nervous character; he was fair; our sous stamped with the
effigy of Napoleon III., when somewhat worn, remind one
strikingly of Decamps. He was usually supposed to be a great
sportsman; but I, who knew him, and observed him with the
attention which my admiration of him inspired, noticed that his
hunting was a mere pretext. I would often see him stop in a
plain, lift his gun, take aim; one expected an explosion; not at
all; after a short pause, he would replace the gun on his
shoulder, and go on his way, to recommence the same game a little
later. He nearly always returned with an empty game-bag to the
inn of the 'Great Conqueror,' in the little village of Verberie;
there he would take an old account-book, which he used as an
album, and with whatever he happened to find, he would retrace
the effects which he had observed during his pauses. I had
several of these precious pages in my possession, but,
unfortunately for me, they were stolen.
{664}
"I remember also, that when we were conversing, after the evening
repast, he would roll little balls of bread in his fingers, then,
with pieces of matches, which he added to his paste, kneaded in a
peculiar manner, he would fashion charming little figures. I
remember, in particular, a hunter followed by his dog; the man
seemed weighed down by the game he carried; the tired dog
followed his master with drooping ears. It was charming: this
extraordinary artist gave life to everything he touched.
"He was fond of painting in the studios of his brother artists.
It was at the room of a mutual friend that I saw him make the
preparation of his beautiful picture, Cheveaux de Hallage, which
is now at the Louvre. His sketch was reddish, solidly massed in;
he used a great deal of brown, red, and burnt sienna in his
preparations.
"He made a drawing before me, one day. The most adorable ass's
head sprang into life from under his fingers. As soon as one of
the creature's ears was abandoned by the artist, it seemed to
quiver with impatience at having been restrained; all appeared by
degrees, progressively and completely formed. I saw in their
order of succession, a real head, a real neck, a real body
covered with its roughened hair; the good creature seemed to have
a name, a real character; one might have written its history.
"I have been talking of his amusements; but when he attempted
higher productions, when, for example, he created his 'Bataille
des Cimbres'--I speak of the large drawing, that in which an
enormous chariot is dragged by oxen--what energy! what grandeur!
Those men live; one shares their ardor, or their fears; one wants
to help, to push, to save the women and children. See them
yonder: they come, they crush everything that comes in their way.
What a formidable mass! clouds of dust arise from under their
horses' hoofs, and go to join the clouds in the heavens, which
are numerous, and armed for combat, like the soldiers that cover
the earth. And up yonder, do you see? No. Where? There; no, still
higher ... that cloud of ravens ... they await the end of the day
of slaughter.
"It is no longer a drawing; it is no longer a painting; it is an
animated world which appears as by magic, transformed into
wondrous marble, gilded by the sun of Greece. One looks, admires;
one comes back to it many times, without ever tiring; one leaves
so beautiful a thing with regret, to dream of it at night!
"I should like to be able to talk to you of his Joseph, of
Sampson, of the Café Turc, of the Singes Cuisiniers, of the
Supplice des Crochets, and of all his other wonders; but that
would lead me too far; so, regretfully, I stop.
"Decamps was of an organization rare in the art of painting; he
had the power of giving the qualities of greatness to small
pictures. One might cite the small works of Rubens and Rembrandt,
and even of the great Italian painters; but all these geniuses
seemed to grow less in proportion to the restricted dimensions of
their canvases. But Decamps is as great in his small pictures as
in his more important works.
"I might hesitate to pronounce myself for or against certain
artists. But, as for this one, I maintain that he will always
keep a high place in the art of painting."
......
{665}
In the foregoing selections I have endeavored to give some idea
of the author's manner; of his vigor, his clearness, his
originality. With all its irregularity, this book is, I feel
sure, destined to take an important place in art-literature. As a
handbook of painting, it is most useful, and I trust soon to see
a clear, truthful translation make it familiar to our American
public. I should like it to be in the hands of every art-student.
Good advice, critiques on various artists, critiques on the
schools, familiar chit-chat, occasional reveries on nature, full
of poetry, anecdotes--all thrown together with a certain
picturesque confusion, warm from the author's heart and brain:
such is this book. It is a mirror of the man. Couture talks as he
writes, and writes as he talks; if other merits are denied it, it
certainly has that of perfect sincerity, and surely, in these
days of artificiality, that is a great charm; so great a charm
indeed, that many beside artists would find pleasure in reading
it. And now, trusting that I have said enough to arouse some
curiosity and interest in this work, I will let the author say
his
Farewell!
"I have animated your courage; your sympathy, I feel, increases
my strength; I have within me what it is well to possess--hope.
Shall I live to see true French art born into this world? ... I
see it coming. Ah! how happy you are to be young! "Everything
announces it to me, this art of which I dreamed; the indifference
of the public for that which exists is a good sign; why, indeed,
should it, so full of life, feel an interest in this painting,
issued from the grave?
"Look around you, and produce pictures. As for me, I have
followed the order of nature; I have planted in you the good seed
of truth; I doubt not but that it will germinate. By simplifying
the means, by shielding yourself from the embarrassment of
complications, you will do a useful underground burrowing. When
the young shoot springs from the earth, cover it with a
protecting mantle; this shelter, this protection, this tutor,
must be your instinct. Grow, become strong, cover yourself with
leaves and fruits, and give refreshment and shade."
--------
{666}
Magas; or, Long Ago.
A Tale Of The Early Times.
Chapter I.
Yes, long ago, about the year of grace 55, that is, about four
years after the great apostle of the Gentiles had preached at
Athens, a small but evidently a select band of worshippers was
pouring forth from a small temple on the banks of the Illissus,
situated but a short distance from that renowned city. This
temple was dedicated to the sacred nine who preside over art,
science, music, poetry, and dancing. There had been a special
festival that day, and numerous pleasing exhibitions had been
brought before the gratified audience. The mystic dance of the
sacred sisterhood had typified most gracefully the harmony and
union that reign among the muses; and _peace_ presiding,
showed that under her mild rule alone, the harmonies of earth
could work their glorious mission to civilize and cheer the
drooping heart of man. No sacrifice of blood was here admitted,
but music, choral song, and recitation; poems, plays, and
oratorical displays; tableaux and dances, symbolized alike the
worship rendered, and the honor due to the chaste and favored
nine. Therefore was it, that the audience was so select. The
populace, which at that time consisted mainly of slaves, were for
the most part too coarse and unrefined to appreciate the higher
branches of the muses' lore, which were to-day brought forward:
the games of the Saturnalia and the mysteries of Cybele were more
in accordance with their taste, and, save the few slaves who
attended on their masters as a matter of state, or for the sake
of fashion, the spectators were of a dignified and refined
aspect.
The games or exhibitions were about to close; a solemn dance
accompanied by song had proclaimed the benefits to earth, which
the sacred nine occasioned by their peaceful rule; and the last
strophe ran to the effect:
Here no strifes must warm the veins;
For the muses' sister band
Comes to lighten earthly chains,
Comes to greet you hand in hand:
Science lightens up the land
Where the muses' sceptre rules,
Skilful art instructs the hand,
Strife is banished from their schools.
Chorus: Choral sisters, intertwine,
Sing the praise of muses high;
For the muses are divine;
Swell the anthem to the sky.
The song had ceased when suddenly, as the audience rose, thinking
the performance concluded, a thrilling sweep of a lyre unseen
arrested their steps; and a voice sweeter and clearer than any
heard before sang out these words:
The muse! a myth! is passed away,
With earthly types of things unseen:
'Twas but a cloud--refracting ray,
Rolling the hidden world between
And man's aspiring panting soul!
Man's soul's divine, and yearns to clasp
(Freed from the yoke of earth's control)
That truth, but which eludes the grasp
While veiled in mythic forms unreal!
Awake! the day-star is arisen!
No more shall error's veil conceal
The lustrous, brilliant, light of heaven,
Now streaming, glory to impart
To vivify each human heart.
The crowd which had suddenly paused, now wondered, and turned to
every side to look for the singer: in vain; the owner of that
splendid voice was not to be seen, any more than the player on
the silver-toned lute.
{667}
A strange influence had passed over the throng, unawares: it was
hushed, awed, mesmerized as it were into another state of
feeling. Exultation had passed away; bewilderment, questioning
followed. What did it mean? myth! truth! glory! was it
philosophy? was it poetry? or did an oracle speak? Man's soul
divine! that was Platonism; but Plato's school, at its height
some four hundred years previous, was now at a discount. Many
sects discussed and disputed: but truth? Truth seemed as far off
as ever; or rather it seemed a plaything or a something which men
used to sharpen their wits on, that they might display their
argumentative skill, in the intellectual arena; but for practical
conclusions, for a real rule of life, which might be used as an
every-day necessity, pooh! this was not to be thought of!
The Grecian world, such of it as was free, that is, not actually
enslaved, not actually held as another man's chattel, was
speculative and fond of discussion, but it does not appear that
these discussions did much in forwarding the progress of truth
among the _majority_ of the population; for that majority
were slaves--slaves, held for the most part in bondage of mind as
well as of body. The dignity of manhood among these was unknown;
and the purity, beauty, and loveliness of woman were sacrificed
remorselessly to tyranny of the vilest description. We can but
shudder as we recall doings even in the palmiest days of Grecian
freedom, over which modesty compels the historian to cast a veil;
for Grecian freedom even then meant freedom to the _few;_
the workers, the toiling multitude were slaves--slaves who, when
their numbers increased so as to alarm their masters, might be
sacrificed _en masse_, as was too often the case. They were
slaves not only in body, but in intelligence, for it was deemed
dangerous to develop mind. Plato himself had been of this
opinion, giving as his reason, "Lest they should learn to
resist."
Philosophy was made for the few, for the free only, because only
the _free_ could carry out in practice the truths of the
soul's divinity which philosophy pointed to.
The words which the poet Lucan puts into the mouth of Caesar, had
long been acted upon even by the "wise and good" of the pagan
world, though they dared not so openly express it. "_Humanum
paucis vivit genus._" (Lucan. Phar.) "The human race exists
but for the few." The workers, (that is, the slaves,) in other
words, the majority, were utterly incapable of being benefited by
the teachings of the sages of ancient Greece, not only by
position, but in consequence of the dulness of intellect which
the long maintenance of that position had occasioned. Poetry and
philosophy condemned them as beings of an inferior order. Homer
says in his Odys. 17, "that Jupiter has deprived slaves of half
their mind;" and in Plato we find the following: "It is said that
in the mind of slaves there is nothing sound or complete; and
that a prudent man ought not to trust that class of persons." The
consequence of this teaching was, that they were held to be a
mean race, little elevated above the brute, and born for the
convenience of their masters, and subject to their caprices; so
the worship of the _muses_ was, to them, with rare
exceptions, a thing out of the question. These rare exceptions
_did_, however, exist, and produced anomalous positions not
always fruitful in morality.
{668}
The congregation of worshippers issuing from the temple of the
muses was then composed almost entirely of the "_free_,"
although some few of the slaves attended their masters for
purposes of state or style. Among the throng were three young
nobles thus attended; and, as they issued from the edifice, they
made their way to a grove in the rear, to which only a privileged
few had access, and stationing their attendants within call, yet
at some little distance, they stretched themselves in the shade,
and began to discuss the adventure. Their names were Magas,
Critias, and Pierus.
"The voice was heavenly," said Critias, "and the music faultless;
but who could be the player, who the singer?"
"Nay, surely the divine Euterpe, aided by the equally divine
Erato," said Pierus; "who but a muse could thus conceal herself?"
"But," interposed Magas, "you forget that the muse would not
prophesy her own overthrow. The words we heard to-day portended
that the worship was to be supplanted by another of a higher
kind; it pronounced the muse 'a myth,' a type of something
unseen, unreal in herself, but pointing to a reality. Now, what
can this be?"
"I know not," said Critias, "unless it is also a revelation to
make known the unknown, as that strange man said who preached
here some four or five years ago; his words made an impression on
me which haunts me still."
"What man? what did he say?" asked Pierus.
"His name was Paul," said Critias. "He was a small man; a Jew of
Tarsus, (think of a Jew pretending to philosophy!) He came here
and preached at first in the streets; then he was brought to the
Areopagus; my father was one of the council, and he took me with
him to hear what the new man would say. The place was thronged,
but most of the fathers took the matter lightly enough. The
impression he made was on the lowly, the slaves. They took his
words to _heart_ and _pondered_ them. I have caught
some of them at times repeating them to each other, as if they
were oracles. His theory seems made for them especially."
"But what good will it do them?" asked Pierus.
"Or him who dares foment sedition among them?" broke in Magas.
"He and others of his ilk had better beware. I remember something
of the circumstance since you mention it, but my father thought
it an attempt to raise an insurrection among the slaves. The
preacher did well to take himself off."
"I do not see any harm he could do," said Critias.
"Harm!" answered Magas. "Harm! Epicurean that you are, will you
never see harm till you hear the house is on fire? I tell you
there is harm; he preaches 'equality' to slaves, and what good
can come of that?"
"What harm, rather? The poor varlets know it for a fact that they
are not the equals of their masters." "They are not equal; no,
they are not equal," said Magas vehemently; "and they must never
be permitted to think they are. Their numbers might give trouble
to us if they imbibed such an idea, while to them it could be of
no real service. They have muscle, but not intellect. Set them
free, they would soon be at loggerheads among themselves."
"Intellectual greatness," said Critias, "is rare even among
freemen; but some slaves have manifested that there is no
deficiency in that respect."
{669}
"Some rare exceptions, perhaps, but that proves nothing.
Aristotle says, and truly: 'The woman and the slave are
distinguished by nature herself.'"
"Yes," said Pierus, "I remember the passage. He says, 'If we
compare man to woman, we find that the first is superior,
therefore he commands; the woman is inferior, therefore she
obeys. The same thing ought to take place among all men. Thus it
is that those among them who are as inferior with respect to
others as the body is with respect to the soul, and the animal to
man; those whose powers principally consist in the use of the
body, (the only service that can be obtained from them,) they are
naturally slaves.'"
"There can be no doubt about it," said Magas. "The very bodies of
the slaves are different from ours; they are strong, muscular,
and fitted for labor; ours are slimmer, more refined, more
sensitive."
"I cannot see how you can build any argument on that," said
Critias; "your grand philosopher, even while he asserts a
different conformation of body to exist between the freeman and
the slave, admits that it sometimes happens that to a freeman is
given the body of a slave, and to a slave the soul of a freeman.
I have often found it so. I know some very despicable citizens;
and I have found some noble sentiments in slaves."
"Sentiments," said Magas; "what business have slaves with
sentiments?"
Critias laughed, and said, "Slaves have sentiment, and memory,
and reflection; by whose permission I do not know; but how are
you to get rid of it? That is the question."
"They must be kept in their place and made to work," said Magas.
"But," said Pierus, "we are losing sight of the question as to
what the last singer intended to convey. Who do you think it
was?"
"Some follower of the Jew Paul; I know no other sect who would
dare call the muse a myth."
"I would give something to know what the Jewish fellow did say;
do you remember?" asked Pierus.
"I think I can summon some one who does." And Critias called
aloud to a slave, who drew near.
"Merion, do you remember the Jew preacher?"
"I do, most honored master."
"Do you remember what he said?"
"I have his words by heart, master," replied the slave.
"By heart!" muttered Magas, "by Jove; but, you _did_ worship
the fellow!"
"Well," rejoined Critias, "and what did he say?"
The man addressed was a gray-headed, stolid-looking person; his
intelligence on common matters was not deemed great; he was,
however, esteemed faithful, trustworthy, and affectionate. A
sudden glow lighted up his features, as his master spoke to him,
and he became animated with an expression that puzzled his
hearers: he stood forth, threw out his right arm, and, in the
attitude of an orator impressed with the dignity and importance
of the subject, delivered word for word the speech made by the
great apostle of the Gentiles in the hall of the Areopagus.
"My masters," said the slave, "when the preacher Paul was brought
to the court of the Areopagites, and questioned concerning the
new doctrine he was giving out to men, he stood in the midst of
Mars' Hill and said:
"'Ye men of Athens, I perceive that, in all things, ye are too
superstitious; for as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I
beheld an altar with this inscription, To the unknown God; whom
therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you.
{670}
God that made the world and all things therein, seeing he is Lord
of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands;
neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed
anything, seeing he giveth to all life and breath, and all
things; and hath made of ONE BLOOD all nations of men for to
dwell on all the face of the earth; and hath determined the times
appointed, and the bounds of their habitations; that they should
seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him;
though he be not far from every one of us. For in him we live,
and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets
have said, For we are also his offspring.'"
"Stop," said Magas; "where did you find that written?"
"It was not written, noble sir; it was _said_," returned the
slave.
"Said! five years ago, and you repeat it now, word for word like
a task," said Magas; "did you hear it more than once?"
"Yes, sir; some who can write, took it down, and read it to me
more than once."
"You cannot read?"
"I cannot."
Magas frowned and rose to his feet. "A dangerous doctrine for our
slaves to have by heart," he muttered; then turning to his
companions he said, "Send the varlets home; let us have our talk
to ourselves."
At a sign from the masters, the servitors left the premises, and
Magas resumed: "Do you leave that slave at large, Critias, with
such a doctrine as that in his bosom?"
"And why not?" asked Critias; "poor, harmless old Merion, the
unwearied attendant on my father's infirmities; his place could
not be supplied in our household for his weight in gold."
"You did not weigh that speech then; did not observe its
tendencies?"
"Well, yes, it is pretty poetry enough, rhapsodical enough, but,
like all rhapsody, harmless."
"Harmless! Did you watch the other slaves as the old man lighted
up; as he said: '_All mankind_ were of one blood, all the
offspring of God,' _master_ as well as _slave!_ I am
sure these varlets understood it so. Such teaching as that must
kindle fire in men's hearts, must engender rebellion. That one
slave, as you see, has got that and more by heart; do you think
it has no effect on him?"
"No bad effect, at least; he is a good and faithful servant."
"No bad effect! why, man, do you not see that if our slaves once
believe they are of one blood with their masters, that they are
equally the offspring of God, they will arise and assert their
dignity? Then who will do the work?"
"You are troubling yourself very unnecessarily, my dear Magas;
there is no slave in our household who works so well or so
faithfully as Merion."
"He's but biding his time," said Magas; "take care. The man that,
being unlettered, got that doctrine by heart, did so because
_he cherished_ it, made much of it; he has studied its
meaning, depend upon it; and the meaning to him must be freedom."
"You did not hear him out," said Critias; "he believes in a
judgment after death, which shall right the wrongs of earth; the
followers of this Jew have the oddest ways in the world. You know
the Lady Damaris?"
Magas nodded assent.
{671}
"Well," rejoined Critias, "I have heard her assert that 'work'
has a sanctifying tendency, whatever that means; and they say she
takes pains to instruct her slaves in this singular philosophy;
she often works with them, and treats them as if they were poor
relations she was bound to see well provided for. Strange! isn't
it?"
"Strange enough," said Magas, "but more dangerous than strange.
The woman must be looked to."
"Nay, leave her to regulate her own household," said Critias,
laughing: "if you want to make war, try your skill with men.
There's Dionysius, who deserted the Areopagus soon after that
preacher was here; he has freed some of his slaves, taught others
to read, and teaches this new philosophy to all."
"The man must be crazed," said Magas; "these strange notions must
end by revolutionizing society if they are allowed to get to a
head. They must be put a stop to. Whom shall we have to work for
us, when the slave thinks himself as good as his master?"
"We will work for ourselves then," said Critias. "And perhaps
that would not be so very hard, after all. In the early days of
the republic, our forefathers tilled their own fields; they were
perhaps as happy as we are now."
"Are you also touched with this mania?" asked Magas, stamping his
foot fiercely. "I say the slaves are ours by right of conquest;
and, for the glory of my ancestral race, I'll keep my feet upon
their necks."
"As the Roman keeps his foot on ours, eh, Magas? Could we rouse
the slaves to noble deeds, through the working of noble thoughts,
we might free our country yet."
Magas looked gloomier yet.
"Come not upon that strain," said he; "we cannot overrule fate!
Ha! what was that?"
'Twas a sweep of the same lute, a silver chord of melody that
caught his ear. Breathlessly the trio listened, and soon these
words pealed forth:
He comes! He comes in clouds of glory!
Haste, oh! haste to meet thy God!
Angels, hymn the thrilling story,
How on earth his footsteps trod;
How those footsteps, faint and weary,
Tracked thy path, thy soul to save.
Quit, oh! quit sin's path, so dreary,
Plunge thee in the saving waves.
Ransomed is thy soul for ever,
Ransomed by his precious blood,
If but now from sin thou sever,
Cleansed in the redeeming flood.
Haste! oh haste! he comes to save thee,
Then no more let sin enslave thee!
"'Tis the same voice!" Why did Magas turn pale as he said so? The
trio separated to search the glades, the bushes, the thickets;
every nook and corner was probed in vain. The muse, mentor,
genius, or spirit, whatever it might be, was not to be found.
Chapter II.
"Chione!"
"Magas!"
"Have I found thee at last?"
"Alas!"
Chione covered her face with her hands, her bosom heaved, tears
trickled through her fingers; it was no gladsome greeting that
she bestowed on her lover, yet it was she who had sought this
interview, or rather had given opportunity for it, even while
pretending to hide herself, and to shun the meeting she sought.
"A whole year have you been invisible, my Chione; a whole year
have I sought you in vain; and, now that we meet, you do not
throw your-self into my arms for very joy; you turn away, and
your eyes are filled with tears!"
"Alas!"
"You are not glad to see me, Chione; you have lost your love for
me!"
{672}
"Oh! would it were so, Magas! would that the sight of you did not
move me thus; would I had never known you! Leave me, Magas!"
"Leave you now when, after a year's search, I have found you!
Leave you! What is the meaning of this altered tone? Are you no
longer Chione? Am I not Magas?"
"It is true," said Chione, in a very low voice; "it is true I am
the slave Chione."
"The slave! O Chione! have I not promised you freedom if you but
return my love? Last year did I not bid you become to me what
Aspasia was to Pericles--my oracle, my inspirer, my divinity! and
you left me; and now that your glowing charms have become endued
even with a higher lustre; that your voice can at will enkindle
each noble emotion while it thrills the soul with ecstasy, now
your empire over me is all but overpowering."
"Yet you did not recognize me when I sang in the temple a week
ago."
"Not at first; the theme was so strange; it troubled me. But at
the first tone uttered in the grove I knew you; I felt that you,
and you only, could cause such a thrill as then agitated my whole
being. O Chione! you were ever to me as the tenth muse. Say what
has caused your absence?"
"Did you heed the words of the last hymn?"
"No, no. How should I? I knew the voice, the voice of my own
Chione, who had so long and so mysteriously disappeared, and I
listened in the hope of discovering her retreat. I searched, but
searched in vain; yet I felt sure it was to me she sang. Now tell
me truly, did you not recognize me and address yourself to me?"
"Had you heard the words, you would not have asked that
question."
"But I did not hear them. Even of the first I heard nothing
distinctly, or at least, nothing that I could understand; of the
last, not a word; only the _tones_, the tones of my Chione,
singing as of yore to enchant me; it sounded like a wail for
other days; a promise, perhaps, for happier ones to come."
"It was neither; it was an invitation to a higher life!"
"A higher life! Yes, a life of love with thee, my Chione. A life
of that sublime love where Cupid does honor to the muses, and
becomes himself the inspirer of sacred song. Yes, thou wilt not
deny it, though, for these eight days past, thou hast kept me on
the search for thee. Thou sawest me in the temple, and to me were
thy songs directed. I am sure of it; for the serving maidens
assured me 'twas a full year since thou hadst thyself ministered
there, and none had seen thee since save the daughter of the
philosopher of the day, save Lotis only! She acknowledged the
lute accompaniment, and that it was thy voice it accompanied."
"The traitress!"
"Nay, she was hard pressed; she could scarcely avoid the avowal.
But now, cease this dallying and confess the truth: was not thy
song for me?"
But Chione answered no more. Perhaps she was asking that question
of her own heart, and could not answer it. She leant against a
tree in the grove in which they were standing and sobbed
bitterly, but no reply issued from her lips. At this juncture a
stately personage approached, whom Magas perceiving, saluted with
the respect due to his evident dignity. Chione, with her veil
gathered around her, had her features turned toward the tree, her
agitation betraying itself, however, by slight convulsions of her
frame.
{673}
The stranger paused, and looked from one to the other. Magas was
evidently a stranger to him; but when, surprised at the sudden
silence, the maiden for an instant changed her posture, and the
stranger uttered, in amazement, the name Chione, she started,
gazed distractedly, and, in an instant, fled from the spot like
an arrow shot from a bow, so swiftly did she disappear.
Magas would have followed; but the stranger, speaking in a
courteous tone, yet with an authority he dared not disobey,
inquired: "Is that young damsel of your kindred, my son?"
"Not so, my lord," said Magas; "I knew her a year ago, when she
ministered in the temple of the muses. Her ravishing voice then
enkindled all hearts; but she disappeared suddenly, and to-day I
first encounter her after a long absence."
"She is a slave, as perhaps you know already."
"She would adorn a diadem," fiercely rejoined Magas.
"I see how it is," softly rejoined the elder man; "beware, my
son; set not your heart on one beyond your reach. Gold cannot
purchase Chione. You will find others as fair, others who will
serve you more readily in that very temple from which Chione has
been taken. Pursue not one who belongs to another master."
"Who is her master now?" asked Magas impetuously.
"You must forgive me for not answering you," replied the sage;
"in your present humor, it would but bring disorder to the
state."
"One word," said Magas, springing forward so as to prevent the
old man from departing; "one word Is it yourself?"
"It is not, my son," replied the other gently, as, slightly
pushing by the young man, he left him with a passing salute.
Magas remained rooted to the spot, knitting his brows and
gnashing his teeth with vexation. "So near the goal of all my
hopes, and so suddenly foiled; but I will find her yet; and if
gold will buy her, well! if not, why, other means must be tried."
......
It is no longer a grove yielding its pleasant shades in the sunny
light of the beautiful climate of Greece; it is no longer the
impassioned tone of Magas pouring the honeyed tones of flattering
love into her ear; the slave is at the feet of her mistress, in
the women's apartment of a small but elegantly adorned dwelling
near unto the city, and again she is bathed in tears. Yet the
voice in which she is addressed is more sorrowful than angry; the
tones are rather those of a grieving mother than of an enraged
mistress. But there was a decision, a firmness in the voice that
told the lady was not to be trifled with.
"What is this I hear of thee, my poor child?"
"Forgive me, dearest lady, forgive me, Lady Damaris."
"It is not a question of personal offence, my Chione; thou hast
injured thyself, not me. A year ago, thou didst put on Christ,
and vow allegiance to the one true God. Wilt thou now forsake
him, to follow thy own passion?"
"I have not forsaken Christ! I will never, never forsake him."
"No? then why dally with the tempter? why seek again what thou
hast once abjured? When our holy bishop rescued thee from the
service of the pagan altars, at thine own earnest entreaty, and
brought thee here, to serve the Lord Jesus, didst thou not
renounce paganism, its vices, its crimes, its _sweets_ as
well as its _bitters?_"
"I renounce them still."
{674}
"And yet thou goest to a pagan temple, to attract the notice of a
young pagan noble, the enemy of our faith!"
"I went not for that purpose, madam, though it ended so. I went
to see Lotis, as I told you; she was seeking instruction from me
as of yore; you are aware she was my pupil in music."
"And you gave it her, by causing her to help you attract your
former admirer; fie! Chione, your tale hangs not well together."
"Lady, believe me, I knew not of the presence of Magas, until I
saw him there; I was not thinking of him, until he stood beside
the pillar within which I was concealed. It was on a sudden
impulse that I acted. Lotis was beside me with her lute; we were
both effectually concealed within one of those hollow, vaulted
recesses used for emitting the more mysterious sounds of the
deities, and which are known to so few that I felt myself doubly
secure, when the sight of him who could not see me caused a rush
of blood to my head; I gave Lotis a signal, which she obeyed, as
thinking, perhaps, I had again a part in the performance as I
used to have, and I sang, not of the muse, save as a thing of the
past."
"I know you cannot believe in paganism again, Chione," said the
lady solemnly; "it is not your _head_ that is likely to be
misled, at least not in the first instance. I fear your
_passions_, not your understanding. The rush of blood was,
methinks, to your heart, rather than to your head."
"Lady, I love my religion, or I should not have desired to leave
the temple; I was honored there."
"Yes, Chione; and here you are not honored in a way that flatters
your self-love; and that is why, after a year of trial, you seek
the flattery of Magas, rather than the unimpassioned love of your
Christian friends. Yet their love is less selfish, more sincere."
"It is cold, cold," muttered Chione. Aloud she said, "Madam, I
dare assure you, my faith is as vivid now as it was a year ago."
"My poor child!" said the lady, laying her hand upon Chione's
head, "go for to-night; another day, we will resume the subject.
You are under the influence of passion at this moment; you know
neither your own strength nor your own weakness; you scarcely
know what you believe, what you doubt. Your passions are
awakened, your self-love aroused, and perhaps wounded. These must
be _subdued_; not by the exercise of the understanding,
which is powerless against such formidable enemies; but by
_faith_, which is the exercise of the _heart_ in God;
for with the heart man believeth unto justice. [Footnote 58] If,
as you say, your faith is as vivid now as it was a year ago, go
and exercise it in prayer, and I too will pray with you, my poor
child, that our hearts may be fashioned after the pattern shown
us in the mount."
[Footnote 58: Rom. x. 10.]
Poor Chione! the tenth muse! with every pulse palpitating to the
inspirations of poetical and musical genius--a genius which in
her panted for expression, and nourished itself at the shrine of
self-love. Poor Chione! bred an orphan in the temple of the
muses; gifted with more than ordinary powers of mind, which had
been cultivated even by the residence which had been hers from
infancy; endowed with grace, beauty, and intelligence; fostered
by the praises of Magas, who, from being the patron of the
beautiful and interesting child, had become the admirer of the
still and ever increasing loveliness of the maiden.
{675}
Poor Chione! The truths of Christianity unfolded to her by
Merion, her uncle, also a slave, at a time when her understanding
was about to reject the mockeries of a worship beautiful and
fanciful indeed, but sustained by no interior power, appealing to
no standard on which she could rely unhesitatingly, had taken
hold of her imagination, had captivated her by their beauty,
their coherence, their consistency. They were the realization of
her fondest dreams, the filling up of the most beautiful pictures
that her fancy had ever painted; they were a logical appeal to
her understanding; and because they were all these, she adopted
them, not beginning to comprehend the _interior_ spirit, not
fathoming even to the first degree, the mystery of the cross,
_that stumbling-block to the Jews, and foolishness to the
Greeks._ [Footnote 59] Chione's understanding was Christ's,
and her imagination also, because the metaphysical propositions
of the apostle met her approval, and the poetry and imagery of
the church claimed her admiration; but her _heart_ seemed
still untouched, her thoughts still centred in herself, her loves
and her hatreds still found their source in human passion. She
judged all things as yet by a mere outward, human standard; and
the tragic scenes recounted in the Gospels but moved her in the
same manner, though in a higher degree, as would a tragedy of
Sophocles or Euripides. They excited her feelings to admiration,
nay to adoration; but for the regulation of the dispositions of
her heart, they were not yet brought into play.
[Footnote 59: I Cor. i. 23.]
In fact, she was disappointed in religion, although she did not
confess her disappointment even to herself. Up to the time she
had become a Christian, all things had ministered to her
self-love. When, yielding to the preaching of Merion, (for such
it was, although addressed to so limited an audience,) she had
besought his intercession to be removed from a place where, as
her years increased, her beauty and position as a slave exposed
her to danger, she had counted on _being appreciated_ by the
society which she entered; and as she had heard of many slaves
having been set free by the Christians on account of the esteem
in which they were held, she, fancying herself a very superior
being to the generality of slaves, (her beauty, grace, and genius
having ever called forth such unqualified admiration,) could not
but deem that she should soon be accounted well worthy of such an
advantage. When, then, she found herself at the age of sixteen,
secluded in the household of the Lady Damaris, treated kindly,
but not specially indulged; when she saw that her mistress, far
from deeming her a prodigy, seemed to find in her serious
failings needing correction, and that a probation was deemed
necessary ere allowing her to profess the faith; she was more
hurt than she permitted to appear: and the seclusion to which she
had committed herself, when requesting to be transferred from the
muses' temple to the silence and retirement practised by the
household of the Lady Damaris, weighed upon her spirit, for it
gave no scope to the love of display which excited her genius to
pleasurable expression. Her intellectual convictions, indeed,
remained unchanged, but her heart sought other interests than
those around her; and when it appeared that one after another of
the slaves attached to the lady received their freedom, according
as they demonstrated to the satisfaction of their mistress that
they were likely to make a good use of it, but that no hint was
ever given to herself that she might expect a like boon, she
began to wax impatient, to tax her mistress with partiality, and
finally to raise the question whether she had not a right to free
herself from tyranny.
{676}
Tyranny! The only restraint exercised in her regard was such as a
tender mother's vigilance would deem necessary. She saw not that,
at her years, the protection of the Lady Damaris was the greatest
benefit this world could give her, accompanied as it was by
genuine kindness, and an earnest desire to cultivate her heart
and her understanding in the right direction.
Freedom! exterior, freedom for a girl of sixteen! this became her
dream by night, her exclusive idea by day, and in acting upon the
idea, she often violated the rules the noble and charitable lady
had laid down for the regulation of her household.
On an occasion of this kind it was that she had visited the
muses' temple, saying to herself that it was to give instruction
to her former companion, whom she so much desired to meet again.
There the sight of Magas had brought back all the flatteries and
self-exulting thoughts of former days. She had then refrained
from making herself known, for--a slave! and the noble
Magas!--her heart revolted at the thought of what such a
connection must be! A year ago she had fled from it; her pride
had sustained her then; she had called it her virtue. Now she
felt the need of his praises; now she longed for his sweet
flatteries; the voice of truth had been too harsh for her
self-love. She needed adulation, passionate adoration. Would
Magas give it her? She had heard his exclamation recognizing her
voice: from her hiding-place she had seen the zeal with which he
had sought her; and eight days afterward, by dint of watching,
she had contrived to meet him as if by accident, as we have seen;
and what was to be the result?
Chapter III.
"Chione, my niece; nay, my daughter in Jesus Christ, tell me, for
pity's sake, why do I find you here?"
"Uncle, I weary of the tedious routine of our household. I come
to woo the naiads and the fauns of early days, for a little
relaxation of my spirit."
"The naiads and the fauns! Strange worship for a Christian!"
"Nay, uncle, do not cast religion at me for ever. I mean no harm
by speaking in the language of my childhood; and, indeed, I need
to recreate my soul; my spirit is fainting away amid the tedium
of our ever immaculate household."
"What possible fault can you find with the Lady Damaris?"
"None, none at all, absolutely none. Have I not just said she is
immaculate, faultless? too perfect, in fact, fair as the moon and
as chaste; ay, and as cold too!"
"Cold! Lady Damaris who has spent her fortune in relieving the
indigent, in soothing the sorrows of the mourner, in setting free
the slave. Cold! Where, then, will you find the fire of charity?"
"I wish she would set me free!"
"You! Are you not too free already! as witness this unmaidenly
step of visiting these glades alone and unprotected? Free! Are
you not already as free as is safe for you? is not the Lady
Damaris more a mother than a mistress to you? Go to, your labors
are too light, your liberty too great, since you know not how to
make a better use of it. A Christian maiden should have more
reserve."
{677}
"What harm is there in sunning myself on the river-banks awhile?"
"None, if that is your object, and that _alone_, though even
so, for one in your condition there might be danger. But, Chione,
you do not come here either to woo the naiads or the fauns, or to
sun yourself on the riverbanks. You come here to meet one you are
bound to avoid, and I come to take you home again."
"By what right?"
"Ay, by what right, base slave?" asked the voice of Magas, as he
suddenly came upon the couple. "By what right dare you to
interfere with the fairest muse of earth's bright temple? you who
have scarcely brains enough to know whether Apollo steers his
chariot from east to west or from north to south."
"Noble sir," said Merion respectfully, as if unheedful of the
insulting tone in which he was addressed, "I am this maiden's
uncle, and seek but to conduct her to a place of safety."
"I will dispense with thine office, by fulfilling it myself; take
thyself hence, I say."
Merion looked at Chione, who, with an incomprehensible caprice,
settled the dispute by rapidly taking flight in the direction of
the abode of the Lady Damaris, thus again leaving Magas foiled at
the moment he thought himself certain of an interview; and, what
was still more perplexing, leaving him in a state of uncertainty
as to whether she desired to grant him an interview or otherwise.
He turned fiercely upon Merion:
"Where is the girl flown to? Where does she live?"
"I cannot tell you, noble sir," said the slave, turning away.
"For cannot, say will not," said Magas, arresting him. "I insist
on knowing where Chione lives."
"You cannot know it from me, sir," said Merion, breaking away,
while fortunately some persons appearing in sight, forbade the
noble Magas from renewing a contest with another person's
servant; and thus the faithful guardian of Chione effected his
escape.
It was, however, to the house of Dionysius he betook himself to
consult with him concerning the measures to be taken to insure
the safety of his wayward niece.
It was a difficult matter for the learned but simple-hearted
bishop, known in the city as Dionysius the Areopagite, to
interfere in. The conversion of this noble-hearted prelate had,
in his own case, been so sincere, so entire, it was difficult for
him to comprehend an adhesion given partly to the intellectual,
partly to the moral bearings of the religion of Christ, an
adhesion which more resembled a philosophical adoption of tenets,
than the surrender of the whole being into the keeping of his
divine Lord, such as he understood to be the requirement demanded
of himself when, under the tuition of the great apostle, he had
learned to put on Christ. The gospel had come to him, not in word
only, but also in power, and in the Holy Spirit, and in much
assurance. [Footnote 60] It filled his soul, not only with its
intellectual delights, with its wondrous solutions of the dread
mysteries of existence, with its harmonious developments and
sublime manifestations, but with _interior_ light. "Faith"
was to him as, alas! it is to so few, "the substance of things
hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." [Footnote 61] It
animated him wholly; it was a part of himself; he could say with
the great apostle in very truth, "I live, yet not I, but Christ
liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live
by the faith of the Son of God who loved me, and gave himself for
me." [Footnote 62]
[Footnote 60: Thes. i. 5.]
[Footnote 61: Heb. xi. 1.]
[Footnote 62: Gal. ii. 20.]
{678}
But Dionysius was the pastor of souls; he dared not refuse to
come to the assistance of one of his flock, albeit, that one was
a child, a slave, and that the request for his interference came
to him also from a slave. The true-hearted Merion was worthy of
his highest love; long since would he have redeemed him, and
associated him in his labors of love, but that the slave ever put
him off, pointing out to him others on whom the _material_
chain weighed more heavily, so that its wearers were fainting
under the burden, while he walked erect. The truth had made him
free [Footnote 63] in soul, and he was not willing to encroach on
the limited means placed at the disposal of the bishop by the
faithful, while so many of the weaker brethren needed help to
sustain their fainting steps. Besides, as a slave, bearing his
own burden, Merion possessed a greater influence among his own
class than he would have done had he accepted the purchase of his
liberty. "The poor and lowly," said he to Dionysius, "have many
advantages which you in higher stations wot not of. Truth is not
veiled from them by politeness, or by the conventionalism of
society; they see things as they are, unmasked, and view
themselves also by another light than that which is shed on the
man to whom everybody bows. I have often thought, my lord, that
they need an extraordinary degree of grace, who are thus placed
above the multitude. Since our Lord has declared that it is the
'_poor_ who are blessed,' and he himself asks, 'How can ye
believe, ye who receive honor one of another?' [Footnote 64]
Believe me, then, my kind friend, there is a greater blessing in
a position to which no worldly honor is attached than to others;
at least for poor souls like mine, who cannot claim the
extraordinary graces needed to clear away the mists which obscure
the light from the great ones of this world." Thus pleaded Merion
against his own advancement, to which the bishop replied:
[Footnote 63: St. John viii. 32.]
[Footnote 64: St. John v. 44.]
"It is true, my Merion, we must all become 'poor in spirit,'
giving all honor to God alone, for the good that is in us, since
all that man has done is to pervert his gifts."
"And the more wonderful, the more exalted the gifts, the more
they are perverted. Chione's beauty and talent are already
turning her away from the religion she has professed."
"Nay, not so bad as that, my Merion. Neither is it the beauty or
the talent that are in fault. These are God's gifts to Chione. It
is the human self-love, the self-centralization which craves
homage and admiration, that are to blame. It is the repetition of
the primeval sin, the wilful separation of the soul from God, for
the sake of inordinate gratification. But Chione has worshipped
Christ. She will see her error and repent."
"Would I could think so," sighed the slave.
"Nay, now it is you who are wanting in confidence, my good
friend. Chione is the child of your prayer. You begot her in the
Lord, and He will preserve her for you. How, is not so plain. May
be, she will _fall_. Gifts like hers too often lack
humility, and humility, the foundation of the Christian
character, sometimes needs a fall, in order to produce it. Faith
you have already won for her, from God. Now set yourself to
intercede for her again, to win other gifts which shall render
her faith available to salvation. Ask for her, humility, at any
price of suffering to yourself or her. God will grant your
prayer, be assured of that, my friend. Now, as to what we can do
for the exterior circumstance, let me know your wishes."
{679}
"Is it possible to remove her from the path of that Magas?"
"We might try; though, rich and ardent as he is, he would be apt
to trace her to any place within our power to send her. I have
friends at Corinth. Should you be satisfied to send her there?"
"They are Christians?"
"Else I would not have named them. But, reflect, to none is she
as dear as she is to you. None will take the same interest in
her, watch over her--"
"But she will be out of the way of Magas."
"Her person will. How her mind will be affected, is another
question. We cannot change the affections or annihilate desires
by change of place. But it shall be as you wish."
"Will the Lady Damaris consent?"
"You know, full well, that the welfare of her household, temporal
and eternal, is the object of that lady's constant solicitude.
She will agree to anything she deems will promote it."
......
Chione was scarcely surprised when she was told that she was to
be sent to Corinth. Nay, to do her justice, she was not
altogether grieved. She knew her danger. Her pride and
self-respect revolted from any degrading connection with Magas.
And what other could she hope for? Neither as a slave nor as a
freed-woman could Magas elevate her to the rank of his wife. He
himself had proposed Aspasia for her model; but Aspasia to a
Christian maiden! Dazzling as was the ideal, not for a moment did
Chione suffer herself to believe it could be hers. Why, then, did
she hover around her destruction, as a moth hovers around the
candle? Why did her thoughts perpetually dwell on Magas as the
only one who understood her, the sole being on earth who could
appreciate her? Why had she endeavored, why did she still
endeavor, to attract his attention the more that she knew the
burning passion which fired his impetuous and vehement nature?
Chione felt but too truly the inward conflict of her soul. She
loved Magas. She could not conceal herself from him if he were
near--could not even avoid him. The attraction was too great. But
at Corinth she could forget him, at Corinth other objects would
occupy her, at Corinth she would again learn to love Christ. So
to Corinth she consented to go, making so little opposition to
the measure, that Merion half persuaded himself he had overrated
her weakness.
Chione was conveyed away stealthily, in company with a Christian
family who were making the journey homeward. Days elapsed; and
Magas watched in vain, set spies in vain. Chione was not to be
met with.
"The girl must be ill, or bewitched," said he. "Three
appearances, and nothing heard of her! A whole year since I saw
her before, and she so changed, beautified, and _silenced_
when we met again! What can it mean?"
"What can _what_ mean, Magas, that you are here talking to
yourself, and flinging yourself about like a madman?"
"Critias!"
"Yes; it is long since we met. What have you been doing since?"
"Tracing the girl who imposed upon us in the muses' temple."
"What! not forgotten that yet?"
"No. It was scarcely an adventure to be forgotten, save by one
who cares for nothing, like yourself."
"Well, what have you discovered?"
{680}
"This much, at least: the girl is Merion's niece."
"So! Then we may suppose her rhapsodies referred to the new
sect?"
"Yes; and that they must be looked to. I wish you would let me
question your slave awhile."
"Question all you like; but I warn you, Merion is not likely to
answer you unless _he_ likes."
"Then we can apply the torture?"
"No! not to Merion! no! Not on a subject which interferes with no
one, even though you have assumed it as a cobweb to your brain.
Merion is a faithful servant. I consent to no torture while he
continues such."
"Not if you learn that he is concerned in hatching a conspiracy
against the state?"
"Magas, I think you are taking leave of your senses."
But Magas was in love, and would neither hear reason nor be
turned away from his purpose. Merion would tell him nothing. He
said only that he had not seen the girl for many days, and that
it was not his business to inquire to what place she had been
sent. Lotis, the daughter of the principal philosopher of the
day, had been her frequent companion in early days, but of late
had seen her little, and, since the adventure in the temple, not
at all. Lotis was suspected to know the name of Chione's owner;
but, if she did, she kept it to herself. Months passed; and then
Magas disappeared also, and, for a while, was not again heard of
in Athens.
Continued.
--------
Philosophy Not Always Vain.
There are persons who think we err, and make our magazine too
heavy by devoting so large a portion of it to quasi-philosophical
discussions. All readers, we are aware, are not and need not be
interested in such discussions; but there are some who want them,
value them, and profit by them. One of our contributors has
received the following letter from a distinguished professor in a
Southern university, which proves that our heavy articles are
read by some, at least, and have served the cause of truth.
October 26, 1867.
To The Author Of The Article On
"The Cartesian Doubt,"
Published In The November Number
Of _The Catholic World_:
Dear Sir:
I beg you to accept the presentation of this copy of a book I
published, as you see, in 1860.
I do not offer it with any idea that you will find in it
anything new or instructive to you, or with any expectation
that you will give it approval or praise. I have become
conscious of several of the errors it contains.
I send it to you under the influence of two motives: 1st. To
offer you a token of the deep gratitude I feel toward you for
the article on "The Cartesian Doubt," and other articles (which
I take also to be from your pen) entitled "Problems of the
Age," published in _The Catholic World_; this gratitude
being felt for the flood of religious and intellectual light
they have shed upon my mind and heart, and for their having
convinced me of the truth of many Catholic doctrines I had
obscurely perceived, and which, through the clearness and force
of your language and arguments, now shine to my eyes with
unsullied lustre. Second. I also offer you this token, that you
may thereby judge for yourself how far I was behind, and
therefore what great advance I must have made toward a clear
understanding of the true relation and subordination of
philosophy to Catholic doctrine, now that I admit that doctrine
as received through your articles, which I have no doubt are
approved by the Church.
{681}
Hoping, sir, you will kindly receive this expression of my
heartfelt thanks, I subscribe myself, affectionately and
respectfully, yours.
The professor is mistaken in supposing that the article on T_he
Cartesian Doubt_ and those on _The Problems of the Age,_
are from the same writer. This, however, is a matter of no
consequence; for in both the profoundest principles of philosophy
are treated; and both, for the most part, set forth and defend
the same philosophical doctrine. We lay before our readers
another letter, from a distinguished lawyer, a recent convert to
the church, which shows that our philosophical articles are read
by eminent men, and with respect, even when their doctrine is not
accepted.
December 10, 1867.
To The Editor Of The Catholic World:
Dear Sir: In _The Catholic World_ for December, you say,
on page 427, "The school Sir William Hamilton founded ...
avowedly maintains that philosophy cannot rise above the
sensible, and that the supersensible, as well as the
superintelligible, must be taken, if at all, on the authority
of faith or revelation." Just before this, you also say, "The
science neither of language nor of logic can be mastered by one
who holds Sir William Hamilton was a philosopher," etc. Again,
on page 424, you say, "The tendency of all inductive
philosophy, as any one may see in the writings of ... Sir
William Hamilton and his school, is to restrict all science to
the phenomenal, and, therefore, to exclude principles and
causes, and consequently laws."
The ideas here advanced are new to my mind, and my object in
troubling you with this letter is to request you to refer me to
some philosophical work in which they are fully developed. I
came into the Catholic Church in the spring of 1865, as I
supposed by a process of induction, and by process of induction
I am thoroughly convinced that we have higher and better
evidence of the truth of the dogmas of the church, than of any
scientific fact; indeed, better than we have of any other fact,
save that of existence. But I have failed to discover in the
writings of Sir William Hamilton (the only one of the writers
you mention with whom I am even slightly acquainted) the
tendency you describe, and I cannot understand how such a
result could be produced by a legitimate inductive philosophy.
Sir William Hamilton shows that induction, when applied to
Deity, to the infinite or to the absolute, (he ought to have
said to any spiritual existence also,) fails to yield even
apparent truth, because it yields contradictions. It seems to
me that this must be a very near approach to a true catholic
philosophy, that is, to a definition of the field in which
induction is to operate; and I find it a weapon which silences,
if it does not convince, my Protestant friends; for if they
admit that their reasoning powers--those faculties which enable
them to make the boasted progress in physical science--give no
help in explaining the relation which exists between them and
their Creator, they then have to deny, with the deist, that any
such application exists; or if it does exist, admit that it
rests on authority, thus destroying the right of private
judgment, a result in either case fatal to Protestant
Christianity.
I don't think I am mistaken about what Sir William Hamilton
teaches, for I have his works before me; but it is very
possible that I do not comprehend the tendency of it; and I may
be entirely wrong in regarding him as a philosopher second to
but few since Aristotle. I am not seeking controversy, but
information; and if you can refer me to a book, not too large
for a hard-working lawyer to read, which will clearly define
what is regarded in the Catholic Church as the philosophy or
_rationale_ of religion, you will confer a favor which
will be long remembered.
Very respectfully.
The old controversy with heresy has lost its former importance,
for heresy in our time gives way to downright infidelity, or
total religious indifference, and the intelligent Catholic, who
understands his age, is more disposed to recognize and cherish
the fragments of Christian truth still retained by the sects
respectively, than to point out and refute their heresies. He
would be careful not to break the bruised reed or to quench the
smoking flax. In these times all who are not against our Lord are
for him.
{682}
The field of controversy has changed. The non-Catholic world is
either slowly retracing its steps toward the church, or rushing
headlong into rationalism, naturalism, humanitarianism,
pantheism, atheism. The modern atheists are a far more numerous
class than is commonly supposed. Virtually all naturalists,
humanitarians, and pantheists are atheists, and the God admitted
by the rationalists is not the living God, an ever-present
Creator and upholder of the universe, but an abstraction, a vague
generalization, or a God so bound hand and foot by the so-called
laws of nature, as to be powerless, and incapable of a single
free movement, or an efficient act.
These several classes of unbelievers pretend to base their denial
of divine revelation, the supernatural, the Christian religion,
the freedom, and even the very being of God, on science and
philosophy; and it is only on scientific and philosophical ground
that we can meet, and logically refute them. No doubt their
objections are sophistical, unscientific, and unphilosophical,
yet we can show that fact only by means of true science and sound
philosophy. We say nothing here of what grace may do; for it
works by a method of its own, and by inspiring the will and
enlightening the understanding, it enables one, by a single
bound, to rise from the lowest deep of infidelity to the
sublimest height of faith--to a faith that penetrates within the
veil--lays hold of the unseen and the eternal, and conquers the
world. We speak now only of the human means of meeting and
overcoming the objections of unbelievers to our most holy faith.
We can meet and overcome them, and produce what theologians call
_fides humana_, only by opposing the true philosophy to
their false philosophy--genuine science to their pretended
science, real logic to their shallow sophistries.
Is this a work that Catholics can prudently neglect? We think
not. Every age has its own special work to perform, its own
special enemies to combat, and there is neither wisdom nor
utility, nor true courage in turning our backs upon the enemies
that assail us, and dealing forth vigorous blows against enemies
long since vanquished, and now dead, and ready to be buried. We
must face the evil of to-day, the enemy that is actually in front
of us, and with the arms that promise to be effective against
him. This is not only wisdom, but a necessity, if we would defend
the treasure committed to us. Error is constantly changing its
forms, and we must attack it under the form it assumes here and
now. To-day it apes the form of science and philosophy. It will
avail us nothing to denounce philosophy as vain, or science as
unreal or valueless. We must accept both, and oppose to the
unreal or false the real and the true. We must meet and beat the
enemy on his own ground, and with his own weapons. As the enemy
chooses to attack us on the ground of science, reason,
philosophy, we must meet him on that ground, and show that on
that ground, as on every other, Catholicity is invincible, and
able to command the victory.
All the great theologians of the church have been great
philosophers; St. Athanasius, St. Basil, St. Gregory Nazianzen,
St. Augustine, St. Thomas, St. Bonaventura, Suarez, Bossuet,
Fénélon, to name no others: and all the glorious ages of the
church have been marked by profound and vigorous philosophical
and theological studies, as the fourth, the twelfth, the
thirteenth, and seventeenth centuries.
{683}
If the decline of faith marks a decline of science and
philosophy, so also does the decline of science and philosophy
mark usually a decline of faith. The revival of faith in our
century has followed or been accompanied by a revival of the
strong masculine philosophy of the fathers and the mediaeval
doctors. In proportion as men cast aside the _frivolezza_ of
the eighteenth century, engage in serious studies, and learn to
think, and think deeply and earnestly, faith revives, and men who
as yet are not believers look with reverence and awe on the
grandeur and beauty of the Catholic Church, over which time and
place have no influence, exempt from human vicissitudes, and on
which the storms and tempests of the ages beat in vain. All
serious and thinking men turn toward her, and she only is able to
give free and full scope to thought, and to satisfy its demands.
We do not, of course, fall into the absurdity of seeking to
convert faith into philosophy, nor to substitute philosophy, for
faith. Philosophy, strictly taken, is the rational element of
faith, or, more strictly still, the preamble to faith. It does
not give us supernatural faith, which is the gift of God; it only
removes the intellectual _prohibentia_ or obstacles to
faith, and establishes those rational or scientific truths or
principles which faith or revelation presupposes, which precede
faith, and without which faith could have no rational basis or
connection with science. All faith in the last analysis is belief
and trust in the veracity of God, or the affirmation, _Deus est
verax,_ and presupposes that God is. We cannot talk of faith
till we have proved from reason with certitude the existence of
God. The immortality of the soul brought to light through the
Gospel is not the simple existence of the soul in a future life,
but the immortal life of the blest in glory, rendered possible
and actual through the incarnation, and to which man by his
natural powers neither does nor can attain. This immortality
presupposes what is commonly meant by the immortality of the
soul, an immortality common to the beatified and the reprobate.
The immortality or continued existence of the soul is a rational
truth, and was held by the heathen in all ages, and must be
capable of being proved with certainty by reason prior to faith.
Faith reveals to us a state of future rewards and punishments.
But rewards and punishments presuppose free agency, or the
liberty of man, which is a truth of reason, and to be proved from
reason alone. Hence the Holy See required the traditionalists,
who seemed disposed to build science on faith, or to found faith
on scepticism, to subscribe a declaration that the existence of
God, the spirituality of the soul, and the liberty of man are
provable with certainty from reason alone prior to faith. These
are philosophical truths, and the philosophy that denies them or
declares itself unable to prove them is no philosophy at all. It
is because these great truths are provable by natural reason that
we are morally bound to believe the revelation of God when duly
accredited to us as his revelation, and that refusal to believe
it when so accredited is a sin.
It is easy to see, therefore, that Christian faith not only
leaves a wide field to reason or philosophy, but makes large
demands on philosophy, requires of natural reason the very utmost
it can do; for the highest victory of reason is precisely in
proving with certainty these three great scientific or
philosophical truths just named. How little do they understand of
our religion, who pretend that it dwarfs the intellect, gives no
scope to reason, and appeals only to the external senses and the
ignorance and credulity of the people! These considerations show
that reason, science, or philosophy has a great and important
part in relation to Catholic faith, and must have; for all the
theologians agree that grace supposes nature, _gratia supponit
naturam._ It is to the rational soul that God speaks.
{684}
Now, it is an undeniable fact, that what passes for philosophy
with non-Catholics either denies those great truths which are
prior to faith, or fails to prove them with certainty. With what
effect, then, can we meet the errors of the age or of our
country, and advance the cause of Catholic faith with those who
reject it, without entering even deeply into scientific and
philosophical discussions? To restore faith, we must restore
reason and philosophy, which is its expression; for reason is, at
present, more seriously assailed than faith. The controversy
to-day is not, as it was a hundred and fifty years ago, between
catholicity and heresy, but between catholicity and infidelity,
between the church and those who deny all religion deserving the
name; and this controversy is precisely in the field of
philosophy. In denying the church and rejecting the Christian
mysteries, the movement party of the age have lost reason, while
professing to rely on it and to be guided by it. They have fallen
below reason, and must be brought up to it, and be made to
respect it. The so-called advanced party of humanity, the
march-of-intellect or the progress-of-the-species party, deny not
the faith only, but, in act, reason too. The party has no
tolerable appreciation of the powers and capacities of natural
reason; and the moment we can get its members to reason, to
understand what reason can do, and is called upon to do,
controversy is over. We have got their face turned toward the
truth, and themselves making their way toward the church. Hence
the great work immediately at hand is the defence of reason.
Those Catholics who have not been in a position to learn, or who
have no call, in the way of duty, to study the wants and
tendencies of the age, may not be aware of any necessity for this
defence of reason, and therefore, for the philosophical essays,
which, from time to time, we publish, and may well think that we
fill with them a space that could be better filled with matter
less heavy and more attractive to the bulk of readers. But those
who, from their position or vocation, are obliged to study and
comprehend the age, whose duty it is to master the literature and
science of the non-Catholic world, and who are in habits of daily
intercourse with fair-minded and liberal non-Catholics, feel the
need of such essays, both for themselves and for those who hold
our religion to be illogical, unintellectual, unphilosophical,
and hostile to science. The age is earnest, terribly in earnest
in the pursuit of material gain, and even in the cultivation of
the material or inductive sciences; but, in spiritual matters, in
the higher philosophy which is the preamble to faith, it is sadly
deficient, and even indifferent; and this defect and this
indifference must be overcome. We could not effect our purpose in
publishing this magazine, or discharge our duty to our
countrymen, if we did not do our best to overcome them; to
stimulate those we are able to influence to devote themselves
with greater earnestness to the study of the highest and gravest
problems of reason now up for solution. Our readers know well
that our aim is not simply to amuse or to render ourselves
popular.
{685}
We do not believe it necessary to piety to put on a long face, to
speak with a nasal twang, or to go about with the head bowed down
like a bulrush. We delight to see the flowers bloom and to hear
the birds sing; we love art and all the amenities of social life;
but, with all this, we publish our magazine with a serious and
earnest purpose. _Ernst ist das Leben_. We aim to serve the
cause of faith, morals, intellectual culture, freedom, and
civilization; to do what in us lies, God helping us, to restore
our countrymen to faith in Christianity, and to Christianity in
its unity and integrity; and to make them work with intelligence
and zeal for the high destiny to which God, in his providence, is
calling our beloved country.
The two letters we publish, among many other evidences that reach
us, prove to us that we do not err in devoting a large space to
the discussion of the highest and most difficult philosophical
questions of the day. These letters are from men of education,
culture, and the first order of intellect and intelligence. The
first, which the author of the article on _The Cartesian
Doubt_ has kindly placed at our disposal, proves that our
so-called heavy articles have cleared up the mind, at least, of
one soul, and enabled him to see and admit the Catholic truth.
The second letter proves equally the part that philosophy plays
in bringing men of a high order of intellect to the faith, even
when the particular system of philosophy followed is not
precisely that which we ourselves defend. His letter shows that
its writer takes an interest in philosophy, and believes in its
utility. This is enough to justify us in our course.
The writer of this letter appears to be a little startled at our
censure of the inductive philosophy, and especially of Sir
William Hamilton. We cannot call that eminent and erudite
Scottish professor a philosopher, for we understand by philosophy
the science of principles and causes. All real principles are
ontological, and Sir William Hamilton denies that ontology is or
can be any object of human science. The only things pertaining to
philosophy he admits are logic and psychology. But how can there
be psychology without ontology? a soul without being? or science
of the soul without science of being, that is, without ontology?
The soul is not self-existent, has not its being in itself, but
in God; "for in him we live, and move, and are," or have our
being. How, then, construct a real science of the soul, or
psychology, without science of being, and of the relation of the
soul to real and necessary being, that is, of the divine creative
act? Logic is both a science and art. Men may, no doubt, practise
the art without a scientific knowledge of its principles; but, to
understand logic as a science, he must understand its principles,
and these are ontological. No man fully comprehends logic as a
science till he has seen its type and origin in the
tripersonality of God, and recognized its principle in the divine
creative act. Sir William Hamilton, then, by excluding ontology,
excludes from our science principles and causes, and leaves both
logic and psychology without any scientific basis.
The writer says, "Sir William Hamilton shows that induction, when
applied to deity, to the infinite, or to the absolute, (he ought
to have said to any spiritual existence also,) fails to yield
even apparent truth, because it yields contradictions." We say
the same, and therefore, while we admit inductive sciences, we do
not admit inductive science or philosophy.
{686}
Principles are given _à priori_, not obtained, as Kant has
amply proved, by induction from the facts of experience, because
without them no experience is possible. We agree with the writer,
not that this "is a near approach to a true Catholic philosophy,"
but, "to a definition of the field in which induction is to
operate." Induction is restricted to the analysis and
classification of facts, which fall or may fall under sensible
observation, or experiment, and therefore the inductive sciences
are empirical, not apodictic. This is what we said, when we said,
"The tendency of all inductive philosophy, as any one may see in
the writings of Sir William Hamilton, is to restrict all science
to the phenomenal, and therefore to exclude principles and
causes, and therefore laws."
The writer says, "I came into the Catholic Church in the spring
of 1865, as I supposed by a process of induction," etc., and very
legitimately too, we doubt not. We by no means exclude inductive
reasoning in its place. We do not depreciate the inductive
sciences, but we hold with Bacon that, while the inductive method
is the true method of studying the facts of the external world,
or of constructing the physical sciences, it is inapplicable in
the study of philosophy or metaphysics. Philosophy has been
well-nigh banished from the English-speaking world by neglecting
the admonition of Bacon, and attempting to construct philosophy
by the inductive method very properly adopted in the construction
of the physical sciences, thus reducing the philosopher to a
simple physicist, and philosophy simply to one of the physical
sciences, instead of recognizing her as their queen, the
_scientia scientiarum_. The difference between our friend
and us is not that we differ from him with regard to induction or
the inductive sciences, but that we hold that there is a science
above them, which controls them, gives them their law, and
renders them possible, and which is not obtainable by induction.
This science, which corresponds to the _sophia_ or
_sapientia_ of the ancients, and which Aristotle held to be
not empirical, and the science of first principles, is what we
call, and the only science that we call, philosophy. What our
friend understands by inductive philosophy lies below what we
call philosophy, and begins where our philosophy ends.
In proving the miracles as historical facts, or the historical
identity of the church in all ages, and her commission to teach
all men and nations all things whatever our Lord has commanded or
revealed to her, we follow the inductive process, and must do so,
for no other is possible. But it must be observed that the
inductive process would have even here no scientific value
without the science of the principles, what we call the preamble
to faith, namely, the existence of God, the spirituality of the
soul, and human liberty. Without this science, the induction
would conclude nothing, and our friend as well as we holds that
this science is not attainable by any inductive process. It must
also be observed that the inductions we draw from the historical
facts in the case do not give us divine faith, but simply a human
faith, or rational belief in the Catholic Church, as we have
already explained. The Catholic believer is more certain of the
truth of what the church teaches than he is of any historical
fact; but this higher certainty is not the result of induction,
for induction can give no certainty greater than we have of the
facts from which it proceeds.
{687}
The greater certainty is the result of the _donum fidei_, or
the supernatural gift of faith, by which the soul is born again
or initiated into the order of regeneration, and begins its
return to God as its final cause. The soul is thus really joined
by grace to Jesus Christ, who is the real head of every man in
the order of regeneration, and lives his life, as really as, in
the order of generation, we live the life of Adam our progenitor.
This certainty or firm persuasion, which St. Paul tells us "is
the substance of things to be hoped for, the evidence of things
not seen," _rerum substantia sperandarum, argumentum non
apparentium_, which is of grace, must not be confounded with
the _fides humana_, or certainty which is the product of
induction. This latter certainty, which results from the motives
of credibility fairly considered, and fully comprehended, and
which, after all, leaves us outside the door of the church, is as
great as any historical or inductive certainty can be, but it can
be no greater.
The writer says he has failed to discover in the writings of Sir
William Hamilton the tendency we describe, and that he cannot
understand how such a result could be produced by the inductive
philosophy; but he himself acknowledges that Sir William shows
that induction, applied to the infinite or the absolute, fails to
yield even apparent truth, and says he should have added, "or to
any spiritual existence." This, with the proposed addendum,
excludes from the inductive philosophy all but finite and
material or sensible existences, as we asserted. Sir William
maintains expressly that the infinite, the absolute, the
unconditional cannot even be thought, because, if thought, it
would be bounded and conditioned by our thought--an absurd
reason, for it supposes that our thought affects the object we
think! We think things because they are, not they are because we
think them. The object conditions the thought, not the thought
the object. Sir William's reason proves not that the object
thought is not infinite, absolute, unconditioned, but simply that
our thought on its subjective side is finite, or, in other words,
that we are not infinite, and cannot think an infinite thought or
perform an infinite act--no very novel assertion.
Exclude from philosophy the infinite, the absolute, the
unconditional, you exclude God, and deny that the existence of
God can be proved with certainty by reason, prior to faith. If
you exclude all spiritual existences, you deny all but material
existences, and that the spirituality of the soul is provable
with certainty from natural reason. If you exclude God from your
philosophy, you exclude the _causa causarum_, and therefore
all finite or second causes. Unable to assert any cause or
causes, your philosophy can recognize only, as we said, sensible
phenomena; nay, not so much, but simply affections of the
sensibility, without any power to refer them to any external
object or cause producing them. We think it very easy, therefore,
to understand wherefore the inductive philosophy, as gathered
from the school of Sir William Hamilton, should, as we said,
"tend to restrict all science to the phenomena, and therefore to
exclude principles and causes, and consequently laws." Can our
friend name anything more that can be an object of knowledge with
Sir William Hamilton and his school? Will he say this is all
philosophy can give? that is, all that can be known or proved by
natural reason?
{688}
If so, what answer shall we make to Saint Thomas and all Catholic
theologians who, with one accord, maintain that the existence of
God, universal, necessary, immutable, real, self-existent and
most perfect being, is demonstrable by reason? or to the Holy See
who has required the traditionalist to subscribe the declaration
we have already mentioned, namely, "Ratiocinatio Dei existentiam,
animae spiritualitatem, hominis libertatem cum certitudine
probare potest"? or to Saint Paul, who says, (Rom. i. 20,) "The
invisible things of God, even his eternal power and divinity, are
clearly seen from the creation of the world, being understood by
the things that are made, _per ca quae facta sunt
intellecta?_
We have dwelt the longer on this point because Sir William
Hamilton happens just now to be esteemed by a large class of our
countrymen as a great philosopher, and his writings are exerting
a bad influence on philosophic thought. He, perhaps, had no
contemporary who surpassed him in the literature of philosophy or
philosophical erudition; he knew all systems, ancient, mediaeval,
and modern, but he lacked the true _ingegno filosofico_, and
though a born critic, he cannot as an original and comprehensive
genius be compared even with Dr. Thomas Reid, the founder of the
Scottish school. His great merit was in completing the doctrine
of perception left imperfect by Reid, by proving that we perceive
in 'the sensible order things themselves, not merely their
phantasms, and that perceiving and perceiving that we perceive
are one and the same thing. So far he asserted real objective
knowledge, but knowledge only in the external or sensible order.
But he undid all this again by maintaining that we see things
under the forms of our own understanding; not as they are in
themselves, but as we are intellectually constituted to see them.
To an intellect constituted differently from ours they would
appear different from what they do to us. This has an ugly squint
toward the subjectivism of Immanuel Kant, and brings us back to
the apparent or purely phenomenal. This supposes that all our
knowledge is only knowledge relatively to us, or in relation to
the present constitution of our minds. Hence, there is nothing
absolute or apodictic in our science. Things may be in reality
very different from what we see them, or from what they appear to
us. This renders all our knowledge on its objective side
uncertain, and opens the door to universal scepticism. We think
we have done no injustice to Sir William Hamilton.
We rank Sir William Hamilton with the Positivists, as we do Mr.
Herbert Spencer and Mr. J. Stuart Mill, because he restricts our
science to the sensible and material order, and denies virtually
that we can know principles and causes. We do not pretend that
he, Mill, or Spencer agrees in all things with Auguste Comte, the
founder of Positivism; we have no reason to suppose that he
sympathized knowingly with Comte's avowed atheism, or with his
deification and worship of humanity. But the fundamental
principle of positivism, that which excludes ontology from the
domain of science, is common to them all; and it is impossible to
establish the existence of God, the spirituality of the soul, or
the liberty of man, or anything else without the aid of
ontological principles. Mr. Mansel, the ablest of Sir William
Hamilton's disciples, seems well aware of it, and attempts to
found science on faith, and faith on--nothing.
We would willingly comply with our friend's request, but we know
of no philosophical work in our language such as he wishes us to
name. The English-speaking world, since Hobbes and Locke, has had
no philosophy, and we are aware of no English treatise on
philosophy that has any philosophical value, though some good
things may be found in old Ralph Cudworth, Henry More, and in
Reid and Beattie.
{689}
We know nothing within a moderate compass in any other modern
tongue that would meet the wishes of our friend much better.
Balmes's Fundamental Philosophy, translated from the Spanish by
H. F. Brownson, with an introduction by his father, Doctor O. A.
Brownson, and published by the Sadliers in this city, is the best
that occurs to us. Several Latin text-books, used in our
colleges, such as Rothenflue's, Fournier's, Branchereau's, and
the Lugdunensis, are, though not free from objection, yet good
introductions to the study of philosophy. For ourselves, we
collect our philosophy from Plato, Aristotle, the fathers and
theologians, more especially from the mediaeval doctors of the
church, aided by various modern writers, and our own reflections.
We follow no one author, but regard St. Augustine and St. Thomas
as the two greatest masters of Catholic philosophy that have yet
appeared. As philosophy is the science of reason, we depend on
the reason common to all men to confirm or to reject such
philosophical views as we from time to time put forth.
--------
Father Lacordaire. [Footnote 65]
[Footnote 65: The Inner Life of the Very Reverend Père
Lacordaire, of the Order of Preachers. Translated from the
French of the Rev. Père Chocarne, O.P., with the author's
permission. By a Religious of the same Order. With preface by
the Very Rev. Father Aylward, Prior Provincial of England.
Small 8vo, pp. 556. Dublin: William B. Kelly. New York: The
Catholic Publication Society.]
A complete biography of the eloquent Dominican whose name is one
of the most brilliant in the history of the modern French Church
is yet to be looked for. If it is ever adequately written, it
will be a work of singular fascination. Rich, however, as Father
Lacordaire's life was in materials for such a book, it was a life
comparatively poor in striking incidents--a life whose best side
lay apart from the world, and whose beauty could be clearly seen
only by the light of a genuine religious spirit. In a word, it
was his _inner_ life which best merits our notice and
awakens our sympathy. We shall hardly be going too far if we say
that the history of his soul is a positive romance. This romance
Father Chocarne has endeavored to relate in his excellent
narrative of "The Inner Life of the Very Rev. Père Lacordaire."
As a biography, it is defective; but it does not pretend to be a
biography. It is, rather, a description of the mental and
spiritual progress of the man, and a picture of his virtues.
Henry Lacordaire was the son of a village doctor of
Recey-sur-Ource, in Burgundy, where he was born in 1802. The
gentleness of temper for which he was afterward remarkable,
distinguished him from his cradle, and the fiery eloquence by
which he was to work such wonders may almost be said to have been
a gift of his boyhood. As a child, his favorite amusement was to
play at being priest, and from his mimic pulpit to inveigh
against the sins of the world with an energy which often became
alarming.
{690}
An incident, which he relates himself, and which may be found in
his "Letters to Young Men," published by the Abbé Perreyve,
illustrates at once the remarkable delicacy of feeling which
formed, through life, so important an element of his character,
and the piety which distinguished his early youth. At the age of
ten he had been sent to school at the Lyceum of Dijon.
"From the very first day," says he, "my schoolfellows selected
me as a kind of plaything or victim. I could not take a step
without being pursued by their brutality. For several weeks
they even deprived me, by violence, of any other food than my
soup and bread. In order to escape their ill-treatment, I used,
as often as possible, to get away from them during the time of
recreation, and, going into the schoolroom, conceal myself
under a bench from the eyes alike of my masters and companions.
There, alone, without protection, abandoned by every one, I
poured out religious tears before God, offering him my childish
troubles, as a sacrifice, and striving to raise myself, by
tender sentiments of piety, to the cross of his divine Son."
Father Chocarne's remark upon this story, though it may seem not
altogether free from French fancifulness, is, after all, a just
one.
"This little sufferer, hidden under a bench in the college of
which he was afterward to be the honor, and taking refuge at
the feet of the Great Victim, gives the key to the entire life
of Father Lacordaire. He was not to be raised by God until he
had been abased. He was to know glory, but only at the price of
hard humiliations and bitter disappointments; and in the hour
of success, as in that of trial, his refuge, his resource, his
life, his very passion, was to be the cross, the cross of Him
who sought the little schoolboy hidden under his bench."
There was nothing at Dijon to keep alive the fervor of his
religious sentiments, and it was a time indeed when, in the
confusion of the political upheaval which was soon to wreak havoc
in the social life of France, faith was an unfashionable
weakness, devotion was an exclusively feminine accomplishment,
and piety was supplanted by a pinchbeck philosophy. What wonder,
therefore, that he left college at the age of seventeen, with his
faith practically destroyed--not an open infidel, but only a
nominal Christian? At the age of twenty he went to Paris to
commence the practice of the law. It may readily be supposed that
in the society of the metropolis, which was then seething with
political excitement, and intoxicated with dreams of impossible
liberty, in the stirring occupations of his career at the bar
where he achieved at once a very signal success, his religious
impressions would be still further weakened. At first this
certainly was the case; yet there was one peculiarity of his
disposition which preserved him from a good many of the dangers
of his way of life, and probably contributed, under God, to his
conversion. He was one who thirsted for love, yet was without a
single bosom friend. He never was attracted by the society of
women; but he longed for the affection of some congenial
companion of his own sex, who could enter into all his hopes and
feelings, and share his disappointments and his pleasures.
Without this--and his natural reserve long debarred him from it--
Paris was to him a desert. He was forced to withdraw into
himself. Solitude and habits of reflection begot an abiding
melancholy. "There are in me," he writes at this time, "two
contrary principles, which are always at war, and which sometimes
make me very unhappy--a cold, calm reason, opposed to a burning
imagination--and the first disenchants me of all the illusions
which the second presents.
{691}
Nobody would commit more follies than I should do on one side of
my being, were I not withheld by a habit of reflection which
presents things to me in all their aspects. I have played the
game of the material interests of this world, and, without having
much enjoyed its pleasures or been intoxicated with its delights,
I have tasted enough to be convinced that all is vain under the
sun; and this conviction comes both from my imagination, which
has no limits save the Infinite, and from my reason, which
analyzes all it touches. I have a most religious heart, and a
very incredulous mind; but, as it is in the nature of things that
the mind must at last allow itself to be subjugated by the
affections, it is most likely that I shall one day become a
Christian. I am alike capable of living in solitude, and of
plunging into the vortex of human affairs: I love quiet when I
think of it, and bustle when I am in it, sometimes making my
Castle in the air to consist in the life of a village curé, and
then saying good-by to my day-dream as I pass the Pont-Neuf--held
in my present position by that force of reason which convinces me
that to try everything and to be always changing one's place is
not to change one's nature, and that there are wants in the heart
which earth is powerless to satisfy."
By what process he was led out of this darkness into the light of
religious happiness, we do not know. Probably he never knew
himself the precise means by which the grace of God wrought his
conversion. "Would you believe it," he wrote in 1824, "I am every
day growing more and more a Christian? It is strange, this
progressive change in my opinions. I am beginning to believe, and
yet I was never more a philosopher. A little philosophy draws us
from religion, but a good deal of it brings us back again." His
progress toward the truth was rapid. He shunned the society of
his acquaintances. Sometimes he was detected on his knees behind
the columns of silent churches. Sometimes his friends surprised
him wrapt in sorrowful meditation among his books. At length the
clouds broke away. The divine light burst upon him in all its
magnificence. The loving friend whom he had sought so long he
found in the person of his Saviour. The affectionate heart which
had yearned for an object upon which to pour out its wealth found
one in Jesus Christ. The eloquent lips had at last a theme worthy
of their powers. He resolved to become a priest, and at the age
of twenty-two accordingly entered the Seminary of St. Sulpice.
The serenity and peace of mind which came upon him in his new
life was like the reaction after long restraint. He seemed
created for the priesthood, for he had all the natural gifts most
fitting the sacred calling; but his life had been forced into the
wrong channel, and now that the pressure was removed, his soul
rebounded with an elasticity at which his directors now and then
stood aghast. The strict formalism of St. Sulpice, with its
rigorous rules of propriety, was but little suited to his
independent character; yet it was something more than a natural
repugnance to unnecessary restraint which inspired him with a
gaiety little known in the prim precincts of the seminary.
"It sometimes happened that his lively and original nature, not
yet under much control, betrayed itself in sallies which
manifested something of the _gallica levitas_, seasoned
with Burgundian love of fun. The good directors were astounded,
and hastened to repress this boisterous levity. He never could
accustom himself to the square cap, that strange head-dress,
the shape of which is so grotesque that one dares not call it
by its true name. Against these caps Lacordaire declared war, a
war at first carried on by epigrams, but which soon became one
of extermination.
{692}
He would snatch them out of the hands of his friends and throw
them into the fire. This gave rise to a great commotion, and
very lively discussions ensued, some declaring in favor of the
square cap, and others for the biretta, which was then a
novelty. But novelty and argument were two things which St.
Sulpice held in equal abhorrence. In the evening, therefore, at
the hour of spiritual reading, the superior addressed them a
grave reproof, and order was once more restored.
"The Abbé Lacordaire always displayed perfect submission to his
directors; and if they were sometimes puzzled by the contrasts
of his singular character, they never had occasion to complain
of his want of humility, modesty, or obedience. He was beloved
by all his companions: his deep and earnest nature, wholly
given up to his new and sacred duties, was adorned with a
certain freshness of poetry, with the fragrance of worldly
refinement, and the grace of a character long pent up within
itself, but now freely poured forth; and all this gave an
indescribable charm to his personal intercourse which made him
generally loved and sought after. All his masters, however, did
not understand him; the singularity of some of his ways, his
liberal opinions, and his instinctive repugnance to certain
points of ordinary routine, doubtless now and then deceived
their observant eyes, and prevented them from at once
appreciating at its just value the pure gold which lay hidden
at the bottom of the vessel."
The consequence of all this was that his superiors remained a
long time in doubt about his vocation, and he was not allowed to
receive holy orders at the usual time.
"They felt uneasy when they observed his ardor for debates, and
the large claims which he made for reason. When he opened his
lips in class to raise any objection, his words took so lively
and original a turn, and his conclusions were so bold, that
they often proved somewhat embarrassing to the professors. At
last, in order to save time, they begged him to put off his
difficulties till the end of the lecture. He forgot this
sometimes; perhaps it was to relate a story, but the story
generally ended in some treacherous question, or some
home-thrust at the thesis of the master."
A project which he seriously began to entertain of becoming a
Jesuit put an end to this hesitation, and in 1827 he was ordained
priest. Very soon afterward an appointment as auditor of the Rota
at Rome was offered him. It was an office pretty certain to lead
to the episcopacy, but he refused it, and accepted the humble
post of chaplain to a convent of visitation nuns in Paris, where
his widowed mother came to live with him. The abundant leisure
which remained to him in this humble position he diligently
employed in study. At one time he had nearly made up his mind to
become a missionary in the United States, and he had an interview
respecting the project with Bishop Dubois, of New York, when that
venerable prelate visited France in 1830. The bishop offered him
the post of vicar-general. It would be curious to speculate what
effect his acceptance of this proposal would have had upon the
history of either the French or the American Church. Had he been
vicar-general, he would probably have been the coadjutor and
successor of Bishop Dubois, and the brilliant career of
Archbishop Hughes would have been missed from our annals. In no
other diocese than New York would Archbishop Hughes have found a
proper field for the full exercise of his remarkable powers; in
no other position than the one he actually occupied could he have
done such good service to the church as he effected in this chief
city of the new world. On the other hand, there can be no
question that Henry Lacordaire was but imperfectly fitted for the
hard and laborious work required in those days of an American
bishop. It was rough work, and the tools needed to be not
delicate but strong. To one who had refused a tempting offer from
Rome, the prospect of a vicar-generalship in America cannot be
supposed to have held out strong inducements; but there were some
reasons why a career in this country presented itself to his mind
in a strangely enticing light.
{693}
He had not forgotten his early aspirations for political
independence. He had already given deep thought to the problem
which was afterward to bring him into such prominence before the
world, of associating society and the church, and breaking the
unholy alliance between democracy and infidelity. Politically he
was an earnest liberal; religiously he was a devout priest. In
France, men did not readily see how the two characters could be
united; but in America he believed that Catholicism was placed
under conditions of development and action more favorable than in
any country of Europe. "Who is there," he exclaimed, "who, at
moments when the state of his own country saddens him, has not
turned his eyes toward the republic of Washington? Who has not,
in fancy, at least, sat down to rest under the shadow of her
forests and her laws? Weary with the spectacle I beheld in
France, it was on that land that I cast my eyes, and thither I
resolved to go to ask a hospitality she has never refused to a
traveller or a priest." Having obtained the consent of his
archbishop, he went to Burgundy to bid farewell to his family.
But while there, he received a letter from his friend, the Abbé
Gerbet, which changed his course and determined him to remain in
France.
In the spring of 1830, he had become intimate with the Abbé de la
Mennais, in whom the hopes of so many of the most zealous of the
religious party in France then centred. He was fascinated by the
genius of that remarkable man; he believed in many of his
theories; he tried, with only incomplete success, to accept his
philosophy; but De la Mennais was an absolutist in politics, and
Lacordaire was an earnest liberal. The revolution of 1830,
however, swept away this barrier which had hitherto kept the two
men apart. De la Mennais frankly accepted the great changes which
followed the abdication of Charles X., and, in conjunction with
some of his disciples, prepared to discuss the same problem of
the church and society of which Lacordaire was about to seek the
solution in America. In this work Lacordaire was invited to take
part. "Nothing," says Father Chocarne, "could have caused him
greater joy; it amounted to a sort of intoxication. ... And thus
the same enthusiastic love of liberty which was carrying this
ardent and generous soul to a country blest with a larger freedom
than his own, stopped him at the very moment of his departure,
and fixed him for ever to take part in the destinies and
struggles of his native land."
The _Avenir_ newspaper, which was to be the vehicle of this
discussion, was founded on the 15th of October, 1830. The noise
of it had no sooner gone abroad than a young French gentleman of
brilliant parts, then in Ireland, hastened home to claim a share
of the labor. This was Montalembert, and in him Lacordaire found
the friend for whom he had long sought, and a worthy object for
the affection which he was burning to bestow. They met for the
first time at the house of De la Mennais, and loved each other
from the first with a love such as knit together the souls of
Jonathan and David. De la Mennais, Lacordaire, and Montalembert
were three of the principal editors of the new journal.
{694}
"They declared their object plainly enough: it was to claim
back for the church of France every privilege of liberty,
whilst rejecting none of its burdens. The revolution had just
made a clean sweep of all ancient traditions. Since the
restoration of order and public worship at the beginning of the
century, the clergy had learnt to their cost the real value of
that protection granted by a power which was ill-informed as to
the real nature of its relations with the church; they had
found out by experience what they had gained in consideration
under the empire, under the restoration, and under the recently
established _régime_ of the _bourgoisie._ What
attitude were they to assume toward the new government? Would
the old endeavors to form an alliance between the throne and
the altar now recommence? The _Avenir_ was founded to
preserve them from this temptation. Its programme was, respect
for the charter and for just laws; but for the rest, an
absolute independence of the civil government. It consequently
advocated liberty of opinion for the press, and war against
arbitrary power and privilege; liberty of education, and war
against the monopoly of the university; liberty of association,
and war against the old anti-monastic laws revived in evil
times; the liberty and moral independence of the clergy, and
war against the budget of public worship. Very vague and
uncertain limits were assigned to these different liberties,
and the reserves stipulated for in the declarations of doctrine
disappeared often enough when the writers were carried away by
the ardor of discussion, and the vehemence of invective. They
were more frequently engaged, we must confess, in obtaining the
thing they sought than in preventing its abuse. Far too radical
in their principles, the polemics of the journal were yet more
so in the course of action which they recommended. 'Liberty is
not given, it is taken,' was a phrase continually repeated; nor
did they scruple to add example to precept. Every morning the
charge was sounded, and every day witnessed some new feat of
arms. The clergy were addressed as an army drawn up in battle
array. Every means was tried to kindle their ardor; the zeal of
the tardy was stimulated, and deserters were set in the
pillory. The chiefs of the party were harangued, the plan of
campaign indicated beforehand, the enemy pointed out and
pursued to death. Philosophers, enemies of religion, ministers,
miserable pro-consuls, members of the university, citizens, and
Gallicans were all attacked at once. Resistance did but rouse
the spirit of the combatants; it seemed as though the sun
always set too early on their warlike ardor. Patience and
discretion were not much regarded in their system of tactics;
they wanted to have everything at once, and could not wait for
to-morrow, and what was not granted with a good grace was to be
snatched by force, and at the point of the sword. This haughty
and antagonistic attitude, this want of experience in men and
things, more excusable in the young disciples than it was in
their master, formed, in our opinion, the greatest fault of the
_Avenir_. Its errors and exaggerations of doctrine might
have been corrected with time, good advice, and the practical
teaching of facts. But those haughty accents, so strange when
heard from the lips of priests, alarmed even their friends, and
created a certain consternation at Rome--Rome ever calm as
truth, and patient as eternity. The responsibility of this
false attitude must be charged chiefly on the Abbé de la
Mennais and the Abbé Lacordaire. It was the latter who drew up
the most incendiary harangues, and opened the most difficult
questions.
......
"The philosophic opinions of M. de la Mennais, and the absolute
theories of his journal, particularly those which represented
the state payment of the clergy as the badge of shame and
slavery, had excited a certain feeling of distrust among the
episcopacy, which daily increased. The young disciples of M. de
la Mennais were never afraid of a combat; but their faith and
loyalty could not endure the vague suspicions raised against
their orthodoxy. They began to desire a clear, open
explanation, and they determined to go and demand it from the
judge of all ecclesiastical controversies, the successor of St.
Peter."
The first suggestion of this course came from Lacordaire. He
reached Rome, with his two companions, about the end of December,
1831, and besought an audience with the Holy Father Gregory XVI.
for the purpose of explaining their views and intentions, and, we
may suppose, of defending their orthodoxy. But Rome is not
readily moved by the dreams of young enthusiasts, and their
reception was a cold one. They were denied a personal interview,
and were required to put what they had to say into writing. At
the end of two months, Cardinal Pacca condescended to notice
their memorial, promised that it "should be examined," and
courteously bade them go home.
{695}
The effect of this treatment upon De la Mennais and Lacordaire
respectively, is a remarkable illustration of their characters.
The one, deeply wounded in his pride, is sullen under the reproof
and at last throws away for ever the precious gift of faith. The
other acknowledges his errors, bows humbly to the command of God,
and, delivered from "the most terrible of all oppressions, that
of the intellect," starts afresh upon a more glorious career than
the one he is forced to abandon. "When I arrived at Rome," he
writes, "at the tomb of the holy apostles, St. Peter and St.
Paul, I knelt down and said to God, 'Lord, I begin to feel my
weakness, my sight fails me, truth and error alike escape my
grasp; have pity on thy servant, who comes to thee with a sincere
heart; hear the prayer of the poor.' I know neither the day nor
the hour when it took place, but at last I saw what I had not
before seen, and I left Rome free and victorious. I had learned
from my own experience that the church is the deliverer of the
human intellect; and as from freedom of intellect all other
freedoms necessarily flow, I perceived the questions which then
agitated the world in their true light." "It was at this moment,
as I venture to believe," says Montalembert, "that God for ever
marked him with the seal of his grace and laid up for him the
reward due to his unshaken fidelity, so worthy of a priestly
soul."
Lacordaire now resolved to return at once to France, and abandon
the _Avenir_ entirely. De la Mennais persisted in remaining
at Rome longer and resuming the suspended periodical; but when
the pope decided at last in his Encyclical Letter of August 15th,
1832, and decided against him, he made a temporary submission,
and withdrew to his country-house at La Chesnaie. In this
solitary retreat, where, in the days of his greatness, a knot of
favorite disciples used to sit at his feet, he was once more
joined by Lacordaire, who had more confidence in the reality of
his master's obedience to the Holy See than after events
justified. Before long, others of the young school gathered under
the roof of the lonely manor-house. De la Mennais chafed daily
more and more under the affront to his intellect. He gave signs
of rebellion. His heart was torn by passion, and his lips let
fall dark threats and alarming murmurs. "The harrowing
spectacle," says Lacordaire, "became too much for me to bear." He
wrote M. de la Mennais an affecting letter of farewell; and left
La Chesnaie alone and on foot. It was not long before the
apostasy of De la Mennais brought the sad history to an awful
close.
The young priest, who had escaped from the snare, hastened to
present himself to the Archbishop of Paris, Mgr. de Quélen. He
was received with open arms, as a son who had returned wounded
and weary from some dangerous adventure. "You want another
baptism," said the archbishop, "and I will give you one." He
reappointed him to the chaplaincy of the Visitation, and in the
retirement of that peaceful retreat he found rest for his
disturbed soul, and girded up his loins for a fresh battle with
the world.
He spent about a year in this solitude, and then accepted an
invitation from the officers of the Stanislaus College in Paris,
to preach a series of conferences to the students. Here, at last,
was the vocation for which God had designed him. The pulpit was
his proper sphere. After the first day, the pupils had to give up
their places to crowds of strangers, and the chapel could not
contain the numbers who flocked to listen to his indescribable
eloquence.
{696}
It was an eloquence not restricted by rules. The orator trampled
under foot the artificial forms which for centuries had cramped
and confined the utterances of the pulpit. He outraged at
pleasure all the canons of the schools. His conferences were
neither lectures, nor homilies, nor sermons, but rather were
brilliant discourses on sacred subjects in which all the
sympathies of the audience were by turns engaged. He spoke not
merely as a priest, but as a citizen, a poet, a philosopher, as a
man of the day, appreciating the spirit and the wants of his own
time. But, like all men who strike out in a new path, and are not
satisfied to follow exactly in the footsteps of their
grandfathers, he encountered bitter opposition from a certain
class of purblind formalists. His style, they said, was too
human; his rhetoric was too erratic; his disrespect for the
text-books of the schools of eloquence was positively appalling.
Nay, was he not one of that pestiferous brood which De la Mennais
had hatched in the woods of La Chesnaie, and which the Pope had
solemnly condemned? Was he not a liberal in politics, a friend of
liberty, an admirer of American republicanism? He had recanted
his errors; but that was forgotten. He had given the strongest
proofs of the steadfastness of his faith and the completeness of
his submission to the Holy See; but these were overlooked. He was
not merely an orator, but an accomplished theologian, for he had
always been a hard student; but to this his opponents resolutely
shut their eyes. They denounced him as a dangerous man, a
fanatic, an innovator, and a corrupter of youth. Their clamor at
last prevailed, and by order of the archbishop the conferences
were suspended. This second humiliation, which he accepted with
the same docility as the first, was of short duration. M. Affre,
afterward Archbishop of Paris, pleaded so earnestly for his
reinstatement that he was not only restored to the pulpit but
appointed a series of conferences in the great cathedral of Notre
Dame. We shall tell in his own words how, after a brief
hesitation, he entered upon this important duty:
"The day having come, Notre Dame was filled with a multitude
such as had never before been seen within its walls. The
liberal and the absolutist youth of Paris, friends and enemies,
and that curious crowd which a great capital has always ready
for anything new, had all flocked together, and were packed in
dense masses within the old cathedral. I mounted the pulpit
firmly but not without emotion, and began my discourse with my
eye fixed on the archbishop who, after God, but before the
public, was to me the first personage in the scene. He listened
with his head a little bent down, in a state of absolute
impassibility, like a man who was not a mere spectator, nor
even a judge, but rather as one who ran a personal risk by the
experiment. I soon felt at home with my subject and my
audience, and as my breast swelled under the necessity of
grasping that vast assembly of men, and the calm of the first
opening sentences began to give place to the inspiration of the
orator, one of those exclamations escaped from me which, when
deep and heartfelt, never fail to move. The archbishop visibly
trembled. I watched his countenance change as he raised his
head and cast on me a glance of astonishment. I saw that the
battle was gained in his mind, and it was so already in that of
the audience. Having returned home, he announced that he was
going to appoint me honorary canon of the cathedral; and they
had some difficulty in inducing him to wait until the end of
the station."
The effect of these discourses was irresistible. All Paris came
to hear them; and over the young men especially, into whose
wants, tastes, feelings, hopes, aspirations, disappointments
Father Lacordaire entered so thoroughly, because he had
experienced them all himself, his influence was almost unbounded.
{697}
"What above all distinguished his preaching, and marked its
providential mission, whilst it formed the chief reason of his
success, was its adaptation to social needs. It gave to society
what society was hungering and thirsting after; that Living
Bread, the long privation of which had brought it to the verge
of death; it spoke to the world of God, and of his Son, our
Lord and Saviour. Christianity has a social existence, not only
in the sense that it is itself a society, the most united, the
most universal, the most ancient, the most Catholic, and the
most perfect of all societies; but also in this, that all
societies depend on and live by it, as the body depends on the
soul, and draws its life from thence, and as man depends and
lives on God. Now the society which the Abbé Lacordaire
addressed was remarkable precisely in this, that it was
_without_ God. For the first time, perhaps, since
civilized nations have had a history, men were to be seen
endeavoring to progress without the aid of any positive
commerce with heaven. But if it is with difficulty that an
individual can live without religious faith, much more is it
impossible for a nation to do so. What, in fact, is a nation
but a great community of sufferings, miseries, weaknesses, and
maladies of mind and body? Without religion, and above all,
without Christianity, where is the remedy for all these evils,
the consolation for all these misfortunes? The Abbé Lacordaire,
himself brought back to Catholicism by his deep conviction that
society could not do without the church, received as his
peculiar mission the task of developing this truth to the eyes
of his countrymen. 'The old state of society,' he said,
'perished because it had expelled God; the new is suffering,
because God has not yet been admitted into it.' His constant
aim, the thought which ran through all his instructions, his
labors, and his entire career, was to contribute what he could
in order that he might reenter into the faith and life of the
age."
The conferences went on for two years without interruption, and
with constantly increasing success. The archbishop bestowed upon
the preacher the title of "the new prophet." All at once, in May,
1836, without any ostensible reason, he resigned his pulpit and
went to Rome. The fact was, he had not succeeded in living down
the misrepresentations and misconceptions which had embarrassed
him before. He was still regarded in many quarters as a dangerous
man, whose zeal was too rash, and whose orthodoxy was, at the
best, but unfirm. What better could he do than seek refuge from
detraction in the very bosom of the church? How could he better
prove his devout obedience to the Holy Father than by seating
himself at the very foot of the papal throne? In the retirement
of the Christian capital, he pondered upon his future career. A
life such as he had hitherto led he saw was impossible; whatever
good he might effect by his preaching would hardly counterbalance
the evil of the opposition he aroused among those who could not
or would not understand him. Moreover, the archbishop had kindly
intimated to him that there was no line of duty open to him
except in the routine of regular parochial duty. For this he had
neither fitness nor vocation. His only resource was consequently
in one of the religious orders. None of them except the Society
of Jesus had yet been restored in France. What a glorious task
for him to bring back some of them to his native country! After
long deliberation, his choice settled upon the Dominicans. The
difficulties to be overcome were enormous; and not the least of
the obstacles which he had to place under his foot was his own
character, his independence of spirit, his love of liberty, his
boldness in stepping out of the beaten path. We have no space to
relate in detail how he fought and conquered. He made his
novitiate at Viterbo, pronounced his vows in May, 1840, and the
next day set out for Rome, where the convent of Santa Sabina had
been consigned for his use and that of the six companions who
were to join him in his mission.
{698}
His stay here was but brief, for he was eager to get back to
France. In December, he reappeared in his native country, wearing
the habit which had been banished from the kingdom for half a
century.
"Here and there he met with a few marks of astonishment, and
sometimes of hostility. At Paris, where he was expected by no
one excepting his most intimate friends, many rejoiced to see
him. His former enemies had no time to think of their old
rancors, nor the lawyers their musty statutes. Everything else
gave way before the sentiment of curiosity. All the world
wished to see the friar, the spectre of past ages, the son of
_Dominic the Inquisitor;_ and especially to know what he
was going to do and to say. Mgr. Affre, the new Archbishop of
Paris, received Père Lacordaire with delight, saw no difficulty
in his preaching at Notre Dame in his new habit, and only
begged him to name whatever day he liked. We must leave Père
Lacordaire himself to relate the story of this bold adventure.
"'I appeared in the pulpit of Notre Dame with my white tunic,
gray-black mantle, and my tonsure. The archbishop presided, the
keeper of the seals, and minister of public worship, M. Martin,
(du Nord,) was also present, as he wished to observe for
himself a scene of which no one could tell the issue. Many
other distinguished persons concealed themselves in the
assembly, in the midst of the crowd which filled the church
from the doors to the sanctuary. I had chosen for the subject
of my discourse the _Vocation of the French Nation_, in
order to veil the audacity of my presence under the popularity
of my theme. In this I succeeded, and next day the keeper of
the seals invited me to a dinner-party of forty persons, which
he gave at the chancellor's mansion. During the repast, M.
Bourdain, formerly minister of justice under Charles X., leant
toward one of his neighbors, and said, "What a strange turn of
events! If, when I was keeper of the seals, I had invited a
Dominican to my table, my house would have been burnt down next
day." However, the house was not burnt, and no newspaper ever
invoked the secular arm against my _auto-da-fé_.'
"This was, in fact, one of his happiest strokes--one of those
surprises which he was fond of, and which suited the
adventurous side of his character. The effect of this
reappearance was immense; the religious standard had been
planted in the very heart of the stronghold; but the victory
was not yet completely gained, and many of those who had been
dazzled and disconcerted by the brilliancy and unforeseen
character of the attack, were not long ere they turned against
him, and demanded an explanation of his illegal triumph, in the
name of the state."
The establishment of the order in France was not effected without
a good many troubles. There was trouble at Rome, where he was
suspected and misunderstood until he proved his humility and
obedience. There was trouble in France, where the government
opposed the introduction of an order which was still forbidden by
law, and threatened him with penalties which, after all, they
lacked the courage to enforce; and where the timid and
short-sighted among the clergy would rather have had him submit
to wrong than compromise a sleepy sort of tranquillity by
standing up boldly for the right. There was even a tedious
controversy which, at this distance of time and place, seems
wonderfully trivial, whether he should be permitted to preach in
his white habit. But his courage conquered. One or two houses of
the order were soon opened; and, when the revolutionary troubles
came in 1848, the eloquent Dominican was one of the most popular
men in France. With the establishment of the republic, a somewhat
embarrassing question presented itself for his decision. It was
not easy for him, occupying such a position as he did in the
public eye, to stand aloof from the great public questions of the
day. The good of religion seemed to require that he should mingle
in the turmoil of politics. He tells how his determination was at
last effected:
"Whilst I was thus deliberating with myself, the Abbé Maret and
Frederic Ozanam called on me. They spoke to me of the trouble
and uncertainty that reigned among Catholics; all old
rallying-points were disappearing in what seemed likely to
become a hopeless anarchy, which might render the new
_régime_ hostile to us, and deprive us of all chance of
obtaining those liberties which had been refused by preceding
governments.
{699}
'The republic,' they added, 'is well-disposed toward us; we
have no such acts of barbarity and irreligion to charge it with
as disgraced the Revolution of 1830. It believes and hopes in
us; ought we to discourage it? Moreover, what are we to do?--to
what other party can we attach ourselves? What do we see before
us but ruin? and what is the republic, but the natural
government of a society that has lost all its former anchors
and traditions?'
"To these reasons, suggested by the situation of affairs, they
added higher and more general views, drawn from the future of
European society, and the impossibility that monarchy should
ever again find any solid resting-place. On this point I did
not go so far as they. Limited monarchy, in spite of its
faults, had always seemed to me the most desirable of all forms
of government, and I only saw in the republic a momentary
necessity until things should naturally take another course.
This difference of opinion was serious, and hardly allowed of
our working together in concert. Nevertheless, the danger was
urgent, and it was absolutely necessary either to abdicate at
this solemn moment, or frankly to choose one's party, and bring
to the help of society, now shaken to its very foundations,
whatever light and strength each one had at his command.
Hitherto I had taken a definite position with regard to public
events; ought I now to take refuge in a selfish silence because
the difficulties were more serious? I might indeed say that I
was a religious, and so hide myself under my religious habit;
but I was a _religious militant_, a preacher, a writer,
surrounded by a sympathy which created very different duties
for me from the duties of a Trappist or a Carthusian. These
considerations weighed on my conscience. Urged by my friends to
decide, I at length yielded to the force of events, and though
I felt a strong repugnance to the idea of returning to the
career of a journalist, I agreed, in concert with them, to
unfurl a standard on which should be inscribed together the
names of Religion, the Republic, and Liberty."
This was the origin of a new political journal, the _Ere
Nouvelle_, of which he commenced the publication in the spring
of 1848. Nor was this all. The city of Marseilles elected him a
representative in the constituent assembly; and, in his white
Dominican habit, he took his seat there on the extreme left. We
need hardly say that his political career was a bitter
disappointment to himself, and a disappointment, too, to many of
his friends. There was only one party with which his principles
permitted him to ally himself; but that party, as he saw it in
the assembly, could not enlist his sympathies. "I could not sit
there," he said, "apart from democracy, and yet I could not
accept democracy as I saw it there displayed." He held his seat
only two weeks. On the 15th of May, a mob invaded the hall of
meeting, and for three hours held their representatives
intimidated. The next day Lacordaire resigned in disgust. "I
found out," said he afterward, "that I was nothing but a poor
little friar, and in no way a Richelieu; a poor friar, loving
nothing but retirement and peace." Very soon afterward he
withdrew likewise from the _Ere Nouvelle_, and here it may
be said that his public life came to a close. He preached for
some time longer in Notre Dame, but the boldness of his language
gave offence, and, after the _coup d'état_ of December,
1851, he resisted all entreaties to appear again in the cathedral
pulpit. The strengthening and propagation of his order now took
up all his attention. He visited his brethren in other countries,
and made a short trip to England. Then, at the age of fifty, he
resolved to devote himself to the education of the young. He
founded houses of the third order of Dominicans for the express
purpose of carrying on this important work, and in one of them,
at Sorèze, he finally settled down to pass the remainder of his
days. Here, with powers yet unimpaired, the man whose eloquence
had stirred all France applied himself to teaching the Greek and
Latin grammar. He had no fixed system of education, but his
personal magnetism made up for other defects; he gathered around
him the best instructors; he lived like a father in the bosom of
his family; he filled the place with the odor of gentleness and
piety. Here, on the 21st of November, 1860, after an illness of
nearly a year, he preached his last.
{700}
Important as the labor was in which Father Lacordaire had spent
the closing years of his life, we cannot help feeling that it was
not the labor for which he had been specially endowed, nor was it
that in which his heart was most deeply engaged. It is rather as
the preacher of Notre Dame than as the president of Sorèze,
rather as the reconciler of religion and society than as a
teacher of boys, that he stands before us in the page of history.
What a bitter comment is it upon the condition of affairs in
France, fifteen or twenty years ago, that such a man could be
stopped in such a career! The story of Lacordaire often reminds
us of a passage in one of George Eliot's novels, where the life
of one who had gone through bitter sorrow and disappointment is
described as being "like a spoiled pleasure-day, in which the
music and processions are all missed, and nothing is left at
evening but the weariness of striving after what has been failed
of." It was partly so with his life; not wholly, of course, for
the reward of the striving came at evening, though the object of
the struggle had been missed. Disappointment and weariness were
the burdens which God laid upon him, and he leaves a brighter
renown, as well as reaps a brighter reward, for the sweetness
with which he bore them.
--------
Sayings Of The Fathers Of The Desert.
Abbot Isaac said: I know a brother who was reaping, and who
wished to eat an ear of corn, and he said to the master of the
field: Are you willing I should eat one ear of corn? And he,
hearing these words, was astonished and said: The field is thine,
Father, and dost thou ask me? So scrupulous was the brother.
Abbot Sisois once said in confidence: Believe me, I have been
thirty years without praying to God on account of my sins; but
when I pray I say this: O Lord Jesus Christ, save me from my
tongue. And yet it causes me to fall every day, and be
delinquent.
Abbot Pastor said: As the bees are driven from their hives by
smoke so that their honey may be obtained, even so does bodily
rest banish the fear of the Lord from the soul, and take from it
every good work.
A certain old man determined that he would drink nothing for
forty days. Whenever he was tormented by burning thirst, he took
a vessel, and, having filled it with water, placed it before him.
And when his brethren asked why he did this, he answered: In
order that, seeing what I greatly desire, and yet not tasting it,
my suffering may be the more intense, and hence that the reward
which God shall give me may be greater.
--------
{701}
Providence.
When I remember all my days,
And note what blessings each displays,
What words can speak my grateful praise?
What varied beauty thrills my sight!
What sounds my listening soul delight!
What joys of touch and appetite!
And, more than any joy of sense,
The happiness serene, intense,
That comes to me, I know not whence,
Unless it be that He is near,
And speaks some words I cannot hear,
But which unto my soul are clear.
For there are times--ah! who can tell
The gladness inexpressible
With which my soul doth overswell!
Ev'n sorrows that once seemed to press
My soul to brinks of wretchedness,
I know were but his means to bless.
Out of the deeps of pain and fear,
He led me to a higher sphere,
Where all his purpose is made clear.
Had not such sorrow struck my ways,
I had lived out my earthly days,
Barren of either prayer or praise.
Wherefore each day, when I recall
The blessings which his hands let fall,
For _this_ I thank him most of all;
And would not, if I could, forego
The sorrow which he made me know,
For unto it so much I owe.
{702}
This happy life, this lovely earth,
These joys which every day brings forth,
Are now to me of tenfold worth.
Such wondrous love all things disclose,
Such joy through all my being glows,
That in my soul a longing grows
That I might see this One All-Good,
And tell him all my gratitude,
In words however weak and rude.
But ah! I fear it cannot be
That I this loving God can see,
For he fills out infinity;
And out of him there is no place
Where I can stand to see his face:
Enough, I lie in his embrace,
And sometimes, albeit dimly, feel
That he is near, and doth reveal
Himself in joy unspeakable.
I said, indeed, 'I shall not see
Him face to face;' yet it may be
That joy of joys awaiteth me.
For when this grossness, that doth fence
My being in the bonds of sense,
Falls off when I am taken hence,
New powers of which I do not know
May be revealed in me, and show
The One to whom myself I owe,
And I may see him face to face.
Lord, grant it of thy boundless grace,
The crown of all my happiness!
--------
{703}
From The Etudes Religieuses,
Historiques Et Litteraires,
Par Des Peres De La Compagnie De Jesus.
The Pre-historical Congress Of Paris.
An "_International Congress of Anthropology and Pre-historical
Archaeology_" assembled in the amphitheatre of the _Ecole de
Médecine_, at Paris, on the 17th of last August, and held
sessions until the 30th. The meaning of the terms anthropology
and archaeology is familiar; but the word _pre-historical_,
being of recent origin, requires an explanation. It is used to
designate either material objects, or events and epochs, or even
men, _anterior_ not only to written history, but also to all
oral tradition and to every monument having a certain date and an
origin historically determined.
In the lowest strata of the earth which we tread, in caverns
unknown for centuries, under the _tumuli_ or heaps of shells
and fossils; in the bottom of lakes where formerly dwellings and
villages were built on piles; and in cromlechs and raths, are
found, with the bones of animals now extinct, arms, instruments,
and utensils of stone, evidently fashioned by the hand of man. In
the next stratum above, the same stone objects are found; but
this time the stone is polished and accompanied with bones of a
different character--most frequently the bones and horns of the
reindeer. Human remains, skulls, jaw-bones, and teeth, begin to
appear in greater quantity. But in these two first layers of the
earth no metal is discovered. It is only in the third stratum
that brass, then iron, often all the other metals, are met. These
singular fossils, and the invariable order of their existence, in
France as well as in other countries, are the facts of which the
present essay treats.
The epoch in which iron begins to appear in the layers of the
earth is one the date of which is known to us either by the
relations of historians, or by traditional recollections, or by
inscriptions and medals found in the soil. These strata,
therefore, and their antiquities, belong to the historical epoch.
But the lower strata, of more ancient formation, all the fossils
found in them, curious specimens of primitive industry, monuments
of the social state and manners of the first men; human remains
also which bear testimony to man's physical conformation; all
these, anterior to history, belong to _pre-historical_
archaeology and anthropology. These sciences are very young in
years and manners, but very old by their object and the age to
which they carry back our thoughts.
The Paris Congress met to compare the discoveries of different
countries, and thus obtain a more perfect knowledge of the
_pre-historical_ period, and draw more general inferences
from it.
A first congress assembled in 1866, at Neufchâtel, in
Switzerland; the second is that of Paris, last August; the third
will meet this year in England. The Congress of Paris was
singularly favored by the Universal Exposition. The most eminent
representatives of European science were there. Russia alone was
not represented. Among the foreign members who spoke were Franks,
Squier, Vorsaae, Nilsson, Desor, Clément, Virchow, and especially
Carl Vogt, the learned naturalist.
{704}
It was this outspoken and venturesome _savant_ who at
Neufchâtel declared himself a partisan of the _man-monkey_.
France had there her Lartet, President, De Mortillet, Secretary,
De Longperier, the learned antiquarian of the Louvre, and De
Quatrefages, the eminent naturalist of the museum. These two last
illustrious members of the French Institute had a preponderating
influence in the congress, for the interest of science and the
glory of their country. The Abbé Bourgeois, the Marquis de
Vibraye, Alexander Bertrand, Alfred Maury, Henry Martin, and
Doctor Broca, were also present and addressed the assembly.
If we are to believe certain reports, of which the positivist
sheet _La Pensée Nouvelle_ is the organ, it was proposed to
prove satisfactorily that the appearance of man on the earth
dates from one hundred to sixty, or at least from forty thousand
years; that this appearance is not the result of a creation
properly so called, but the term of a slow and necessary
evolution, as would be, for instance, the progressive
transformation of the monkey type into the human; imperceptibly
taking place for thousands or rather millions of ages! In this
way the authority of the Bible would be set at naught, as being
old, and gradually falling to pieces; but more especially because
it is revealed and undoubtedly true. We could then do without the
_hypothesis_ of a God, Creator of man, since our learned men
would show that they could do without the _hypothesis_ of a
God, Creator of heaven and earth.
Was this the real aim of the Paris Congress? If so, it was the
same as that which well-informed men allege to have been the
object of the first hall of the history of labor in the French
Exposition. It is certain that, for several years, many books,
reviews, journals, and even so-called official discourses which
every one may read, have openly tended in this direction.
But let us confine our remarks to the congress. We dislike to
affirm that such was the fixed thought of the majority of the
foreign and French members. The love of science, the praiseworthy
desire of collecting information, or of giving it regarding facts
very ancient in themselves, but very new in regard to us; these
motives gathered in Paris important strangers, and Frenchmen of
different classes and opinions. On the other hand, it seems
impossible to deny that an ardent minority had the intention of
overthrowing the biblical theory of creation both as to time and
character; of this minority all except one were Frenchmen.
Yet--let us hasten to say it--the minority did not succeed. The
scandal did not take place. The majority was not convinced of the
falsity of the traditional teaching. The new doctrines were not
found to be certain. A few affirmations and eccentric theories
were expressed. But they were so justly, learnedly, and wittily
answered, that the theorists had to doubt their ill-judged
systems. This is a very important result, in such an affair.
A programme of all the excursions to be made in common to the
Exposition, to the Museum, to the Palace of Saint Germain, to the
megalithic monument at Argenteuil, to the environs of Amiens, to
the Museum of Artillery, and to the Museum of the Anthropological
Society, was traced in advance. Six principal questions occupied
the six evening sessions at the _Ecole de Médecine_.
{705}
The day after these sittings, the members met again in the same
place, in free session, each to propose his difficulties, hear
the written communications of absent members; examine packages
arriving daily, containing new specimens of the primitive works
of man, arms, utensils, different instruments in stone, in bone,
in bronze, or in iron found in the bowels of the earth, in
caverns, or lakes and in Druidical cromlechs, raths, or mounds,
in France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Great Britain,
Denmark--in short, everywhere.
The six fundamental questions formed six theses, comprising the
entire domain of _pre-historical knowledge_. "What are the
most ancient vestiges of man's existence? In what geological
conditions, among what _fauna_ and _flora_ have they
been found in the different parts of the globe; and what changes
have taken place since then, in divisions of land and water?"
This was the first question. Next question: "Has the dwelling of
the primitive man in caverns been general? Is it true of one race
alone, referable to one and the same epoch?" Third question:
"What relations are there between the men to whom we owe the
megalithic monuments, and those who formed the lake dwellings?"
The fourth was: "Is brass the product of indigenous industry, the
result of a violent conquest, or the effect of new commercial
relations?" This had reference to the use of brass in the west.
Fifth question: "What are, in the different countries of Europe,
the chief characteristics of the first epoch of iron? Is this
epoch anterior to the historical period?" The sixth and last was
the most important question: "What are the notions acquired
regarding the anatomical characteristics of man in the
pre-historical times, from the most remote times to the
appearance of iron? Can the succession of several races, and
their traits, be discovered, especially in Western Europe?"
It is easy to see that the five first questions are delicate,
difficult, and important, though they all centre in a point of
chronology. But chronology in this case is the history of man. It
is the Bible and revelation. It is tradition. It is faith. We
must assign a reasonable date for those ancient _débris_ of
labor, or of the human beings whom we certainly meet in all the
strata called _quaternary_; and probably also in the last
layers of the _tertiary_ strata, much more ancient than the
quaternary. This date must in no wise change the sacred text.
This date once found and demonstrated, would settle the dispute
which still exists regarding the chronology of the Bible. We know
that the Catholic Church gives us full liberty on this point. But
the moment has not yet come for pre-historical archaeology to
define the limits of the ages or years which it calls _the age
of cut stone; the age of polished stone_, or of the
_reindeer;_ the age of _brass_, and the _age_ of
_iron_. The congress understood this well. Only two or three
orators were bold enough to speak of thousands of years or of
millions of years. Some _savans_ have wonderful
imaginations! But in general, no one ventured to determine or
define the time. Almost always the gentlemen used the words
_epoch, age, period,_ without wishing to be more precise.
They were afraid to compromise their reputations.
Without doubt, for the same reason, no _savant_ or person of
consequence wished in the beginning to sign his name to the
catalogues of the Exposition, relating to the pre-historical
antiquities, or hold himself personally responsible for them.
{706}
But behold! after five months, when the _Exposition_ was
near its close, on Thursday, August 29th, M. de Mortillet offered
timidly to the congress a little volume of his composition,
entitled, _Pre-historical Promenades in the Universal
Exposition_. M. de Mortillet is also the author of an other
book, _The Sign of the Cross before Christianity_. He is
also collecting materials for the _positive_, or rather
_positivist_ and philosophical history of man. For M. de
Mortillet imagines that it is necessary for men of genius to
astonish others, if not by discoveries in truth, at least by
their eccentricities. M. de Mortillet is a man of genius. The
world may deny it. But M. de Mortillet is a better authority on
the subject than any one else. This learned gentleman concludes
his _Promenades_ with these beautiful phrases: "The
chronology taught in all our schools is _terribly
distanced_. It hardly comprises the historical period. The law
of the progress of humanity, the law of the development of races,
and the great antiquity of man, are three consequences which
follow clearly, distinctly, precisely, and irrefragably from the
work which we have made on the Exposition." In these three
phrases we perceive the wonderful wit, profundity, brilliancy,
and genius of the author. It is astonishing how a gentleman of
his extraordinary science, although he was secretary of its
deliberations, could not exercise the smallest influence on the
congress, either by his speeches or his books!
Pre-historical archaeology was enriched by many new discoveries
at the congress. The Abbé Bourgeois, among other important facts,
observed that traces of man were found in the tertiary stratum.
The anthropological question came last. Eight days before the
close of the congress, M. de Quagrefages proposed that question,
in presenting to it the first copy of his fine work, _Rapport
sur les Progrès de l'Anthropologie_. With great science,
clearness, and modesty, the illustrious naturalist, in rendering
an account of his investigations, held the whole assembly
attentive. The applause which he received showed the esteem in
which the author was held, and the value of his book.
Other incidents formed a prelude to the final thesis; but some in
an opposite direction. We cite a single example. It was asked
whether the first men had been anthropophagi or not. It is well
known that there is a school in France, as well as elsewhere,
which deems it no dishonor to be descended from cannibals or
monkeys. A member of the congress made a profession of faith on
this point. The admitted head of this school (Doctor Broca) asked
leave to speak on primitive anthropology. He began by saying that
he had long hesitated before adopting the affirmative, and that
the proofs so far given did not satisfy him; but a human bone,
which he showed to the assembly, had finally convinced him. This
bone had scratches at the end of it made by a flint. A man of the
age of _cut stone_ had tried to break the bone at this spot.
He could not succeed. He had then tried to saw the bone in the
middle with a flint, in order to obtain the marrow, with which he
wished to regale himself. Some of the members laughed, especially
when one, interrupting the orator, remarked that the pretended
marks made by the stone saw seemed fresh, and produced by recent
rubbing. When the demonstration was finished, the eminent
archaeologist, M. de Longpérier showed, from the example of
several historical races, and by specimens which are found in
public museums, that objects of luxury, as well as utensils, were
often made out of human bones.
{707}
Instances were given of mallets, bodkins, and musical
instruments. As to the bone in question, nothing showed that the
cuts and scratches on it pointed out by Doctor Broca were not
caused by _some one trying to make a whistle!_ The reader
may guess the impression left on the congress by this remark, and
the expression of the doctor's physiognomy.
In anthropology as in archaeology the celebrities of the congress
alleged well-proven facts; either real fossils of the human body,
bones, skulls, jaw-bones, teeth; or signs naturally connected
with the subject, as hilts of swords, or bracelets fitting hands
or arms much smaller than ours. But it was first required to
prove the authenticity of these antique objects. Theories could
not be established until after the discussion of these facts. So
the theorists were not at ease. They may have complained of
having been troubled or gagged. By whom? By men too learned to be
the slaves of a system. If such complaint were made--and such is
the rumor--they are the highest eulogium of those eminent men.
"Si forte virum quem
Conspexere, silent." [Footnote 66]
[Footnote 66: The vulgar herd in silence awestruck scan The
face of him whom nature marks a man!]
At the closing session some human skulls, very ancient or
supposed to be, were ranged on a table. Those heads were
remarkable for the extraordinary length of the occiput, by their
retreating foreheads, high cheek-bones, and prominent jaw-bones.
The object of these skulls was to show the great similarity
between the primitive man and the monkey. Doctor Broca, standing
before the table, made a speech more than an hour long about
those skulls, discussing the authenticity of some and reasoning
on the others. He spoke also of a singular jaw-bone. He said a
few words about the small hands. He should logically have
concluded that the primitive man was a brother of the ape. Every
one expected this. But at the decisive moment, he wheeled about,
and confessed that there were not yet proofs enough to justify
such a conclusion, and that it should not be urged. Was he afraid
of ridicule or was he really convinced in making this concession?
Let us say that it was conviction on his part. But the doctor's
premises were not as inoffensive as his conclusion. M. de
Quatrefages made short work of them. He so pulverized the
arguments of Doctor Broca, that Carl Vogt, summoned against his
will to help the doctor, admitted the conclusion of his
colleague.
Vogt began by declaring himself a Darwinian. Although the theory
of Darwin cannot satisfy the best naturalists, it knocks the
man-monkey completely off his legs. Vogt admitted that it was
impossible, in the actual condition of science, to hold the
man-monkey opinion; so great is the distance between the lowest
human type and the highest ape type. The Genevan Darwinian indeed
added, that we might _imagine_, or might discover at some
future day a common type of both races; but he was not very
sanguine on this point. Only one thing, said he in conclusion,
remains indisputable after all our discussions on the capacity of
skulls and the shape of the head, namely, the progressive
development of the brain and of the human skull, in proportion to
the increasing development of intelligences.
We shall not dispute this double progress. It has the sanction of
that most eminent naturalist and anthropologist M. de
Quatrefages. We even admit a third progress with this
_savant_; that made from Congress of Neufchâtel to the
Congress of Paris. Even though we the should be accused of
optimism, we shall even hope for greater progress in the future
congresses. Yes, we expect it. Pre-historical studies will add to
the facts already known others more significative still; and the
learned will finally and unanimously adopt, in default of
certitude, theories more probable and more convincing as they
approach nearer to the truth.
------
{708}
Miscellany.
_Singular Effects of Lightning_.--Sir David Brewster has
published an account of the effects of lightning in Forfarshire,
which is of much interest. In the summer of 1827, a hay-stack was
struck by lightning. The stack was on fire, but before much of
the hay was consumed the fire was extinguished by the farm
servants. Upon examining the hay-stack, a circular passage was
observed in the middle of it, as if it had been cut out with a
sharp instrument. This circular passage extended to the bottom of
the stack, and terminated in a hole in the ground. Captain
Thomson, of Montrose, who had a farm in the neighborhood,
examined the stack, and found in the hole a substance which he
described as resembling lava. A portion of this substance was
sent by Captain Thomson to Sir David's brother, Dr. Brewster, of
Craig, who forwarded it to Sir David, with the preceding
statement. The substance found in the hole was a mass of silex,
obviously formed by the fusion of the silex in the hay. It had a
highly greenish tinge, and contained burnt portions of the hay.
Sir David presented the specimen to the Museum of St. Andrew's.
----
_Ancient Glacier in the Pyrenees_.--M. Charles Martens, who
was present at the meeting of the British Association, read a
paper on the ancient glacier of the Valley of Argelez. This
glacier and its affluents descended from the crest of the
Pyrenees, whose summits now reach an altitude varying from 6000
to 9000 feet. The roots of the glacier were in the _cirques_
of Gavarnie, Troumouse, Pragnères, etc., and the glacier extended
into the plain as far as the villages of Peyrouse, Loubajac, Ade,
Juloz, and Arcisac-les-Angles. Along the valley, polished and
striated rocks, scratched pebbles, glacial mud, moraines, and
erratic boulders, are the proofs of its existence. At Argelez,
the thickness of the glacier was about 2100 feet, and, at the
opening of the valley at the foot of the Pic de Geer, near
Lourdes, 1290 feet. Between Lourdes and the village of Ade, the
railway runs across seven moraines; and the railway from Lourdes
to Pau is cut, as far as the village of Peyrouse, through glacial
deposits. The Lake of Lourdes is a glacial lake, barred by a
moraine, and surrounded by numerous erratic boulders proceeding
from the high Pyrenean mountains. Some of the boulders are of
large dimensions: thus one of them, between the lake and the
village of Poueyferré, is thirty feet in length, twenty-three
feet in width, and eleven feet in height. This lake of Lourdes,
surrounded by hills covered with briars, reminds one, in many
respects, of the small lakes of Scotland.
-----
_A Burning Well_.--While some artisans were engaged in
making borings for an artesian well at Narbonne, France, the
water rushed forth with great violence, and soon burst into
flame. The flame, which arises from the combustion of carburetted
hydrogen, is reddish and smoky, and does not emit a smell either
of bitumen or sulphuretted hydrogen.
{709}
The "sinking" for the spring was made on the left branch of the
Aude, in a plain situate about two metres above the sea-level,
and composed of alluvial mud. The alluvial mud extends to a depth
of six metres; then follow tertiary limestones and marls, with
the remains of marine shells. At the depth of seventy metres, the
spring containing the inflammable gas was met with.
----
_Comets and Meteors_.--In a paper on this subject, laid
before a late meeting of the Astronomical Society, Mr. G. J.
Stony, Secretary to the Queen's University in Ireland, makes the
following interesting observations, which tend to show, as
Schiaparelli has already pointed out, that there is a very
natural relationship between comets and meteors. If interstellar
space, external to the solar system, be, as is most probable,
peopled with innumerable meteoric bodies independent of one
another, a comet while outside the solar system would in the
lapse of ages collect a vast cluster of such meteorites within
itself. Each meteorite which approached the comet would in
general do so in a parabolic orbit; and, if it came near enough
to pass through a part of the comet, this parabolic orbit would,
by the resistance of the matter of the comet, be converted into
an ellipse. The meteor would, therefore, return again and again,
and on each occasion that it passed through the comet its orbit
would be still further shortened, until at length it would fall
in, and add one to whatever cluster had been brought together by
the previous repetitions of this process. In this way a comet,
while moving in outer space, beyond the reach of the many
powerful disturbing influences which prevail within the solar
system, would inevitably accumulate within itself just such a
globular cluster of meteors as the November meteors must have
been before they became associated with the solar system.
----
_How the Earth's Rotation affects Gunnery_.--Some may be
found to doubt that the movement of the earth affects the
direction of a ball expelled from a cannon; nevertheless, the
fact is correct. In the _Astronomical Register_, Mr. Kincaid
says that a simple illustration of this effect may be made by
attaching to the same axis two wheels of different diameters, so
that both shall rotate together. If the one have a diameter of
three feet, and the other of one foot, it is evident that any
point on the circumference of the larger will, during a
revolution, move through three times as much space as a similar
point on the periphery of the lesser circle, and will, therefore,
move with three times the velocity. The figure of the earth may
be considered as made up of an infinite number of such wheels,
diminishing in size from the equator to the poles, and all
revolving in twenty-four hours. Now, if a gun be fired from the
equator in the direction of the meridian, which is obviously that
of maximum deviation, at an object nearer the pole, it is plain
that that object, being situated on a smaller circle than the
gun, but revolving in the same interval of time, will move,
during the flight of the projectile, through less space eastward
than the shot, which will have imparted to it the greater
velocity of the larger circle from which it started, and the
latter will therefore tend to strike eastward from its butt.
----
_Dodo-like Birds of the Mascarene Islands_.--The Committee
appointed in 1865 to investigate this group, has produced little
result beyond the collection of a number of bones from Rodriguez.
Professor Newton made some general remarks upon the specimens
collected, and he especially dwelt on an unexpected confirmation
of the testimony of Leguat, by the discovery of an extraordinary
bony knob near the extremity of the wing. Leguat, whose account
of the "Solitaire's" habits was the only one we possessed,
mentioned a curious "ball," as big as a "musket-bullet," which
the male birds possessed under their wing-feathers. Now, the
existence of this ball was proved by the bony knob exhibited, and
thus the veracity of old Leguat, on this point, as on so many
others, was confirmed. In conclusion, Professor Newton called
attention to the fact that at present we only knew of the didine
bird of the island of Reunion, _that it was white_.
{710}
In the course of last year, Mr. Tegetmeier had shown him an old
water-color painting of a white dodo, and this, he was inclined
to believe, might represent this lost species, of which he
trusted the French naturalists in that island would succeed in
obtaining actual relics.
----
Mr. Foley's model for the O'Connell National Monument in Dublin
has been unanimously adopted by the Committee. The work will be
forty feet high, executed in bronze and granite. £10,000 is
already subscribed toward the cost of its erection.
----
_A Slander Refuted_.--A work has lately appeared in England,
in which everything Spanish is spoken of with the greatest
contempt. In reply to the accusations made against the queen's
chaplain, the Reverend Canon Dalton writes thus to the
_Athenaeum_: "Will you allow me to _protest_ against
the character drawn by Miss Edwards of Padre Claret in her recent
work entitled, _Through Spain to the Sahara_, which was
reviewed in your last number, December 14th? When I was in Spain
last year, I had several interviews with the queen's confessor.
The estimate which I was then enabled to form of his character
was the very _opposite_ to that drawn by the authoress. I
should like to know if Miss Edwards ever spoke a single word to
Padre Claret, or even ever saw him. Then there is the testimony
of Lady Herbert, in her work entitled _Impressions of Spain_
in 1866, (London, Bentley, 1867,) at pages 211-12; her ladyship
draws a very different character of the Padre, taken from a
personal interview with the illustrious prelate. Again I should
like to know what reasons Miss Edwards has for styling Claret's
work, _La Clave de Oro_, a _coarse_ work? All the works
which he has published are purely of a devotional or literary
character, and I am quite confident that nothing 'coarse' or
unbecoming can be found in any one of them. Lastly, I never heard
of Padre Claret's coach being driven by _four splendid
mules_, because I believe he is not possessed even of a cab!
J. Dalton."
--------
New Publications.
Lectures On Reason And Revelation.
Delivered in St. Ann's Church, New York,
during the Season of Advent, 1867.
By the Rev. Thomas S. Preston.
New York: The Catholic Publication House, 126 Nassau Street.
The Lectures published in this volume were delivered during the
Sunday evenings of Advent, in St. Ann's Church. They are five in
number, on the following subjects: The Office of Reason,
Relations of Reason and Faith, Conditions of Revelation,
Revelation and Protestantism, Revelation and the Catholic Church.
The author's thesis may be thus stated: The Catholic Church is
proved by reason alone, from the evidences of credibility by
which the Christian revelation is demonstrated. The Introduction,
which is a distinct essay in itself, disposes of two objections;
first, that the evidence of Christianity can be applied to pure
Protestantism, and second, that the Catholic Church ought to be
proved by miracles occurring in every age of her history, as well
as at the outset. The Rev. author has handled his topics with
great ability, in a clear, neat, and attractive manner, and with
a brevity and simplicity which detract nothing from the force of
the reasoning, while they lighten very much the task of the
reader. These Lectures will be of great service both, to
Catholics and to well-disposed inquirers after truth. The
typographical execution of the volume is in the best style. As a
specimen of our author's method and style, we extract the
following passage from the introduction.
{711}
"In the following lectures it is the aim of the author to set
forth, in a clear and concise manner, a simple argument whereby
the claims of the Catholic Church are substantiated by reason
alone. In the midst of the excitements of our day some of the
plainest truths are forgotten, and men hold opinions or pass to
conclusions without any logical grounds whatever. They even
sometimes contradict the propositions which are self-evident to
reason in their zeal for intellectual progress and emancipation
from the thraldom of the past. That which is new is sought
after, even though it overthrow the belief of truths heretofore
generally admitted. We are not believers in total depravity,
and have, therefore, great confidence in the good which still
remains in human nature. And as we know that God's grace is
ever with man to assist him to the knowledge of the truth, and
to lead him in the way of virtue, we have great hopes that the
intellectual and moral movements of our day will guide the
honest and sincere mind to the true light which is its only
illumination. It is a great mistake to suppose that the
Catholic Church requires of any man that he should do away with
his reason, or cease to exercise those powers which God has
given him for the proper appreciation of truth and goodness. To
man's intelligence revelation is addressed, and every new light
from above only serves to enlarge the thirst for knowledge. The
divine ways are ever harmonious, and the supernatural truth
will never contradict the natural. The argument of these
lectures depends upon the force of reason alone. We briefly
explain the nature of human reason and the sphere of its
operation. We show how the divine revelation gives its unerring
evidence, to which a just intelligence must submit. We
vindicate all the natural powers, and defend the exercise of
their just prerogatives. God, speaking to man, is bound to give
him unmistakable signs that he is speaking, and that no
deceiver is imposing upon us. When these signs are given, then
we are bound to believe the divine testimony, and entirely to
accept truths which the veracity of our Maker vouches for.
Private judgment has its full scope, as to it are clearly
presented the tokens of every supernatural intervention. The
extrinsic credibility of doctrines proposed to faith is thus
assured to the full conviction of the understanding. If we go
on to say that reason assured of a revelation cannot then be
the judge of the intrinsic credibility of a dogma clearly
revealed, we only say that reason must act in its own sphere,
and that the finite must not venture to measure the infinite.
"It seems to us that no logical objection can be made against
such a restriction of private judgment. If man, by his unaided
powers, could find out all necessary truth, there would be no
need of a revelation. Of things beyond the scope of his
understanding, man can certainly be no judge, while it is
equally certain that the word of God can never deceive.
"It is also a great misunderstanding to suppose that Catholics
are not allowed to use their reason, or that faith has taken
the place of our ordinary intelligence. So far from the truth
is this supposition, that the aim of the present work will be
to show that Catholics alone are the followers of true reason,
always yielding obedience to its just dictates, and never
swerving in any way from its rigid conclusions. The Catholic
faith presents all its unanswerable claims before the mind, and
then, as it appeals to our natural sense of truth and justice,
it cannot contradict itself by doing away with the very faculty
which is made the judge of its pretensions. Reason, rightly
understood, leads with certainty to the light of revelation,
and that light does in no way extinguish the spirit or vitality
of nature. There is full scope for the play of the highest
intelligence, not in the contradiction of evidence clearly
established, nor in doubting truth already manifest, but in the
constant and daily increasing appreciation of the beauties of
God's revelation whereby all our faculties are brought into
perfect harmony. There is neither manliness nor wisdom in the
state of perpetual doubt which appears to be chosen by many as
the exercise of a precious liberty. The Catholic believes
because he has evidence of the divine power and goodness, and
in the very highest exercise of reason bows down to God and him
only. No human organization has a right to bind our
consciences, and no body of men can form or direct our faith.
God alone is our master, whose word is a law to our
understandings and our hearts. The church is recognized by us
because he has established it, and given to it authority to
teach in his name, and we are ever ready to give to any honest
mind a reason for the faith we hold and profess."
----
{712}
Poems.
By Ellen Clementine Howarth.
Newark: Martin R. Dennis & Co. 1868.
Poets are said to deal in fiction, which does not, however, imply
that what they sing is false. One may relate a purely fictitious
story, and it be "an ower-true tale" for all that. In fact,
poetry is the most beautiful form of the expression of truth.
Tell the truth in honest plain prose, and the chances are that
you tell something very unpalatable. Facts are proverbially hard.
On the contrary, poetry (if it deserves the name) is ever
charming, winning, and popular. We say without hesitation, few of
our living lyric poets have wreathed more charming verses than
Mrs. Howarth. Simple and unaffected as they are, every line
breathes the purest sentiment, and sends its touching pathos
straight to the heart. The reason is plain. She reveals the truth
as her own heart has known it. Here she guilelessly tells more of
her own life, with all its struggles, toil, and bitter sorrows,
than we think she intended. In a word, it is a volume not for the
eye of strangers, but for the loving perusal of friends to whom
she would wish to speak "eye to eye and soul to soul." We do not
wonder, therefore, that, when these poems appeared a few years
ago under the title of "The Wind Harp," without any prefatory key
to their origin, a few careless critics should have failed to
penetrate the hidden depths of their meaning. Our space does not
permit us to quote as freely as we could wish. There are some
undoubtedly better than others, but there is not one which our
readers would not find worthy of particular choice and of special
merit.
The first, "The Passion Flower," well deserves its place of
honor. We give the opening verse:
"I plucked it in an idle hour,
And placed it in my book of prayer;
'Tis not the only passion flower
That hath been crushed and hidden there.
And now through floods of burning tears
My withered bloom once more I see,
And I lament the long, long years,
The wasted years afar from Thee."
From a poem entitled "Gethsemane" we cull this most beautiful and
truly sublime thought.
"'Tis said that every earthly sound
Goes trembling through the voiceless spheres,
Bearing its endless echoes round
The pathway of eternal years.
Ah! surely, then, the sighs that He
That midnight breathed, the zephyrs bore
From thy dim shades, Gethsemane,
To thrill the world for evermore!"
And who can read the following without emotion?
My Soldier Comes No More
"Yes, many a heart is light to-day,
And bright is many a home,
And children dance along the way
The soldier heroes come:
And bands beneath the floral arch
The gladdest music pour;
While beats my heart a funeral march--
My soldier comes no more.
One morn from him glad tidings came,
Joy to my heart they gave;
At night I read my hero's name
Amid the fallen brave.
I know not where he met the foe,
Nor where he sleeps in gore;
Enough of woe for me to know,
My soldier comes no more.
Now here they come with heavy tramp,
And flags and pennons gay,
Who were his comrades in the camp,
His friends for many a day.
The music ceases as they pass
Before my cottage door;
The flags are lowered; they know, alas!
My soldier comes no more.
What care I for the seasons now?
The world has lost its light:
No spring can clothe my leafless bough,
No morn dispel my night;
No longer may I hopeful wait
For summer to restore:
My heart and home are desolate--
My soldier comes no more.
Judging from such poems as "The Tress of Golden Hair," "Adrift,"
"The Stranger's Grave," and other pieces suggested by some
ordinary accident in life, Mrs. Howarth possesses one of those
finely strung natures which, like the AEolian harp, are moved to
give forth harmony at the slightest breath that passes. The
former title of her book, "The Wind Harp," was, to our thinking,
singularly appropriate. The present volume is published in
first-class style.
----
{713}
An Epistle Of Jesus Christ To The Faithful Soul.
Written in Latin
by Joannes Lanspergius, a Charter-House Monk,
and translated into English by
Lord Philip, XIXth Earl of Arundel.
New York: Catholic Publication Society.
This little book will be hailed by the faithful soul who desires
to increase very much in the love of God, as if it were, what its
title expresses, a letter written by the Saviour of the world
himself, and addressed to him personally. It embodies the very,
spirit and life of his instructions, and teaches us practically
how to carry out in a systematic way the teaching of the Sermon
on the Mount. It is easy to read that divine sermon in a
sentimental way, to feel somewhat good while reading it, but
without gathering much of its meaning, or with any desire to
practise it any more than may be convenient. This book will not
be very palatable to such persons. It contains the strong meat
for vigorous and earnest souls, rather than the light and
unsubstantial froth which merely nourishes a sickly
sentimentalism. We do not doubt there are thousands of devout
persons in this country who would find in this little work an
invaluable treasure, and, once possessing it, they would on no
account be willing to part with it. They would find its
directions plain and simple, and eminently fitted to lift them up
out of a low spirituality to the highest state of religious peace
and perfection. Would to God this notice may meet their eye, so
that they may not be without it. We need just such books now in
this country, to serve to make a number of saints and saintly
persons, who shall draw down from heaven a benediction on not
only themselves, but on the church of God and all our
fellow-citizens. May more of them be drawn out of the storehouse
of old true Catholic piety and devotion, for our spiritual joy
and edification.
It is only necessary to add, that the English of the translation
is delightful, while the mechanical getting up of the book, its
paper and type, render it most agreeable to read.
----
1. Napoleon And The Queen Of Prussia.
An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach.
Translated from the German, by F. Jordan.
Complete in one volume, with illustrations.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867. 8vo, pp. 265.
2. The Daughter Of An Empress.
An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach;
translated from the German by Nathaniel Greene.
Complete in one volume, with illustrations.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867, 8vo, pp. 255.
3. Marie Antoinette And Her Son.
An Historical Novel, by L. Mühlbach.
Complete in one volume, with illustrations.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1867. 8vo, pp. 301.
On a former occasion we noticed three of the Mühlbach books, all
we had then read, as favorably as our conscience would permit;
for we wish to be thought capable of recognizing literary merit
in books written by others than Catholics. Now, Catholics have at
least nature, and, though we do not recognize the sufficiency of
nature without grace, we yet do not hold it to be totally
corrupt, or count it good for nothing. We are always ready to
recognize merit in literary works, by whomsoever written, if
able, and true to genuine nature. The Mühlbach novels are written
with spirit and ability, a talent almost approaching to genius,
with some touches of nature, and with considerable historical
information. Having said so much, we have exhausted our praise.
The works are true throughout neither to nature nor to history,
and their moral tone is low and unwholesome--pagan, not
Christian. Their popularity, which can be but short-lived--for
it is hardly possible to read one of them a second time--speaks
very little in favor of the taste, the knowledge of history, or
the moral tone of our American reading public, as far as
published. The least faulty, and to us the least repulsive of the
series, is _Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia_, though it
shows less ability than _Joseph II._ and his Court. We broke
down before we got half through _The Daughter of an
Empress_, and we have read only a few pages of _Marie
Antoinette and her Son_. We have had no desire to have our
feelings harrowed up by a fresh recital of the horrors of the
French Revolution, especially of the wrongs of the beautiful and
lovely Queen of France, and the young Dauphin. _Napoleon and
the Queen of Prussia_ is, however, a book we can read, and
some portions of it with deep interest; but even this is
disfigured by namby-pamby sentiment.
{714}
Adulterous love, self-murders, and horrors of all sorts, enough
both to disgust the Christian reader, and to give even a reader
of strong nerves the nightmare for weeks after reading it. The
Mühlbach is in ecstasy of delight when Napoleon overcomes the
virtue of the Countess Walewski, and has no doubt that the
self-murderer has ended all his troubles and rests in peace. She
seems, through all her books, not to regard adultery, if prompted
by love, or suicide either, if inspired by disappointed
patriotism, as a sin. Indeed, throughout she writes as a
low-minded pagan, not as a high-minded Christian. She
apotheosizes persons who die with imprecations of vengeance on
their enemies in their mouths, and by their own hands; and even
the beautiful and slandered Queen Louisa has no higher
aspirations than those of patriotism.
We have heretofore said of the Mühlbach books that they have too
much fiction for history, and too much history for fiction; but
even a great part of her history is itself fiction, in the sense
of being untrue, which fiction never need be. Scott, in his
historical novels, commits a thousand anachronisms, mistakes one
person for another, and is rarely accurate in the minuter
details; but he never falsifies history, and the impression he
gives of an epoch or a historical person is always truthful. The
impression the Mühlbach gives, even when historically correct as
to details, is unhistorical and untrue. We are no believers in
the immaculate virtue or high-mindedness of the royal and
imperial courts of the eighteenth century, but no one who
reflects a moment can believe that the Mühlbach gives a true
picture of them. There is no doubt at all times much illicit
love, cunning, intrigue, cruelty, vice, and crime, in the ranks
of the great, but our experience proves that there is something
else there also. At the time of the French Revolution the
nobility were corrupt enough, but were they more so than the
people who warred against them? Were the murderers and applauders
of the murder of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette superior to them
in either public or private virtue? If the great are bad, the
little are seldom better; and nothing can have a more unwholesome
effect on society than the multitude of novels poured forth by
little women and less men, professing to describe the manners and
morals, but really traducing the manners and morals of the upper
classes. Such novels are untrue in fact, and serve only to
gratify the mean curiosity and malice of the envious and the
malignant. Whoever reads the late book of the Queen of Great
Britain and Ireland will find that she and her husband furnished
a model of the domestic virtues and affections. Even when the
Mühlbach professes to write history, she does not write it, and
perverts it quite unnecessarily when by no means demanded by the
aesthetic exigencies of her story. We pass over the calumnies of
the Jesuits and the private life of Ganganelli, Pope Clement XIV.
They please us better than would her praise. But she represents
Charles III., King of Spain, as refusing his consent to the
suppression of the Society of Jesus after he had expelled the
Jesuits from his own dominions, and when he was most urgent of
all the Bourbon princes for their suppression. She represents
France as in favor of the suppression, but holding back her
formal assent till she could secure that of Spain, when it is
well known, that the King, Louis XV. and Choiseul, then at the
head of the French government, were rather favorable to the
Jesuits than otherwise, and gave them up only after a decree of
parliament had been rendered against them, and even then only in
order to obtain from the parliament, always their bitter enemies,
the registering of certain edicts in which the minister believed
France was more interested than in preserving the society. The
Spanish, French, Portuguese, and several of the Italian princes,
demanded of the pope, under threats of schism, the suppression of
the order before the Empress Marie Theresa reluctantly consented,
at the order of the pope, to allow the Bull suppressing the
society to be published in her dominions, as the Mühlbach has
herself described in her _Joseph II. and his Court._
{715}
These works are not only not trustworthy in their history, not
only in their grouping and coloring falsify it, but they pervert
the judgment, prejudice the mind so against the truth that it is
able only with great difficulty to recognize it when it comes to
be presented by learned and faithful historians.
The real name of the writer of the Mühlbach books is no secret.
She is a widow, said to be personally a very estimable lady; and
it has been reported that she intends coming to this country and
taking up her residence with us, and certainly we would not treat
her uncourteously. But if the report be true, it is a good proof
that her works are not very popular in Germany, and bring her but
small pecuniary remuneration. Her works will not long be popular
even in this country; for their popularity here has, to a great
extent, been due to their supposed value as truthful pictures of
the courts of Berlin, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Paris, and Rome, in
the last century, not to their weak and sickly sentimentalism,
their low moral tone, their worship of Venus or Anteros, or their
cynicism in religion. The American people are excessively fond of
reading about courts, kings and queens, emperors and empresses,
dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses; and chiefly because
they have no such things among themselves, they see them only as
shrouded in mystery. But when they find that the Mühlbach books
do not, after all, raise the veil, or give any trustworthy
account of them, they will drop them; for they adopt as their
motto, _Ernst ist das Leben_, and can never be long
fascinated by the debased paganism of the Mühlbach. We would by
no means do the author the slightest harm in character or purse,
but we advise her in the future not to make her novels sermons or
moral lectures, but to animate them with a real ethical spirit,
so that they will make the reader stronger and better, not weaker
and worse even in the natural order.
------
Two Thousand Miles On Horseback.
Santa Fe And Back.
A Summer Tour Through Kansas,
Nebraska, Colorado, And New-Mexico,
In The Year 1866.
By James F. Meline.
New York: Hurd & Houghton. 1867.
Really good books of travel have been found so entertaining and
successful in time past, that more recently every quarter of the
accessible globe has spawned tourists, and journals, and diaries,
and "notes," and "visits," of a thousand varieties of vapidness.
England, as usual in matters of _superficial_ mediocrity,
has been completely distanced by America. We have dozens of
diarists who are promising candidates for the compliment some
wicked spirit once paid Bayard Taylor--of having travelled more
and seen less than any man living. Singularly enough, our own
country has fared the worst at our own hands; singularly,
because, full of natural wonders of its own, it has not to send
its Winwood Reades to Senegambia for interesting material, and
its charming, boy-beloved Captain Mayne to swear at the luckless
"closet-naturalist" from all the corners of the world. We could
turn all the Royal Societies loose along the Mississippi, and
furnish them matter for a quarto to each F.R.S. Yet since Porte
Crayon sharpened the lead-pencil into the war-spear, and his
charming cousins stepped finally out of the carriage, and "Little
Mice" sank to the level of a "man and a brother, and possible
Congressman," only one traveller worth following has kept the
field--the inimitable, the perennial Ross Browne, in Washoe, or
Italy, or St. Petersburg, still the prince and paladin of
tourists. Thus there is wondrous great room in the upper story of
this literature, with a whole fresh young continent to hold the
mirror to. Mr. Meline has challenged boldly and well for a good
place in the front rank of our books of travel. He has great
advantages and great aptitude for the task. His advantages are
that, unless our spectacles and his artifice deceive us, he is a
thorough good fellow--the _sine qua non_ of the traveller
everywhere--the shibboleth of the brotherhood of cosmopolites.
But besides this, _mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes_.
{716}
If we are not mistaken in remembering Mr. Meline as the same
gentleman who was formerly French Consul in Cincinnati, he is a
man who has known European capitals and landmarks, and, what is
better, galleries and sculptures, and not known them in vain. And
apt he certainly is. In the difficult art not to harp on
anything, this book displays consummate judgment, and the choice
of subjects shows a tact and skill most remarkable in what we
understand to be a first book. There is just about enough fact to
make the work decently solid, a good deal of fancy and
impression, and above all, a light hand. The style as a whole is
really good, because it does pretty evenly just what it attempts
and professes--sometimes more, seldom less. The descriptions of
Denver and Central City, and the account of the Pueblos of New
Mexico interested us especially the former for its manner, the
latter for its interesting and curious facts. But another reader
would call our selection invidious, and cite quite another set of
incidents. The fact is, Mr. Meline is everywhere vivid, easy, and
suggestive, and we do think we like those two parts best because
we have friends in Denver, and take a special interest in the old
Poltec question.
Only one thing, barring a little pedantry here and there, we have
to growl at in taking a grateful leave of a beguiling book. The
author feels it his duty at painfully short intervals to say
something funny, and has preserved and dished up the selectest
assortment of aged, stale, and stupid jests we ever saw. We
suspect him to be one of those terrible people who enjoy a
witticism not wisely but too well. The moment he tries humor, his
wonted taste and sparkle seem to take flight, and he grows to a
dotage of inane merriment. It is hard to say whether the jokes he
cracks himself, or those which he rehashes, ready cracked, are
the more benumbingly dismal. The most provoking thing is, that
the man is not at all wanting in play of wit; there are a hundred
good and a few clever little side-hits in his volume. Only he
must not force it. The moment he sets out systematically to be
jocose, he is flatness itself.
But take him for all in all, Mr. Meline has written no
commonplace book on a subject where commonplace has been achieved
frequently and fully; and if he will learn to sketch like Ross
Browne, or half so well, or else hire one of those private
ubiquities, a "special artist," make no more jokes, quote some,
if quote he must, that others have made within twenty years, and
rely more on his liveliness of style, he has a future before him
as a writer of travels.
------
Golden Truths.
Boston: Lee & Shepherd. 1868.
The aim of the above volume is a good one. The purpose of its
author is to aid the soul on its way in Christian perfection. The
"truths" which it contains are taken from various Protestant
authors, and a few from Catholic sources. The selections struck
us at first as having been made without any sectarian bias or
bigotry. Had we found it so unto the end, we should have given it
our approval. But on page 166 we find the following:
"Will the martyrs, who sowed the seed of the church in their
blood, have no part in the final harvest? The mighty reformers,
who battered down the walls of tyrant error about the ears of
wicked priests," etc.
Who G. W. Bethune is, from whose writings the above is extracted,
we know not; we would, however, advise him, whoever he may be,
when writing for the public, to respect its intelligence more,
rant less, and remember there is a commandment which reads as
follows,
"Thou shalt not bear false witness."
The aim of this volume was to be acceptable to all readers; the
quotations from the above writer omitted, would remove at least
what is offensive to some.
It is not often that a neglected catholic truth finds so
beautiful an expression as in the following passage by the
"Country Parson:"
"There are few who have lived long in this world, and have not
stood by the bed of the dying; and let us hope that there are
many who have seen a Christian friend or a brother depart--who
have looked on such a one as life, but not love, ebbed away as
the eye of sense grew dim, but that of faith waxed brighter and
brighter.
{717}
Have you heard such an one, in bidding you farewell, whisper
that it was not for ever? have you heard such an one tell you
so to live, as that death might only remove you to a place
where there is no dying? And as you felt the pressure of that
cold hand, and saw the earnest spirit that shone through those
glazing eyes, have you not resolved and promised that, God
helping you, you would? And ever since have you not felt that,
though death has sealed those lips, and that heart is turning
back to clay, _that_ voice is speaking yet, _that_
heart is caring for you yet, _that_ soul is remembering
yet the words it last spoke to you? From the abode of glory it
says, 'Come up hither.' The way is steep, the ascent is
toilsome; it knows it well, for it trod it once; but it knows
now what it knew not then, how bright the reward, how pleasant
the rest that remaineth, after the toil is past. And if we go
with interest to the grave of a much-loved friend, who bade us
when dying, sometimes to visit the place where he should be
laid when dead; if you hold a request like _that_ sacred,
tell me, how much more solemnly and earnestly we should seek to
go where the conscious spirit lives, than where the senseless
body moulders! If day after day sees you come to shed the
pensive tear of memory over the narrow bed where that dear one
is sleeping; if, amid the hot whirl of your daily engagements,
you find a calm impressed as you stand in that still spot where
no worldly care ever comes, and think of the heart which no
grief vexes now; if the sound of the world melts into distance
and fades away on the ear, at that point whence the world looks
so little; if the setting sun, as it makes the gravestone glow,
reminds you of evening hours and evening scenes long since
departed, and the waving grass, through which the wind sighs so
softly, speaks of that one who 'faded as a leaf' and left you
like 'a wind that passeth away and cometh not again,' oh! how
much more should every day see you striving up the way which
will conduct you where the living spirit dwells, and whence it
is ever calling to you, 'Come up hither!' It was a weak fancy
of a dying man that bade you come to his burying-place; but it
is the perpetual entreaty of a living seraph that invites you
to join it _there._"
----
The Layman's Breviary.
From the German of Leopold Shefer.
By C. T. Brooks.
Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.
Whatever may be the merit of the original German, certain it is,
this English version flows like a free rivulet. Mr. Brooks is
singularly happy in his versification. It might, however, just as
well have been entitled by the author, the "Priest's Breviary" as
the "Layman's Breviary," for it is quite plain he thinks both of
those terms convertible. We search in vain for any trace of faith
in the supernatural, and, considering the beauty of the
sentiments, are sorry to find it wanting. The lack of it jars
upon our Catholic nerves from the beginning of its perusal to its
ending.
----
The Young Fur Traders, A Tale Of The Far North;
The Coral Island, A Tale Of The Pacific;
Ungava, A Tale Of Esquimaux Land;
Morgan Rattler; or,
A Boy's Adventures in the Forests of Brazil.
By R. M. Ballantyne.
New York: Thomas Nelson & Sons.
In these "books for boys" amusement and instruction are admirably
combined, the adventures met with being varied and thrilling,
while the local descriptions embody so thoroughly the natural
features of the regions visited, the productions, atmospheric
phenomena, etc., as to render them not unworthy the perusal of
children of a larger growth; they are also well got up; good
paper, neat binding, numerous illustrations.
Where so much is praiseworthy, we are sorry their universal
diffusion should be so seriously impeded, or rather utterly
destroyed, by a most wanton display of sectarian rancor. In the
_Young Fur Traders_, for instance, we meet with the
following definitions, certainly not according to Webster:
"Papist, a man who has sold his liberty in religious matters to
the pope;" "Protestant, one who protests against such an
ineffably silly and unmanly state of slavery." And in _Morgan
Rattler_, a virulent attack on the Brazilian clergy, who, we
are told, "totally neglected their religious duties; were no
better than miscreants in disguise, teaching the people vice
instead of virtue a--curse not a blessing to the land," etc.
{718}
We regret this pitiful outpouring the more that, as books of
adventures for boys, they are otherwise all that could be
desired.
----
The Spirit Of St. Vincent De Paul;
Or, A Holy Model Worthy Of
Being Imitated By Ecclesiastics,
Religious, And All The Faithful.
Translated from the work of the learned M. Andre--Joseph
Ansart, converted Priest of the Order of Malta, etc.
By the Sisters of Charity,
Mount St. Vincent, New York.
New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. 1868.
It is a valuable service to present to the public, as the author
of the above translation has done, the pith of other and more
compendious lives of the great St. Vincent de Paul. The life of
our Saint cannot be read too often by priests, by the people, and
by all lovers of their race. His zeal for religion and his love
of the poor were unbounded almost; and the extent of his labors,
and the good he did to the poor and distressed of humanity, were
never perhaps equalled by any other man. To our non-Catholic
readers we would say, read the life of this man, great in
goodness, if you would obtain a true idea of the genuine and
perfect fruit of the catholic faith. No one, whatever may be his
creed, can read the life of St. Vincent de Paul without feeling
his love for God and his fellow-men increased and inflamed. May
it please God to raise up in his holy church in our own country a
priest like St. Vincent de Paul!
----
Rome And The Popes.
Translated from the German of Dr. Karl Brandes,
by Rev. W. J. Wiseman, S.T.L.
Benziger Brothers. 1868.
This is a volume containing, within a small compass, and in a
popular style, suited to the generality of readers, a history of
the temporal power of the popes, by an author well acquainted
with his subject. The translator has done a service to the
public, in giving them the chance of reading it in English. Just
at present it is quite appropriate as an offset to the ignorant
and silly abuse of the papal sovereignty with which the public
ears are filled. We recommend it to all our readers who wish to
get some solid information on this subject. We must repeat, once
more, in regard to this volume, a criticism we have to make too
often, that its generally neat appearance is marred by many
typographical errors. Cannot our Catholic publishers wake up to
the importance of correcting their proofs properly?
----
Selections From Pope, Dryden, And Various Other Catholic Poets,
who preceded the Nineteenth Century: with biographical and
literary notices of those and other British Catholic Poets of
their class, comprising a brief history of British Catholic
Poetry, from an early period. Designed not only for general
use, but also as a text-book or reader, and a prize-book for
the higher classes in Catholic educational institutions.
By George Hill, author of the "Ruins of Athens," "Titania's
Banquet," and other poems.
Examined and approved by competent Catholic authority.
New York. 1867.
Mr. Hill expresses so succinctly in this old-fashioned title-page
the real character and aim of his useful compilation that he
leaves us, in fact, nothing further to say than that he has made
his title good.
----
The Life Of St. Francis Of Assist,
and a sketch of the Franciscan Order.
By a Religious of the Order of Poor Clares,
(in England.) With emendations
and additions, by Very Rev.
Pamfilo da Magliani, O.S.F., (Superior
of one of the branches of the
Franciscan Order in the U. S.)
New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street. 1867.
Many beautiful lives of the Saints have been written in England
within the last few years. This one deserves to be classed among
them, and is, on the whole, the best history of the romantic and
poetic life of St. Francis we have ever read. The sketches of the
history of the Order, especially those relating to missions in
heathen countries, and the short biographies of distinguished
Franciscans, are of great value. The Life of St. Francis has a
charm entirely its own, which never wears out, and his pious
daughter has narrated it well. Such a book cannot be too warmly
recommended in this age of avarice, worldliness, and luxury. We
wish, however, that the proofs had been more carefully corrected.
----
{719}
Claudia.
By Amanda M. Douglas,
author of "In Trust," "Stephen Dane," etc.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
In this novel, the characters are strongly drawn, the incidents
varied and striking, the dialogue well sustained, but the general
effect somewhat marred by a vein of moralizing, which, in light
literature, unless of absolute necessity and of a high order,
always degenerates into prosiness, causing in that vast majority
of readers who seek amusement only, weariness, if not disgust.
----
The Queens Of American Society.
By Mrs. Ellet, author of "The Women
of the American Revolution," etc.
New York: Charles Scribner & Co.
This volume is a signal illustration of one of the prevailing
passions of the nineteenth century; a craving which brushes the
bloom from the lives of our lovely young girls, and makes our
charming matrons _common_; a passion for notoriety; a morbid
desire to peep into other people's windows, or engage them in the
improving occupation of looking into ours. Here we have the
_entrée_ not only into the _minutiae_ of the
drawing-rooms of these _queens_, but into their bedchambers,
and stand beside their toilet-tables, and descend into their
kitchens; in short, there is no part of the houses of these
ladies living and moving in our midst, unransacked by the
gossiping pen, save the _nurseries_, and we are left to
doubt if these sumptuous homes contain such old-fashioned
apartments. But the gossiping spirit of this book is not the only
exceptionable feature; it is extremely snobbish. To have
descended from the nobility, to have a thick volume of genealogy
to fall back upon, (by the way, we may all have even a more ample
chronicle than is here given us of these noble scions, if we will
look at the records of the garden of Eden for our pedigree,) to
be decked in velvets, point-lace, and diamonds, to have given
"select dinners," or "lavish and gorgeous suppers," seems to be
the most apparent end and aim of the majority of these living
"queens." A sprinkling of pietism and charitable deeds is
interpolated through the volume, apparently to give an "odor of
sanctity" to the otherwise sensuous details. A catechism for the
use of the rising generation of queens might be compiled from the
pages before us. Here are two or three questions and answers
taken at random from the proposed text-book:
"Q. What is the chief end of one aspiring
to be a queen in American society?
"A. To be clothed in purple and fine
linen, and to fare sumptuously every day.
"Q. How many gods are there in the 'best society'?
"A. Three.
"Q. Which are they?
"A. Genealogy, gold, and good eating.
"Q. What directions are given for dress?
"A. Whose adorning let it be the outward adorning, wearing
of gold and pearls, and putting on of apparel."
Other questions and answers will readily suggest themselves.
----
The Comedy Of Convocation, in the
English Church. In two scenes.
Edited by Archdeacon Chasuble, D.D.
New York: Catholic Publication Society.
This unique work, of which a notice appeared in the last issue of
_The Catholic World_, is without doubt one of the most
remarkable satires ever penned. The thorough knowledge it
displays of the Anglican establishment, its incisive
argumentation, the purity of its style, and its irresistible
humor have never been surpassed in any essay of its kind.
{720}
These characteristics have led many critics in England and in
this country to attribute its authorship to Dr. Newman; but while
we think it in every respect worthy of that great writer, we feel
disposed, from a more careful study of it, to believe that it has
not emanated from his mind, while at the same time we are obliged
to confess that we know of no other man in England who wields
such a mighty pen. It has given the Anglican Church an herculean
blow, and we cannot see how an honest member of the English
Church or of its sister denomination, the "Protestant Episcopal
Church of the United States," can rise from its perusal without
an utter loss of confidence in the discordant, illogical, and
unauthoritative system to which they have hitherto given their
adherence. The baseless fabric crumbles at the touch of this
literary giant, and sinks to a level where it can hardly elicit
the admiration of its most zealous partisans.
----
Sadlier's Catholic Directory, Almanac, And Ordo For The Year Of
Our Lord 1868: with a full report of the various Dioceses in
the United States and British North America, and a list of the
Archbishops, Bishops, and Priests in Ireland.
New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.,
31 Barclay street. 1868.
The Catholic Almanac for this year makes its appearance a little
earlier than it has for some years past. From a cursory glance at
its contents, we think it is more correct in its details than
some of its predecessors. It is gotten up with an eye to the
strictest kind of economy.
----
We have received from THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE, where they
are for sale, the following new works just published in England:
_The Monks of the West_, by Count Montalembert,
Vols. IV and V.
_Saint Louis, King of France_. The curious and
characteristic life of this monarch,
by De Joinville, translated from the French.
_The Story of Chevalier Bayard_, from the French
of the loyal servant, M. de Berville and
others.
_The Life of Las Casas_,
by Arthur Helps.
_Learned Women and Studious Women_,
by Bishop Dupanloup.
_Cradle Lands: Egypt, Syria, and the Holy Land_.
By the Right Hon. Lady Herbert of Lea, illustrated.
_The Round Towers of Ancient Ireland_, by Marcus Keane.
_The History of Irish Periodical Literature_, from the end
of the seventeenth century to the middle of the nineteenth
century: its Origin, Progress, and Results.
By Richard Robert Madden.
2 vols. 8vo.
----
Seek And Find; Or, The Adventures Of A Smart Boy.
By Oliver Optic.
Tommy Hickup; Or, A Pair Of Black Eyes.
By Rosa Abbott.
Boston: Lee & Shepard.
Two handsome volumes of pleasantly told though rather marvellous
adventure.
----
Books Received.
From Leypoldt & Holt, New York:
Nathan the Wise.
A dramatic poem, by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing.
Translated by Ellen Frothingham, preceded by a brief account of
the poet and his works, and followed by an essay on the poem by
Kuno Fischer.
La Littérature Française contemporaire,
recueil en prose et en vers de morceaux empruntés, aux
écrivains les plus renommés du XIXe Siècle.
Histoire d'une Bouchée de Pain:
L'Homme, par Jean Macé. With a French and English vocabulary,
and a list of idiomatic expressions. A Manual of Anglo-Saxon
for Beginners; comprising a grammar, reader, and glossary, with
explanatory notes.
By Samuel M. Shute, Professor in Columbian
College, Washington, D. C.
Condensed French Instruction, consisting of
grammar and exercises, with cross references.
By C. J. Delille.
From Harper & Brothers, New York:
Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest.
By Agnes Strickland, author of Lives of the
Queens of England. Abridged by the Author.
Revised and edited by Caroline G. Parker.
Manual of Physical Exercises.
By William Wood, Instructor in Physical Education.
With one hundred and twenty-five illustrations.
Home Fairy Tales. By Jean Macé.
Translated by Mary L. Booth, with engravings.
Folks and Fairies.
Stories for Little Children.
By Lucy Randall Comfort.
With engravings.
French's First Lessons in Numbers.
French's Elementary Arithmetic.
By John H. French, LL.D.
The Lover's Dictionary.
A Poetical Treasury of Lover's Thoughts, Fancies, Addresses,
and Dilemmas, indexed with nearly ten thousand references, and
a Dictionary of Compliments, and a Dictionary of the study of
the Tender Passion.
--------
{721}
The Catholic World.
Vol. VI., No. 36. March, 1868.
----
Canada Thistles.
The accident of a heavy snowstorm detained me, a little while
ago, at the house of a friend in the country. It was certainly a
pleasant place to be cast away in. My friend was a
gentleman-farmer, who united a strong taste for rustic pursuits
with an equally strong as well as an intelligent fondness for
literature and art. In the matter of books and pictures,
philosophy and religion, we were in sympathy with each other; but
when he came to milch cows and turnips, my city education got the
better of me. I could neither understand his conversation nor
appreciate his enthusiasm. It was agreed, therefore, that as soon
as he put on his long boots and set out for the barnyard, I
should retire into his cheerful library, where a blazing fire of
hickory-logs, shelves well stored with all that is best in
literature, and a great green-covered table, on which papers,
reviews, and magazines were piled in pleasant confusion, kept me
in excellent spirits while he was attending to the daily duties
of the farm. How I enjoyed those idle hours! Throwing myself back
in a wide arm-chair, I passed the winter mornings skimming over
the pages of my favorite authors, half reading them and half
dreaming; and when my friend returned from his rounds, and
stretched himself in another chair on the opposite side of the
fire-place, we used to chat over the various subjects that had
occupied my mind since breakfast. After dinner, we usually went
back to the library with our cigars. The evening we always spent
with the rest of the family in the parlor.
My friend read a great deal, and was also something of an author.
He contributed essays on agricultural subjects to one or two
magazines. He had even published a book or so in the course of
his life; and he still amused himself by penning literary
criticisms, for a periodical printed in New York. I was not
surprised, therefore, to find his table burdened with a good many
volumes, newspapers, and pamphlets, which I knew he would never
have been at the trouble of ordering.
"Yes," said he, when I made a remark about the worthless
character of some of these publications; "there is trash enough
here to make a man melancholy.
{722}
People send me these things for their own purposes, and I read
them sometimes for mine. I should be tempted to be sorry for the
invention of printing, only if we lost the bane, we should lose
the antidote with it. Besides, I have little faith in the
negative sort of virtue which is founded on ignorance. We ought
to grow wiser, day by day, with the number of our teachers; but
what I see here often makes me doubt it. You will find that
mankind have the same propensity to use calumny instead of
argument that they had two or three hundred years ago. In matters
of religion and history, I believe that lies are very much like
Canada thistles: let them once take root, and it is next to
impossible to get the field clear of them. You may cut them all
down to-day, and to-morrow their ugly heads will be as high as
ever. Now, here," he continued, picking up a handful of pamphlets
and newspapers, "is a crop of Canada thistles. These are all
philippics against the Catholic Church. I suppose their authors
call them polemical publications; but there is not an argument in
one of them. They are nothing whatever but slanders which have
been demolished a hundred times; and yet here they are, as bold
as ever. It is consoling to be told, as we often are, that 'Truth
crushed to earth will rise again;' but if a lie crushed to earth
has not an incorrigible habit of rising again, then I am no
reader of current literature. You and I may go out into the field
of theological controversy, and, being well armed and on the
right side, we may cut down every one of the calumnies which are
marshalled against the church; but we know that they will jump
right up again as soon as our backs are turned, and swear that
they never went down. It is rather discouraging to fight against
a man who doesn't know when he is dead. To answer these things
now, that I hold in my hand, would be like running around the
battle-field in chase of a rabble of lively corpses."
"Well," said I, "you are partly right and partly wrong. We have
got to cut away at the Canada thistles, as you call them, whether
we root them out or not; if we don't, they will stifle the grain.
Besides, your lively corpses cannot run for ever. You may
galvanize a dead body into spasmodic activity, but you cannot
bring it to life again; and I believe that, every time a lie is
exposed, there is good done to somebody, though the exposure may
have been made a hundred times before. Take the old fiction of a
female pope; one of the most preposterous of anti-Catholic
calumnies, and one of the easiest to demolish, because the
admitted facts of history were so plain against it. That was an
incredibly long time dying; but it is dead at last--so dead that
even Mr. Murphy, of Birmingham, probably does not believe it.
Well, that lie would never have been laid on the shelf if
Catholics had not hammered away at it until they forced their
enemies to listen to them. Take the St. Bartholomew massacre--"
"I don't know about that," interrupted my friend; "there is a
good deal of vitality in that thistle yet. Two things have been
proved, and are now admitted by the most candid Protestant
historians--that the massacre was the crime of a political, not a
religious, party, and that the number of the slain has been
frightfully exaggerated. The old story used to be that 100,000
fell, and Lingard has shown that the number, in all probability,
did not exceed 1500.
{723}
Notwithstanding this, I have a volume here, called _Willson's
Outlines of History_, which, I learn, is used as a text-book
in the College of the City of New York, and which represents the
massacre as a rising of the 'Catholics of Paris' against their
Huguenot brethren, declares that it lasted in the capital 'eight
days and eight nights without any apparent diminution of the fury
of the murderers,' and estimates the number of the victims at
50,000. Then the writer goes on to say that the pope caused
medals to be struck in commemoration of the auspicious event, and
returned public thanks to heaven. A student would never suspect
from this that the assassins were not the Catholic inhabitants,
but the hirelings of the queen mother. Besides, the massacre
lasted, not eight days and nights, but three days and two nights.
This fact is of more importance than at first appears. If the
slaughter had lasted so long, and so many persons had been
killed, it could hardly have been the work of a band of
cutthroats; but if we remember that, as all reputable historians
admit, it was over on the third day, and that the number of
victims, according to Froude, who is the latest Protestant
authority, certainly did not exceed 2000 in Paris, and 10,000 in
all France, or, according to Lingard, 1500 in the whole kingdom,
it is evident that it _could not_ have been shared in by the
Catholic inhabitants."
"Froude, you say, puts the number at 10,000?"
"Yes, and admits that the French Catholics cried out with horror
at the outrage. Yet Froude is a most unwilling witness in our
favor. His bias, as you know, is all the other way. The
Calvinistic author of the martyrology of the Huguenots, published
only ten years after the massacre, made careful search, and was
able to find the names of only 786 persons who perished. Froude's
estimate is too high, and Willson's is altogether preposterous.
Then about that medal and the _Te Deum_ at Rome; everybody
knows that, as soon as the horrible deed was over, the first care
of the French king was to justify himself at the other European
courts by false accounts of what had taken place. His ambassador
informed the pope that his majesty had discovered a Huguenot
conspiracy against his life and throne, and had overcome it by
promptly executing the criminals. It was in the belief of this
lie that the pope caused public thanks to be given for the king's
victory. This is a fact as well established as any other of the
16th century. Yet Mr. Willson, and men like him, choose to go on
quietly disregarding it. I think it simply a sin that anybody so
grossly ignorant or so shamefully perverse should be allowed to
deceive the young with what they presume to call 'history.'"
"How does Froude stand in this matter of the rejoicings at Rome?"
"Froude has too melodramatic a mind, if I may use the expression,
to be a good historian. He has a dangerous gift of sarcasm and
invective, and a fatal knack of putting things together so as to
make an effective situation. If an inconvenient truth pops up to
mar the scene, he quietly knocks it on the head, and arranges the
stage to suit himself. For instance, he wants to paint the
duplicity of Charles, so he mentions his lying bulletins to the
pope and the other sovereigns; but he also wants to impress us
with the heartless bigotry of the pontiff; so, after showing on
one page that the pope could not know the truth, he coolly
assumes on the next that he did know it."
"I think the best account of the massacre I ever read in a
Protestant publication is that in _The New American
Cyclopaedia_. Not a perfect book, of course, but upon the
whole, very honest."
{724}
"Yes, if you want to get a plain statement of facts, without
party coloring, you must go to some work in which many heads and
hands have worked together. You know an ordinary refracting
telescope of the old sort shows distant objects, not as they
really are, but tinged with prismatic colors, because no one lens
has the power of transmitting all rays with equal impartiality;
but by a combination of lenses we get at the exact truth; one
corrects another. So, if you want a thoroughly impartial,
achromatic account of anything, let a number of men work at it
together For this reason, a good cyclopaedia is better than a
volume of history; it is perfectly cold-blooded."
"Our friend Willson," I said, turning over the leaves as I spoke,
"is certainly a telescope of the old sort. His book is as gay
with prismatic colors as a parlor candelabrum. See here: 'The
doctrine of infallibility means _the pope's entire exemption
from liability to err;_' 'Indulgences are billets of
salvation, professing to remit the punishment due to sins even
before the commission of the contemplated crime.' Mr. Willson
knows that neither of these definitions is correct."
"No, I don't believe he does. Remember what we said just now
about thistles. To you and to me these statements seem--I don't
know whether to say ludicrous or shocking. We know, as well as we
know the alphabet, that while the church cannot err in defining
dogmas, the pope, as a private individual, is as liable to err as
Mr. Willson himself; that no sin can be forgiven before it is
committed, and no past sin pardoned so long as the culprit
purposes committing another; but I dare say Mr. Willson is
ignorant of all this. There is a certain class of unfortunate
Christians, now happily dying out, who are catechised in their
youth into a hatred of the pope and all his works. They look upon
his holiness as a superior sort of devil, rather more wicked and
dangerous upon the whole than Satan, and not half so much of a
gentleman. Willson was crammed full of these sentiments when he
was a boy, and now he is trying to cram the coming generation.
Here is a specimen of the moral nutriment which men of his stamp
are brought up on. I cut it out of an old number of _The
Sunday-School Advocate_, where it appeared as a comment on a
picture of a Spanish flower-girl. There must be a funny twist in
the mind of the writer who could get a lesson against popery out
of that.
"'SELLING FLOWERS.
"'You never saw such a flower-seller, did you? You have not
unless you have lived in Spain. The picture is meant to show
you a Spanish lady, a Spanish flower-dealer, and a Spanish
mule.
"'Spain is a beautiful land, but the people are not as happy as
they are here. Why? Because they are Roman Catholics. Once
they were a brave, powerful, rich, liberty-loving people; but
a set of priests, called Jesuits, stole into the country,
quenched their love of liberty, put out the lights of
learning, trampled upon the true religion, and made the
Spaniards boasters, bigots, and almost slaves to their kings
and queens. Pity the Spaniards, my children, and pray to your
heavenly Father to save this glorious land from ever being
ruined by that great enemy to all that is good--the Roman
Catholic Church.
x. x.'
"How can you wonder that a man who learns such nonsense in his
childhood should say foolish things when he grows up? Still, Mr.
Willson's ignorance does not excuse him. Any one who undertakes
to write history is bound _not_ to be ignorant. He cannot
plead the prejudices of education in justification of his
blunders.
{725}
To teach calumny and religious error is as much a crime as to
administer medicines without knowing the properties of drugs. We
have little tenderness for an ignorant chemist's boy who poisons
us by mistake, and I don't know why we should have any more for
an ignorant historian who lies out of prejudice. Besides, even if
Mr. Willson did not know the truth, he knew there were two sides
to the story, and he was bound to study and weigh them both,
which he evidently has not done. His ignorance was not
invincible."
"I think, however, that the faculty of the College of New York
are more to blame for adopting this work as a text-book than the
author was for writing it. You know, I suppose, what that college
is. It is a part of our common school system, designed for the
youth of every faith, and supported by tax on all citizens alike.
To allow a word taught there which could offend the religious
feelings of either Catholics or Protestants is a gross outrage
upon public right. It only shows, what wise men of our church
have all along maintained, that Catholics need hope for no good
from state education. We must be taxed for what we don't approve,
and support our own schools and colleges besides.--But enough of
this. Let us see the rest of your thistles."
"Oh!" said he, laughing, "there are enough of them, I can assure
you. Here, for example, is _The Free-Will Baptist Quarterly_
for January, 1868. It contains an article on 'The Perversions of
the Gospel a Proof of its Divinity,' and in the course of it
occurs this sentence about the pope: 'He can remit sins _or
permit them_, and _his pardon_ and indulgences have been
_purchased with money_.' Now, a quarterly is supposed to be
edited with care and deliberation, and when such a periodical
states that the holy Father has power 'to permit sins' it is
guilty of a misstatement which I hardly know how to distinguish
from a deliberate falsehood. The editor of _The Baptist
Quarterly_ is utterly inexcusable for not knowing that the
doctrine which he attributes to the church is repudiated with
horror by every theologian who ever wrote on our side. It has
never been either maintained in theory or acted upon in practice.
The statement of _The Quarterly_ is one of the most
atrocious calumnies ever uttered, and the editor was bound to
know it. If he is so ignorant as not to know it, he is criminally
presumptuous in undertaking the functions of a popular teacher.
Then, again, he says that the pope's 'pardon and indulgences have
been purchased with money.' This, too, is a positive falsehood,
though we are willing to believe not an intentional one. In no
case, and under no color, can pardon be obtained for money. The
only price ever required, the only price which can ever suffice,
is hearty repentance. After pardon has been granted, there
remains, as we all know, a temporal penalty to be exacted by way
of satisfaction, and for this the pope may decree the
contribution of money for a charitable object or any other good
deed. If the editor of _The Baptist Quarterly_ does not know
that this is the extent of an indulgence, then he has no business
to be an editor. Ignorance does not excuse him. But let this
pass. We were speaking just now of education here is an article
quite _à propos_ to that subject in _The Churchman_. It
is called 'Rome and the Scriptures.' The writer begins by
wondering at the insolence of 'Romanists' in denying that the
church withholds the Bible from the laity; and how do you think
he proceeds to prove that she does withhold it?
{726}
Why, by showing that she lays some very necessary restrictions
upon the _indiscriminate_ circulation of _translations_
of the Bible. But, it is objected, every English-speaking
Catholic family has a copy of the Douay Bible in the house. Yes,
says _The Churchman_, because the church lets you have it;
she could forbid it if she chose. What do you think of that as a
specimen of argument? The church forbids the Bible, because she
might, if she pleased, only she doesn't. Besides, this writer
continues, the English of the Douay version is so bad that it is
practically not the vernacular; the book is as much sealed to the
comprehension of the common reader as if it remained in the
original Hebrew and Greek. Thus, he says, 'in Galatians v. 19-23,
we have a list of the "works of the flesh," and the "fruits of
the Spirit." In our version occur the words, "lasciviousness,
drunkenness, revellings, long-suffering." But in the Douay
version instead of such honest English, which any person of
ordinary attainments can understand, we have the words,
"impudicity, elrieties, [ebrieties?] comessations, and
longanimity." In Hebrews ix. 23, our version reads, "the patterns
of things in the heavens;" but the Douay has it, "the exemplars
of the celestials." Again, in Hebrews xiii. 16, instead of "to do
good, and to communicate, forget not; for with such sacrifices
God is well pleased," as in our version, the Douay reads,
"Beneficence and communication forget not, "for with such hosts
God is promerited." Is this what the Romanists call the Bible in
the vulgar tongue?' Now, in point of fact, not a single one of
the preceding texts is given in the form he quotes in the
Catholic Testaments now in use. The passage from Galatians reads,
'immodesty, drunkenness, revellings.' Instead of 'the exemplars
of the celestials,' we have 'the patterns of heavenly things;'
and the verse from Hebrews xiii. runs thus: 'And do not forget to
do good and to impart; for by such sacrifices God's favor is
obtained.' In the first edition of the Douay Bible there were
many obscure expressions which have since been amended. If the
translators knew English but imperfectly, whose fault was it? The
English government would not allow Catholics to get an education
in their native country--hanged them if they caught them at it.
That we have corrected their shortcomings is proof enough that we
are anxious to facilitate the study of the sacred books. What
would _The Churchman_ say if we accused the Anglican
establishment of trying to conceal the Scriptures from the common
people, because the translations of Wickliffe and Coverdale
contain many antiquated expressions? That would be every whit as
just as to found a similar charge against us upon the
imperfections of the first editions of Douay and Rheims, (which
are older, it should be remarked, than the Bible of King James.)"
"After all," said I, "I cannot regard the authorized English
Protestant Bible as a model of what a popular translation ought
to be."
"Of course not. Don't you remember what Hallam says about it?
Here is the passage: 'It is held to be the perfection of our
English language. I shall not dispute this proposition; but one
remark as to a matter of fact cannot reasonably be censured,
that, in consequence of the principle of adherence to the
original versions, which had been kept up ever since the time of
Henry VIII., _it is not the language of the reign of James
I._
{727}
It may, in the eyes of many, be a better English, but it is not
the English of Daniel, or Raleigh, or Bacon, as any one may
easily perceive. _It abounds, in fact_, especially in the
Old Testament, _with obsolete phraseology, and with single
words long since abandoned_ or retained only in provincial
use.' (_Literature of Europe_, vol. ii. chap. 2.) The early
Protestant versions are proof enough of the wisdom of our church
in setting bounds to the license of careless or incompetent
editors. You know there is one edition which is called by
book-collectors '_the Breeches Bible_,' on account of its
rendering of a passage in the third chapter of Genesis, where
Adam and Eve are said to have 'sewed together fig-leaves and made
themselves _breeches._' The king's printers, in 1632, were
fined for publishing a Bible in which one of the commandments
appeared in this form, 'Thou shalt commit adultery.' During the
Commonwealth, a large impression of the Bible was confiscated on
account of its corruptions, many of which were the result of
design. One edition contained 6000 errors. Archbishop Usher, on
his way to preach once, bought a London Bible in a bookseller's
shop, and was dismayed to find that the text he had selected was
omitted! In one of the English Bibles the first verse of the
fourteenth (or in our Bible the thirteenth) Psalm is printed,
'The fool hath said in his heart, there is a God,' instead of 'no
God.' Just see what that famous old Protestant divine, Thomas
Fuller, says of this matter: 'Considering with myself the causes
of the growth and increase of impiety and profaneness in our
land, amongst others this seemeth to me not the least, viz., the
late many _false_ and _erroneous_ impressions of the
Bible. Now know, what is but _carelessness_ in other books
is _impiety_ in setting forth of the Bible. As Noah, in all
unclean creatures, preserved but two of a kind, so among some
hundreds in several editions, we will insist only on two
instances. In the Bible printed at London in 1653, we read, "I
Corinthians vi. 9, Know ye not that the unrighteous shall inherit
the kingdom of God?" for "not inherit." Now, when a reverend
doctor in divinity did mildly reprove some libertines for their
licentious lives, they did produce this text from the authority
of this corrupt edition in justification of their vicious and
inordinate conversations. The next instance shall be in the Bible
printed at London in quarto (forbearing the name of the printer,
because not done wilfully by him) in the singing Psalms, Psalm
lxvii. 2:
"That all the earth may know
The way to worldly wealth,"
for "godly wealth."' Such blunders too are by no means confined
to early impressions. Why, there is an edition of the Anglican
Liturgy printed at Oxford, of all places in the world, in 1813,
in which occurs this dreadful blunder: 'Lamb of God, who takest
away the sins of the _Lord_.'"
"After this, it looks well, doesn't it, for _The Churchman_
to blame us for repressing the indiscriminate circulation of wild
versions of the Scriptures?"
"My dear friend, if all men were consistent, the whole world
would be Catholic. Protestantism from beginning to end is nothing
but a huge inconsistency. But come: have we any more weeds to
look at?"
"Here is a copy of _The Observer_; if we don't find
something startling in it, it will be strange. Yes; here is a
letter from the well-known _Irenaeus_ on 'the relics at
Aix-la-Chapelle.' Read what he says:
{728}
"'I found that pictures of the relics were for sale in all the
shops, and I bought a few as souvenirs of my accidental
pilgrimage; particularly I sought for a good representation
of that one which is first on the list, and first in the
admiration of the people. _As the Virgin Mother Mary is
held in higher honor by all good Catholics than the Son of
God himself,_ so they likewise venerate, with a deeper
reverence, the linen garment that she wore, than the cloth
which was around the loins of the Saviour on the cross.'
What do you say to that? For my part, I cannot believe that a man
so well informed on most subjects as _Irenaeus_ is really
thinks that 'Catholics hold the Virgin Mary in higher honor than
the Son of God himself.' If he knows anything at all about the
Catholic Church, he must know that this is a downright slander."
"In point of fact, I suppose he does know it; but he belongs to a
class of persons who seem to think it no harm to say anything
evil of Catholics for the sake of producing a sensation. The
church in their eyes is merely a convenient subject for turning
an eloquent sentence; a sort of _corpus vile_, upon which it
is allowable to try all manner of oratorical experiments.
Besides, you know _The Observer_ is nothing but a
journalistic stuffed Guy Faux, brought out periodically for the
purpose of reminding mankind of the wickedness of the bloody
papists."
"Do you know I pity the editor of that paper? he must have such
awful nightmares. Just think of perpetually dreaming that the
pope sits scowling on your stomach ready to strangle you, and a
grand inquisitor lurks under the bed! I suppose _The
Observer_ never goes up-stairs in the dark without dread of
stumbling over a rack, or running his hand into a thumbscrew, and
never falls asleep without apprehensions of a popish massacre
before morning. Has he any special bugaboo to-day?"
"'The Confessional.' I will not read the whole article. Some of
it is too nasty. But here is a specimen:
"'The confessional in the Roman Catholic Church, and in every
church that becomes corrupt enough to introduce it, and
slavish enough to submit to it, is an engine of tyranny over
the social, domestic, and private life of the people, with an
extent, power, and wickedness it is hardly possible to conceive.
"'It operates chiefly through the women. In most of the Roman
Catholic countries men have substantially deserted the
confessional. They go once a year, at Easter, if at all. Many
of them, nominally Catholics, do not take the communion, and
therefore do not come under the ecclesiastical necessity of
confessing. But women are more religious, more superstitious,
and more submissive to priestly domination than men. Men have
their business to think about, and often worship mammon.
Religion is the highest of all mental occupations for women;
their life is in it; it is their life--this and that to come.
In Protestant as well as Roman churches women are the most
and the best of the members. It has been so from the time
they outnumbered the disciples at the cross and the grave of
the Saviour. The confessional has its grasp on the women of
the Roman Catholic Church; and through them it rules the
households where those women are wives, mothers, sisters,
children, or servants. It is enough for the purpose of the
priests that they have one spy in a house; but the more the
better, and the nearer that spy is to the head of the house
the more valuable her service. The conduct of servants is
carefully watched; and they are changed from time to time by
the direction of priests, when the family has not the
slightest suspicion of the cause. The priests often select
willing and capable agents, who, in the capacity of servants,
male and female, act as spies and emissaries in households
they wish to supervise. The information thus obtained is
recorded, transmitted to higher powers, and used, without
scruple, in the secret and constant operations of the church
to get control over the political and material interests of
the state.'
"There is no excuse for this sort of thing. There is an untruth
in almost every line. I don't charge _The Observer_ with
deliberate falsehood, but it needs a good deal of charity, in a
case like this, to remember the difference between a mistake and
a lie.
{729}
Mark you, the writer does not say: 'I believe the confessional to
be used for purposes of oppression,' 'I suspect that the priests
keep spies in every household.' 'I dare say the church interferes
with our servants,' 'I take it for granted that the priests
repeat what is said to them in confession;' but all these vague
and ridiculous notions are stated in the broadest manner, as
admitted historical facts. That is to say, _The Observer_
makes the most atrocious charges against us without a particle of
evidence to support them. 'I guess they are true,' says the
writer; 'any way, I will make them.' The less the proof, the more
emphatic the assertion. Suppose I have a vague suspicion that my
neighbor has stolen money, and on the strength of that suspicion,
not knowing whether it is well-founded or not, and having no
means of knowing, I proclaim him as a thief all over town.
Whether he is one or not, I commit a grave sin by defaming him on
mere suspicion; and if he turn out to be an honest man after all,
the fact that I believed my own story will not save me from the
consequences of uttering slander. The old grannies of
Protestantism act upon the principle that it is quite fair to
ascribe any imaginable sin either to the pope or the devil. The
wickedness of both being infinite, it is impossible to overshoot
the mark."
"Even if all priests were demons, I don't see why they must also
be described as idiots. 'Spies in the household!' Can you imagine
anything more childish than listening to Bridget's and Mary Ann's
reports of the daily life of their master and mistress? Can you
imagine any use to which such information could be turned by the
church? _The Observer_ no doubt supposes that the archbishop
of New York has daily morning audiences with his domestic
emissaries, who tell him what time _The Observer_ editor got
up, how many eggs he ate for breakfast, what remarks he made at
family prayers, whether the children were good, and how much
butcher's meat was used in the house during the previous week.
Then just think of the Roman Catholic Church being a vast
intelligence-office, through which servants are changed about
from house to house! You flatter yourself that you chose your
cook out of a number of applicants for the place. Nothing of the
kind she was sent to your house by the priests, and forced on you
by a kind of legerdemain, just as a juggler forces a card. You
think you discharged your last chambermaid. Oh! no; she went away
because the priests had duties for her elsewhere. And the reports
of all these spies, _The Observer_ assures us, are actually
written out, and transmitted to headquarters! I believe there is
no limit to the credulity of a no-popery zealot."
"I am glad to see, however, that some Protestants have recognized
the value of the confessional to society, and have spoken warmly
of its sacred influence. I suppose you know how much attention
has lately been drawn to the great appalling sin of modern
American women--the murder of their offspring yet unborn. It is a
sin so prevalent that, as I remember reading some time ago in
_The Congregationalist_, it is said that in a certain
populous district in a large western city, not a single
Anglo-American child had been born alive in three years! It has
not escaped the notice of physicians that no such practice
prevails among the Catholic population.
{730}
Dr. Storer, of Boston, (a Protestant,) explains this difference
in his well-known essay on the subject, by the influence of the
confessional; and _The Congregationalist_ took the same
view. Indeed, both virtually admit that, if it were not for the
confessional, the natural increase of population in the United
States would be almost entirely checked."
"That is a good thing for _The Observer_ to meditate upon;
but I am afraid the venerable old alarmist is incorrigible. It is
hard to reason with a man whose hair perpetually stands on end
with fright."
"Yes, or with a professional dealer in bugaboos. But even if he
believes all his stories, I don't see what good he can possibly
expect to come of telling them. They are only irritating."
"Irritating! they are criminally dangerous. The greatest enemy to
a community is the man who stirs up the animosity of religious
denominations against each other. The natural effect of such
stories is to inspire the ignorant and passionate on the one side
with contempt and hatred, on the other with resentment; and how
long can society be sure of peace when it is filled with such
dangerous elements? Of course, the Catholics are not so silly or
so wicked as to fly to arms whenever an insult is uttered against
the church, neither are Protestants going to defend Luther and
Henry VIII. with fire and riot; but suppose some unforeseen
circumstance produces an outbreak, what a terrible responsibility
will rest upon those who prepared the materials of combustion!
Mr. Froude, speaking of the St. Bartholomew massacre, says, the
guilt was the queen's, but her plan could never have been carried
out, had not theological frenzy already been heated to the
boiling-point. He is wrong in this case, for it is proved that
theological frenzy had nothing to do with the slaughter;
political frenzy is sometimes quite as dangerous; but I wish
those who think he is right would apply his principle to the
regulation of their own conduct. The frenzy which instigated the
burning of the Charlestown convent, the bloodshed and
incendiarism of the Native American movement in Philadelphia, and
the Know-Nothing riots in different parts of the country, had
been gathered up and nursed long beforehand by preachers like
_The Observer_. They did not know what they were doing, I
suppose, but others foresaw and predicted the consequences. Rant
is always the forerunner of riot. The periodical excitement on
the subject of popery which breaks out in the United States, like
the cholera or yellow fever, has always been followed by
lamentable disturbances. The man who makes his living by
thundering at the corruptions of the Church of Rome, is an
incendiary in fact, though he may not be in intention. Of course,
it is a pity that men should be prone to anger. It is a pity that
we are not always meek, and long-suffering, and forgiving; that
we do not bear reproaches with patience, and repay calumnies with
good deeds. Our Lord tells us to love our enemies, but only a few
of us are good enough to obey him. If all Catholics were perfect
Christians, _The Observer_ might shout hard names at us
until it was black in the face, and there would be no danger; but
there is a good deal of human nature in us, after all, and it is
better not to go near gunpowder with a lighted candle. I do not
mean to say, of course, that there is danger of our deliberately
resenting such attacks. We are far too sensible for that. No
amount of abuse would, of itself, provoke us to break the peace.
{731}
But such calumnious harangues tend first to draw a broad line of
distinction between Catholics and Protestants, and keep them
apart, which, alone, is a social evil; then they inevitably fill
the two parties with mutual dislike, and, in time, drive them to
antipathy; the bad feeling gets worse and worse; and some day
accident brings about a clash, and there is a terrible explosion,
nobody knows exactly how, and nobody knows who is most to blame.
All we can determine about it is, to use Froude's words, that it
could not have happened 'had not theological frenzy already been
heated to the boiling-point.' I think it is high time that all
decent citizens, all honest theological disputants, should set
their faces against the Gospel of Frenzy. I am willing to meet
any man in a fair controversy, but there is nothing but danger
and aggravation in bandying hard names. The only legitimate
object of controversy is to make converts, and you can't do that
without good temper and honest argument. The apparent purpose of
such tirades as those of _The Observer_, is merely to show
the preacher's own party how much better they are than the rest
of the world. Nobody but a fool could expect them to do any good
to the Catholics; you can't make friends with a man by abusing
his mother. It ought to be clearly understood that calm
theological discussion over points of discipline or dogma is
always in order; but atrocious charges, unsupported by a tittle
of evidence, deserve no name but that of sheer calumny, and all
good men ought to detest them. If Protestant preachers only
carried into the pulpit and the editorial chair the same rules of
morality which, I am happy to believe, they generally practise in
private life, they would observe this cardinal principle, not to
publish infamous accusations against their neighbors unless they
have personal knowledge of their truth."
--------
Abscondita.
Flower of the forest, that, unseen,
With sweetness fill'st the vernal grove,
Where hid'st thou? 'Mid the grasses green,
Or those dim boughs that mix above?
Thou bird that, darkling, sing'st a song
That shook the bowers of paradise,
Thou too art hid thy leaves among:
Thou sing'st unseen of mortal eyes.
Of her thou sing'st whose every breath
Sweetened a world too blind to heed;
Of Him--Death's Conqueror--that from death
Alone would take the crown decreed.
Thou sing'st that secret gifts are best;
That only like to God are they
Who keep God's secret in their breast,
And hide, as stars are hid by day.
Aubrey De Vere.
--------
{732}
Translated From The French.
The Story of a Conscript.
XV.
When I returned to myself, I looked around. I was in a long hall,
with posts all around. I was in a bed, and beside me was an old
gray-mustached soldier, who, when he saw my eyes open, lifted up
my head and held a cup to my lips.
"Well," said he cheerfully, "well! we are better."
I could not help smiling as I thought that I was yet among the
living. My chest and arm were stiff with bandages; I felt as if a
hot iron were burning me there; but no matter, I lived!
I gazed at the heavy rafters crossing the space above me; at the
tiles of the roof, through which the daylight entered in more
than one spot; I turned and looked to the other side, and saw
that I was in one of those vast sheds used by the brewers of the
country as a shelter for their casks and wagons. All around, on
mattresses and heaps of straw, numbers of wounded lay ranged; and
in the middle, on a large kitchen-table, a surgeon-major and his
two aids, their shirt-sleeves rolled up, were amputating the leg
of a soldier, who was shrieking in agony. Behind them was a mass
of legs and arms. I turned away sick and trembling.
Five or six soldiers were walking about, giving drink to the
wounded.
But the man who impressed himself most on my memory was a surgeon
with sleeves rolled up, who cut and cut without paying the
slightest attention to what was going on around; he was a man
with a large nose and wrinkled cheeks, and every moment flew into
a passion at his assistants, who could not give him his knives,
pincers, lint, or linen fast enough, or who were not quick enough
sponging up the blood.
They had just laid out on the table a Russian carbineer, six feet
in height at least; a ball had pierced his neck near the ear, and
while the surgeon was asking for his little knives, a cavalry
surgeon passed before the shed. He was short, stout, and badly
pitted with the small-pox, and held a portfolio under his arm.
"Ha! Forel!" cried he cheerfully.
"It is Duchêne," said our surgeon, turning around. "How many
wounded?"
"Seventeen to eighteen thousand." Our surgeon left the shed to
chat with his comrade; they conversed tranquilly, while the
assistants sat down to drink a cup of wine, and the Russian
rolled his eyes despairingly.
"See, Duchêne; you have only to go down the street, opposite that
well, do you see?"
" Very well indeed."
"Just opposite you will see the canteen."
"Very good; thank you; I am off."
He started, and our surgeon called after him--
"A good appetite to you, Duchêne!"
Then he returned to his Russian, whose neck he had laid open. He
worked ill-humoredly, constantly scolding his aids.
{733}
The Russian writhed and groaned, but he paid no attention to
that, and at last, throwing the bullet upon the ground, he
bandaged up the wound, and cried, "Carry him off!"
They lifted the Russian from the table, and stretched him on a
mattress beside the others; then they laid his neighbor upon the
table.
I could not think that such horrors took place in the world; but
I was yet to see worse than this.
At five or six beds from mine was an old corporal with his leg
bound up. He closed one eye knowingly, and said to his neighbor,
whose arm had just been cut off:
"Conscript, look at that heap! I will bet that you cannot
recognize your arm."
The other, who had hitherto shown the greatest courage, looked,
and fell back senseless.
Then the corporal began laughing, saying:
"He did recognize it. It always produces that effect."
He looked around self-approvingly, but: no one laughed with him.
Every moment the wounded called for water. When one began, all
followed, and the old soldier had certainly conceived a liking
for me, for each time he passed, he presented the cup.
I did not remain in the shed more than an hour. A dozen
ambulances drew up before the door, and the peasants of the
country round, in their velvet jackets and large black, slouched
hats, their whips on their shoulders, held the horses by the
reins. A picket of hussars arrived soon after, and their officer
dismounting, entered and said:
"Excuse me, major, but here is an order to escort twelve wagons
of wounded as far as Lutzen. Is it here that we are to receive
them?" '"Yes, it is here," replied the surgeon.
The peasants and the ambulance-drivers, after giving us a last
draught of wine, began carrying us to the wagons. As one was
filled, it departed, and another advanced. They had given us our
great-coats; but despite them and the sun, which was shining
brightly, we shivered with cold. No one spoke; each was too much
occupied thinking of himself.
At moments I was terribly cold; then flashes of heat would dart
through me, and flush me as in fever; and indeed it was the
beginning of the fever. But as we left Kaya, I was yet well; I
saw everything clearly, and it was not till we neared Leipsic
that I felt indeed sick. The hussars rode beside us, smoking and
chatting, paying no attention to us.
In passing through Kaya, I saw all the horrors of war. The
village was but a mass of cinders; the roofs had fallen, and the
walls alone remained standing; the rafters were broken; we could
see the remnants of rooms, stairs, and doors heaped within. The
poor villagers, women, children, and old men, came and went with
sorrowful faces. We could see them going up and down in their
houses; and in one we saw a mirror yet hanging unbroken, showing
where dwelt a young girl in time of peace.
Ah! who of them could foresee that their happiness would so soon
be destroyed, not by the fury of the winds or the wrath of
heaven, but by the rage of man!
Even the cattle and pigeons seemed seeking their lost homes among
the ruins; the oxen and the goats scattered through the streets,
lowed and bleated plaintively. At the last house an old man, with
flowing white hair, sat at the threshold of what had been his
cottage, with a child upon his knees, glaring on us as we passed.
His furrowed brow and stony eyes spoke of despair.
{734}
How many years of labor, of patient economy, had he passed to
make sure a quiet old age! Now all was crushed, ruined; the child
and he had no longer a roof to cover their heads.
And those great trenches--fully a mile of them--at which the
country people were working in such haste, to keep the plague
from completing the work war began! I saw them, too, from the top
of the hill of Kaya, and turned away my eyes, horror-stricken.
Russians, French, Prussians were there heaped pell-mell, as if
God had made them to love each other before the invention of arms
and uniforms, which divide them for the profit of those who rule
them. There they lay, side by side; and those of them who could
not die knew no more of war, but cursed the crimes that had for
centuries kept them apart.
But what was sadder yet, was the long line of ambulances, bearing
the agonized wounded--those of whom they speak so much in the
bulletins to make the loss seem less, and who die by thousands in
the hospitals, far from all they love; while at their homes
cannon are firing, and church-bells are ringing with joyous
chimes of victory.
At length we reached Lutzen, but it was so full of wounded that
we were obliged to continue on to Leipsic. Fatigue and weariness
overpowered me, and I fell asleep, and only awoke when I felt
myself lifted from the ambulance. It was night, the sky seemed
covered with stars, and innumerable lights shone from an immense
edifice before us. It was the hospital of the market-place at
Leipsic.
The two men who were carrying me ascended a spiral stairway which
led to an immense hall, where beds were laid together in three
lines, so close that they touched each other. On one of these
beds I was placed, in the midst of oaths, cries for pity, and
muttered complaints from hundreds of fever-stricken wounded. The
windows were open, and the flames of the lanterns flickered in
the gusts of wind. Surgeons, assistants, and nurses came and
went, while the groans from the halls below, and the rolling of
ambulances, cracking of whips and neighing of horses without,
seemed to pierce my very brain. While they were undressing me,
they handled me roughly, and my wound pained me so horribly that
I could not avoid shrieking. A surgeon came up at once, and
scolded them for not being more careful. That is all I remember
that night; for I became delirious, and raved constantly of
Catharine, Monsieur Goulden, and Aunt Grédel, as my neighbor, an
old artilleryman, whom my cries prevented from sleeping,
afterward told me. I awoke the next morning at about eight
o'clock, and then learned that I had the bone of my left shoulder
broken. I lay in the middle of a dozen surgeons; one of them a
stout, dark man, whom they called Monsieur the Baron, was opening
my bandages, while an assistant at the foot of the bed held a
basin of warm water. The baron examined my wound; all the others
bent forward to hear what he might say. He spoke a few moments,
but all that I could understand was, that the ball had struck
from below, breaking the bone and passing out behind. The
surgeon, passing to another bed, cried:
"What! You here again, old fellow?"
"Yes; it is I, Monsieur the Baron," replied the artilleryman,
proud to be recognized; "the first time was at Austerlitz, the
second at Jena, and then I received two thrusts of a lance at
Smolensk."
{735}
"Yes, yes," said the surgeon kindly; "and now what is the matter
with you?"
"Three sabre-cuts on my left arm while I was defending my piece
from the Prussians."
The surgeon unwound the bandage, and asked:
"Have you the cross?"
"No, Monsieur the Baron."
"What is your name?"
"Christian Zunnier, second _artillerie-a-cheval._"
"Very good!"
He dressed the wounds, and went to the next, saying,
"You will soon be well."
The old artilleryman's heart seemed overflowing with joy; and, as
I concluded from his name that he came from Alsace, I spoke to
him in our language, at which he was still more rejoiced. He
called me _Josephel_, and said:
"Josephel, be careful how you swallow the medicines they give
you, only take what you know. All that does not taste well is
good for nothing. If they would give us a bottle of
_Rikevir_ every day, we would soon be well."
When I told him I was afraid of dying of the fever, he laughed
long and loud, and said:
"Josephel, you are a fool. Do you think that such tall fellows as
you and I were born to die in a hospital? No, no; drive the idea
from your head."
But he spoke in vain, for every morning the surgeons, making
their rounds, found seven or eight dead. Some died in fevers,
some in a deadly chill; so that heat or cold might be the presage
of death.
Zunnier said that all this proceeded from the evil drugs which
the doctors invented. "Do you see that tall, thin fellow?" he
asked. "Well, that man can boast of having killed more men than a
field-piece; he is always primed, with his match lighted; and
that little brown fellow--I would send him instead of the emperor
to the Russians and Prussians; he would kill more of them than a
_corps d'armée_."
He would have made me laugh with his jokes if the litters were
not constantly passing.
At the end of three weeks my shoulder had begun to heal, and
Zunnier's wounds were also doing well, and they allowed us to
walk in the large garden, full of elms, behind the hospital.
There were benches under the trees, and we walked the paths like
millionaires in our gray great-coats and forage-caps. The
increasing heat presaged a fine year, and often, when looking at
the beautiful scenery around, I thought of Phalsbourg, and the
tears came to my eyes.
"I would like to know what makes you cry so," said Zunnier.
"Instead of catching a fever in the hospital, or losing a leg or
arm, like hundreds of others, here we are quietly seated in the
shade; we are well fed, and can smoke when we have any tobacco;
and still you cry. What more do you want, Josephel?"
Then I told him of Catharine; of our walks at Quatre-Vents; of
our promises; of all my former life, which then seemed a dream.
He listened, smoking his pipe.
"Yes, yes," said he; "all this is very sad. Before the
conscription of 1798, I too was going to marry a girl of our
village, who was named Margrédel, and whom I loved better than
all the world beside. We had promised to marry each other; and
all through the campaign of Zurich, I never passed a day without
thinking of her. But when I first received a furlough and reached
home, what did I hear? Margrédel had been three months married to
a shoemaker, named Passauf.
{736}
"You may imagine my wrath, Josephel; I could not see clearly; I
wanted to demolish everything; and, as they told me that Passauf
was at the _Grand-Cerf_ brewery, thither I started, looking
neither to the right nor left. There I saw him drinking with
three or four other rogues. As I rushed forward, he cried, 'There
comes Christian Zunnier! How goes it, Christian! Margrédel sends
you her compliments.' I seized a glass which I hurled at his
head, and broke to pieces, saying, 'Give her that for my wedding
present, you beggar!' The others, seeing their friend thus
maltreated, very naturally fell upon me. I knocked two of three
of them over with a jug, jumped on a table, sprang through a
window, and beat a retreat."
"It was time," I thought
"But that was not all," he continued, "I had scarcely reached my
mother's when the gendarmerie arrived, and they arrested me. They
put me on a wagon and conducted me from my brigade to my
regiment, which was at Strasbourg. I remained six weeks at
Finckmatt, and would probably have received the ball and chain,
if we did not have to cross the Rhine to Hohenlinden.
"From that day, Josephel, the thought of marriage never troubled
me. Don't talk to me of a soldier who has a wife to think of.
Look at our generals who are married, do they fight as they used
to?"
I could not answer, for I did not know; but day after day I
waited anxiously to hear from home, and my joy can be more easily
imagined than described when, one day, a large, square letter was
handed me. I recognized Monsieur Goulden's handwriting.
"Well," said Zunnier, laughing, "it is come at last."
I did not answer, but thrust the letter in my pocket, to read it
at leisure and alone. I went to the end of the garden and opened
it. Two or three apple-blossoms dropped upon the ground, with an
order for money, on which Monsieur Goulden had written a few
words. But what touched me most was the handwriting of Catharine,
which I gazed at without reading a word, while my heart beat as
if about to burst through my bosom. At last I grew a little
calmer and read:
"My Dear Joseph: I write you to tell you I yet love you alone,
and that, day by day, I love you more.
"My greatest grief is to know that you are wounded, in a
hospital, and that I cannot take care of you. Since the
conscripts departed, we have not had a moment's peace of mind. My
mother says I am silly to weep night and day, but she weeps as
much as I, and her wrath falls heavily on Pinacle, who scarcely
now dares come to the market-place. When we heard the battle had
taken place, and that thousands of men had fallen, mother ran
every morning to the post-office, while I could not move from the
house. At last your letter came, thank heaven! to cheer us. We
hope now to see you again, but God's will be done.
"Many people talk of peace, but the emperor so loves war, that I
fear it is far off.
"Now, Monsieur Goulden wishes to say a few words to you, so I
will close. The weather is beautiful here, and the great
apple-tree in the garden is full of flowers; I have plucked a
few, which I send in this letter. God bless you, Joseph, and
farewell!"
{737}
As I finished reading this, Zunnier arrived, and in my joy, I
said:
"Sit down, Zunnier, and I will read you my sweetheart's letter.
You will see whether she is a Margrédel."
"Let me light my pipe first," he answered; and having done so, he
added: "Go on, Josephel, but I warn you that I am an old bird,
and do not believe all I hear; women are more cunning than we."
Notwithstanding this bit of philosophy, I read Catharine's letter
slowly to him. When I had ended, he took it, and for a long time
gazed at it dreamily, and then handed it back, saying:
"There! Josephel. She is a good girl, and a sensible one, and
will never marry any one but you."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes; you may rely upon her; she will never marry a Passauf. I
would rather distrust the emperor than such a girl."
I could have embraced Zunnier for these words; but I said:
"I have received a bill for one hundred francs. Now for some
white wine of Alsace. Let us try to get out."
"That is well thought of," said he, twisting his mustache and
putting his pipe in his pocket. "I do not like to mope in a
garden when there are taverns outside. We must get permission."
We arose joyfully and went to the hospital, when the
letter-carrier, coming out, stopped Zunnier, saying:
"Are you Christian Zunnier, of the second
_artillerie-à-cheval_?"
"I have that honor, monsieur the carrier."
"Well, here is something for you," said the other, handing him a
little package and a large letter.
Zunnier was stupified, never having received anything from home
or from anywhere else. He opened the packet--a box appeared--then
the box--and saw the cross of honor. He became pale; his eyes
filled with tears, he staggered against a balustrade, and then
shouted "_Vive l'Empereur!_" in such tones that the three
halls rang and rang again.
The carrier looked on smiling.
"You are satisfied," said he.
"Satisfied! I need but one thing more."
"And what is that?"
"Permission to go to the city."
"You must ask Monsieur Tardieu, the surgeon in chief."
He went away laughing, while we ascended arm-in-arm, to ask
permission of the surgeon-major, an old man, who had heard the
"_Vive l'Empereur!_" and demanded gravely:
"What is the matter?"
Zunnier showed his cross and replied:
"Pardon, major; but I am more than usually merry."
"I can easily believe you," said Monsieur Tardieu; "you want a
pass to the city?"
"If you will be so good; for myself and my comrade, Joseph
Bertha."
The surgeon had examined my wound the day before. He took out his
portfolio and gave us passes. We sallied forth as proud as
kings--Zunnier of his cross, I, of my letter.
XVI.
I walked dreamily through the streets, led by Zunnier, who
recognized every corner, and kept repeating:
"There--there is the church of Saint Nicholas; that large
building is the university; that on yonder is the _Hôtel de
Ville_."
He seemed to remember every stone, having been there in 1807,
before the battle of Friedland, and continued:
{738}
"We are the same here as if we were in Metz, or Strasbourg, or
any other city in France. The people wish us well. After the
campaign of 1806, they used to do all they could for us. The
citizens would take three or four of us at a time to dinner with
them. They even gave us balls, and called us the heroes of Jena.
Let us go in somewhere and see how they will treat us. We named
their elector King of Saxony, and gave him a good slice of
Poland."
Suddenly he stopped before a little, low door, and cried:
"Hold! Here is the Golden Sheep Brewery. The front is on the
other street, but we can enter here. Come!"
I followed him into a narrow, winding passage, which led to an
old court, surrounded by rubble walls. To the right was the
brewery, and in a corner a great wheel, turned by an enormous
dog, which pumped the beer to every story of the house.
The clinking of glasses was heard coming from a room which opened
on the Rue de Tilly. The sweet smell of the new March beer filled
the air, and Zunnier, with a look of satisfaction, cried:
"Yes, here I came six years ago with Ferré and Rousillon. Poor
Rousillon! he left his bones at Smolensk; and Ferré must now be
at home in his village, for he lost a leg at Wagram."
At the same time he pushed open the door, and we entered a lofty
hall, full of smoke. I saw, through the thick, gray atmosphere, a
long row of tables, surrounded by men drinking--the greater
number in short coats and little caps, the remainder in the Saxon
uniform. They were mostly students, and the oldest of them--a
tall, withered-looking man, with a red nose and long flaxen
beard, stained with beer--was standing upon a table, reading the
gazette aloud. He held the paper in one hand, and in the other a
long porcelain pipe. His comrades, with their long, light hair
falling upon their shoulders, were listening with the deepest
interest; and as we entered, they shouted "_Vaterland!
Vaterland!_"
They touched glasses with the Saxon soldiers, while the tall
student bent over to take up his glass, and the round, fat brewer
cried:
"_Gesundheit! Gesundheit!_"
Scarcely had we made half a dozen steps toward them, when they
became silent.
"Come, come, comrades!" cried Zunnier, "don't disturb yourselves.
Go on reading. We do not object to hear the news."
But they did not seem inclined to profit by our invitation, and
the reader descended from the table, folding up his paper, which
he put in his pocket.
"It is finished," said he, "it is finished."
"Yes; it is finished," repeated the others, looking at each other
with a peculiar expression.
Two or three of the soldiers rose and left the room, and the fat
landlord said:
"You do not perhaps know that the large hall is on the Rue de
Tilly?"
"Yes; we know it very well," replied Zunnier; "but I like this
little hall better. Here I used to come, long ago, with two old
comrades, to empty a few glasses in honor of Jena and Auerstaedt.
I know this room of old."
"Ah! as you please, as you please," returned the landlord. "Do
you wish some March beer?"
"Yes; two glasses and the gazette."
"Very good."
{739}
The glasses were handed us, and Zunnier, who observed nothing,
tried to open a conversation with the students; but they excused
themselves, and, one after another, went out. I saw that they
hated us, but dared not show it.
The gazette spoke of an armistice, after two new victories at
Bautzen and Wurtschen. This armistice commenced on the sixth of
June, and a conference was then being held at Prague, in Bohemia,
to arrange on terms of peace. All this naturally gave me
pleasure. I thought of again seeing home. But Zunnier, with his
habit of thinking aloud, filled the hall with his reflections,
and interrupted me at every line.
"An armistice!" he cried. "Do we want an armistice, after having
beaten those Prussians and Russians three times? We should
annihilate them! Would they give us an armistice if they had
beaten us? There, Joseph, you see the emperor's character--he is
too good. It is his only fault. He did the same thing after
Austerlitz, and we had to begin over again. I tell you, he is too
good and if he were not so, we should have been masters of
Europe."
As he spoke, he looked around as if seeking assent; but the
students scowled, and no one replied.
At last Zunnier rose.
"Come, Joseph," said he; "I know nothing of politics, but I
insist that we should give no armistice to those beggars. When
they are down, we should keep them there."
After we had paid our reckoning, and were once more in the
street, he continued:
"I do not know what was the matter with those people to-day. We
must have disturbed them in something."
"It is very possible," I replied. "They certainly did not seem
like the good-natured folks you were speaking of."
"No," said he. "The students, long ago, used to pass their time
drinking with us. We sang _Fanfan la Tulipe_ and 'King
Dagobert' together, which are not political songs, you know. But
these fellows are good for nothing."
I knew, afterward, that those students were members of the
_Tugend-Bund_. No wonder they hated Frenchmen!
On returning to the hospital, we learned that we were to go, that
same evening, to the barracks of _Rosenthal_--a sort of
depot for wounded, near Lutzen, where the roll was called morning
and evening, but where, at all other times, we were at liberty to
do as we pleased. We often strolled through the town; but the
citizens now slammed their doors in our faces, and the
tavern-keepers not only refused to give us credit, but attempted
to charge double and triple for what we got. But my comrade could
not be cheated. He knew the price of everything as well as any
Saxon among them. Often we stood on the bridge and gazed at the
thousand branches of the Pleisse and the Elster, glowing red in
the light of the setting sun, little thinking that we should one
day cross those rivers after losing the bloodiest of battles, and
that whole regiments would be submerged in the glittering waters
beneath us.
But the ill-feeling of the people toward us was shown in a
thousand forms. The day after the conclusion of the armistice, we
went together to bathe in the Elster, and Zunnier, seeing a
peasant approaching, cried:
"Holloa! comrade! Is there any danger here?"
"No. Go in boldly," replied the man.
{740}
Zunnier, mistrusting nothing, walked fifteen or eighteen feet
out. He was a good swimmer, but his left arm was yet weak, and
the strength of the current carried him away so quickly that he
could not even catch the branches of the willows which hung over
him; and were it not that he was carried to a ford, where he
gained a footing, he would have been swept between two muddy
islands, and certainly lost.
The peasant stood to see the effect of his advice. I rushed at
him, but he laughed, and ran, quicker than I could follow him, to
the city. Zunnier was wild with wrath, and wished to pursue him
to Counewitz; but how could we find him among four or five
hundred houses?
Returning to Leipsic, we saw joy painted on the countenances of
the inhabitants. It did not display itself openly; but the
citizens, meeting, would shake hands with an air of huge
satisfaction, and the general rejoicing glistened even in the
eyes of servants and the poorest workmen.
Zunnier said: "These Germans seem to be merry about something.
They do not always look so good-natured."
"Yes," I replied; "their good humor comes from the fine weather
and good harvest."
But when we reached the barracks, we found some of our officers
at the gate, talking eagerly together, and then we learned the
cause of so much joy. The conference at Prague was broken off,
and Austria, too, was about to declare war against us, which gave
us two hundred thousand more men to take care of.
The day after, twelve hundred wounded were ordered to rejoin
their corps. Zunnier was of the number--I accompanied him to the
gates. My arm was yet too weak for duty. My existence was them
sad enough, for I formed no more close friendships, and when, on
the first of October, the old surgeon, Tardieu, gave me my orders
to march, telling me I was fully recovered, I felt almost
relived.
XVII.
It was about five o'clock in the evening, and we were approaching
the village of Risa, when we descried an old mill, with its
wooden bridge, over which a bridle-path ran. We struck off from
the road and took this path, to make a short cut to the village,
when we heard cries and shrieks for help, and, at the same
moment, two women, one old, and the other somewhat younger, ran
across a garden, dragging two children with them. They were
trying to gain a little wood which bordered the road, and, at the
same moment, we saw several of our soldiers come out of the mill
with sacks, while others came up from a cellar with little casks,
which they hastened to place on a cart standing near; still
others were driving cows and horses from a stable, while an old
man stood at the door, with uplifted hands, as if imprecating
Heaven's malison upon them.
"There," cried the quartermaster, who commanded our party, an old
soldier named Poitevin, "there are fellows pillaging. We are not
far from the army."
"But that is horrible!" I cried. "They are robbers."
"Yes," returned the quartermaster coolly; "it is contrary to
discipline, and if the emperor knew of it, they would be shot
like dogs."
We crossed the little bridge, and found the thieves crowded
around a cask which they had pierced, passing around the cup.
This sight roused the quartermaster's indignation, and he cried:
{741}
"On what authority do you commit this pillage?"
Several turned their heads, but seeing that we were but three,
for the rest of our party had gone on, one of them replied:
"Ha! what do you want, old joker? A little of the spoil, I
suppose. But you need not curl up your mustaches on that account.
Here, drink a drop."
The speaker held out the cup, and the quartermaster took it and
drank, looking at me as he did so.
"Well, young man," said he., "will you have some, too? It is
famous wine, this."
"No, I thank you," I replied.
Several of the pillaging party now cried:
"Hurry, there it is time to get back to camp."
"No, no," replied others; "there is more to be had here."
"Comrades," said the quartermaster, in a tone of gentle reproof
and warning, "you know, comrades, you must go gently about it."
"Yes, yes, old fellow," replied a drum-major, with half-closed
eyes, and a mocking smile; "do not be alarmed; we will pluck the
chicken according to rule. We will take care; we will take care."
The quartermaster said no more, but seemed ashamed on my account.
He remained in a meditative mood for some time after we started
to overtake our companions, and, at length, said deprecatingly:
"What would you have, young man? War is war. One cannot see
himself starving, with food at hand."
He was afraid I would report him; he would have remained with the
pillagers but for the fear of being captured. I replied, to
relieve his mind:
"Those are probably good fellows, but the sight of a cup of wine
makes them forget everything."
At length, about ten o'clock, we saw the bivouac fires, on a
gloomy hill-side. Further on, in the plain, a great number of
other fires were burning. The night was clear, and as we
approached the bivouac, the sentry challenged:
"Who goes there?"
"France!" replied the quartermaster.
My heart beat, as I thought that, in a few moments, I should
again meet my old comrades, if they were yet in the world.
Two men of the guard came forward to reconnoitre us. The
commandant of the post, a gray-haired _sous-lieutenant_, his
arm in a sling under his cloak, asked us whence we came, whither
we were going, and whether we had met any parties of Cossacks on
our route. The quartermaster answered. The lieutenant informed us
that Sonham's division had that morning left them, and ordered us
to follow him, that he might examine our marching-papers, which
we did in silence, passing among the bivouac fires, around which
men, covered with dried mud, were sleeping, in groups of twenty.
Not one moved.
We arrived at the officers' quarters. It was an old brick-kiln,
with an immense roof, resting on posts driven into the ground. A
large fire was burning in it, and the air was agreeably warm.
Around it soldiers were sleeping, with happy faces, and near the
posts stacks of arms shone in the light of the flames. One
bronzed old veteran watched alone, seated on the ground, and
mending a shoe with a needle and thread.
The officer handed me back my paper first, saying:
"You will rejoin your battalion tomorrow, two leagues hence, near
Torgau."
{742}
Then the old soldier, looking at me, placed his hand upon the
ground, to show that there was room beside him, and I seated
myself. I opened my knapsack, and put on new stockings and shoes
which I had brought from Leipsic, after which I felt much better.
The old man asked:
"You are rejoining your corps?"
"Yes; the sixth at Torgau."
"And you came from--"
"The hospital at Leipsic."
"That is easily seen," said he; "you are fat as a beadle. They
fed you on chickens down there, while we were eating cow-beef."
I looked around at my sleeping neighbors. He was right; the poor
conscripts were mere skin and bone. They were bronzed as
veterans, and scarcely seemed able to stand.
The old man, in a moment, continued his train of questions:
"You were wounded?"
"Yes; at Lutzen."
"Four months in the hospital!" said he whistling; "what luck! I
have just returned from Spain, flattering myself that I was going
to meet the _Kaiserliks_ of 1807 once more--sheep, regular
sheep--but they have become worse than guerrillas. Things are
spoiling."
He said the most of this to himself, without according me much of
his attention, all the while sewing his shoe, which from time to
time he tried on, to be sure that the sewn part would not hurt
his foot. At last he put the thread in his knapsack and the shoe
upon his foot, and stretched himself upon a truss of straw.
I was too fatigued to sleep at once, and for an hour lay awake.
In the morning I set out again with the quartermaster Poitevin,
and three other soldiers of Sonham's division. Our route lay
along the bank of the Elbe; the weather was wet and the wind
swept fiercely over the river, throwing the spray far on the
land.
We hastened on for an hour, when suddenly the quartermaster
cried:
"Attention!"
He had halted suddenly, and stood listening. We could hear
nothing but the sighing of the wind through the trees, and the
splash of the waves; but his ear was finer than ours.
"They are skirmishing yonder," said he, pointing to a wood on our
right. "The enemy may be toward us, and the best thing we can do
is to enter the wood and pursue our route cautiously. We can see
at the other end of it what is going on; and if the Prussians or
Russians are there, we can beat a retreat without their
perceiving us."
We all thought the quartermaster was right; and, in my heart, I
admired the shrewdness of the old drunkard, for such he was. We
kept on toward the wood, Poitevin leading, and the others
following, with our pieces cocked. We marched slowly, stopping
every hundred paces to listen. The shots grew nearer; they were
fired at intervals, and the quartermaster said:
"They are sharp-shooters reconnoitering a body of cavalry, for
the firing is all on one side."
It was true. In a few moments we perceived, through the trees, a
battalion of French infantry, about to make their soup, and in
the distance, on the plain beyond, platoons of Cossacks defiling
from one village to another. A few skirmishers along the edge of
the wood were firing on them, but they were almost beyond
musket-range.
"There are your people, young man," said Poitevin. "You are at
home."
{743}
He had good eyes to read the number of a regiment at such a
distance. I could only see ragged soldiers with their cheeks and
famine-glistening eyes. Their great-coats were twice too large
for them, and fell in folds along their bodies like cloaks. I say
nothing of the mud; it was everywhere. No wonder the Germans were
gleeful, even after our victories.
We went toward a couple of little tents, before which three or
four horses were nibbling the scanty grass. I saw Colonel Lorain,
who now commanded the third battalion--a tall, thin man, with
brown mustaches and a fierce air. He looked at me frowningly, and
when I showed my papers, only said:
"Go and rejoin your company."
I started off, thinking that I would recognize some of the
Fourth; but, since Lutzen, companies had been so mingled with
companies, regiments with regiments, and divisions with
divisions, that, on arriving at the camp of the grenadiers, I
knew no one. The men seeing me approach, looked distrustfully at
me, as if to say:
"Does _he_ want some of our beef? Let us see what he brings
to the pot!"
I was almost ashamed to ask for my company, when a bony veteran,
with a nose long and pointed like an eagle's beak, and a worn-out
coat hanging from his shoulders, lifting his head, and gazing at
me, said quietly:
"Hold! It is Joseph. I thought he was buried four months ago."
Then I recognized my poor Zébédé. My appearance seemed to affect
him, for, without rising, he squeezed my hand, crying: "Klipfel!
here is Joseph!" Another soldier, seated near a pot, turned his
head, saying:
"It is you, Joseph, is it? Then you were not killed."
This was all my welcome. Misery had made them so selfish that
they thought only of themselves. But Zébédé was always
good-hearted; he made me sit near him, throwing a glance at the
others that commanded respect, and offered me his spoon, which he
had fastened to the button-hole of his coat. I thanked him, and
produced from my knapsack a dozen sausages, a good loaf of bread,
and a flask of _eau-de-vie_, which I had the foresight to
purchase at Risa. I handed a couple of the sausages to Zébédé,
who took them with tears in his eyes. I was also going to offer
some to the others; but he put his hand on my arm, saying:
"What is good to eat is good to keep."
We retired from the circle and ate, drinking at the same time;
the rest of the soldiers said nothing, but looked wistfully at
us. Klipfel, smelling the sausages, turned and said:
"Hollo! Joseph! Come and eat with us. Comrades are always
comrades, you know."
"That is all very well," said Zébédé; "but I find meat and drink
the best comrades."
He shut up my knapsack himself, saying:
"Keep that, Joseph. I have not been so well regaled for more than
a month. You shall not lose it."
A half-hour after, the recall was beaten; the skirmishers came
in, and Sergeant Pinto, who was among the number, recognized me,
and said:
"Well; so you have escaped! But you came back in an evil moment!
Things go wrong--wrong!"
{744}
The colonel and commandants mounted, and we began moving. The
Cossacks withdrew. We marched with arms at will; Zébédé was at my
side and related all that passed since Lutzen; the great
victories of Bautzen and Wurtzen; the forced marches to overtake
the retreating enemy; the march on Berlin; then the armistice,
the arrival of the veterans of Spain--men accustomed to pillaging
and living on the peasantry.
Unfortunately, at the close of the armistice, all were against
us. The country people looked on us with horror; they cut the
bridges down, and kept the Russians and Prussians informed of all
our movements. It rained almost constantly, and the day of the
battle of Dresden, it fell so heavily that the emperor's hat hung
down upon his shoulders. But when victorious, we only laughed at
these things. Zébédé told me all this in detail; how after the
victory at Dresden, General Vandamme, who was to cut off the
retreat of the Austrians, had penetrated to Kulm in his ardor;
and how those whom we had beaten the day before fell upon him on
all sides, front, flank, and rear, and captured him and several
other generals, utterly destroying his _corps d'armée_. Two
days before, owing to a false movement of Marshal Macdonald, the
enemy had surprised our division, and the fifth, sixth, and
eleventh corps on the heights of Luwenberg, and in the
_mélée_ Zébédé received two blows from the butt of a
grenadier's musket, and was thrown into the river Katzbach.
Luckily he seized the over-hanging branch of a tree, and managed
to regain the bank. He told me how all that night, despite the
blood that flowed from his nose and ears, he had marched to the
village of Goldberg, almost dead with hunger, fatigue, and his
wounds, and how a joiner had taken pity upon him and given him
bread, onions, and water. He told me how, on the day following,
they had marched across the fields, each one taking his own
course, without orders, because the marshals, generals, and all
mounted officers had fled as far as possible, in the fear of
being captured. He assured me that fifty hussars could have
captured them, one after another; but that by good fortune,
Blücher could not cross the river, so that they finally rallied
at Wolda, and further on at Buntzlau their officers met them,
surprised at yet having troops to lead. He told me how Marshal
Oudinot and Marshal Ney had been beaten; the first at
Gross-Beeren, and the other at Dennewitz.
We were between three armies, who were uniting to crush us; that
of the north, commanded by Bernadotte; that of Silesia, commanded
by Blücher; and the army of Bohemia, commanded by Schwartzenberg.
We marched in turn against each of them; they feared the emperor
and retreated before us; but we could not be at once in Silesia
and Bohemia, so march followed march, and countermarch,
countermarch. All the men asked was to fight; they wanted their
misery to end. A sort of guerrilla, named Thielmann, raised the
peasantry against us, and the Bavarians and Wurtemburgers
declared against us. We had all Europe on our hands.
On the fourteenth of October, our battalion was detached to
reconnoitre the village of Aken. The enemy were in force there
and received us with a scattering artillery fire, and we remained
all night without being able to light a fire, on account of the
pouring rain. The next day we set out to rejoin our division by
forced marches. Every one said, I know not why:
"The battle is approaching! the fight is coming on!"
{745}
Sergeant Pinto declared that he felt the emperor in the air. I
felt nothing, but I knew that we were marching on Leipsic. The
night following, the weather cleared up a little, millions of
stars shone out, and we still kept on. The next day, about ten
o'clock, near a little village whose name I cannot recollect, we
were ordered to halt, and then we heard a trembling in the air.
The colonel and Sergeant Pinto said:
"The battle has begun!" and at the same moment, the colonel,
waving his sword, cried:
"Forward!"
We started at a run, and half an hour after saw, at a few
thousand paces ahead, a long column, in which followed artillery,
cavalry, and infantry, one upon the other; behind us, on the road
to Duben, we saw another, all pushing forward at their utmost
speed. Regiments were even hastening across the fields.
At the end of the road we could see the two spires of the
churches of Saint Nicholas and Saint Thomas in Leipsic, rising
amidst great clouds of smoke through which broad flashes were
darting. The noise increased; we were yet more than a league from
the city, but were forced to almost shout to hear each other, and
men gazed around, pale as death, seeming by their looks to say:
"This is indeed a battle!"
Sergeant Pinto cried that it was worse than Eylau. He laughed no
more, nor did Zébédé; but on, on we rushed, officers incessantly
urging us forward. We seemed to grow delirious; the love of
country was indeed striving within us, but still greater was the
furious eagerness for the fight.
At eleven o'clock, we descried the battle-field, about a league
in front of Leipsic. We saw the steeples and roofs of the city
crowded with people, and the old ramparts on which I had walked
so often, thinking of Catharine. Opposite us, twelve or fifteen
hundred yards distant, two regiments of red lancers were drawn
up, and a little to the left, two or three regiments of
_chasseurs-à-cheval_, and between them filed the long column
from Duben. Further on, along a slope, were the divisions Ricard,
Dombrowski, Sonham, and several others, with their rear to the
city; and far behind, on a hill, around one of those old
farm-houses with flat roofs and immense outlying sheds, so often
seen in that country, glittered the brilliant uniforms of the
staff.
It was the army of reserve, commanded by Ney. His left wing
communicated with Marmont, who was posted on the road to Halle,
and his right with the grand army, commanded by the emperor in
person. In this manner our troops formed an immense circle around
Leipsic; and the enemy, arriving from all points, sought to join
their divisions so as to form a yet larger circle around us, and
to inclose us in Leipsic as in a trap.
While we waited thus, three fearful battles were going on at
once; one against the Austrians and Russians at Wachau; another
against the Prussians at Mockern on the road to Halle; and the
third on the road to Lutzen, to defend the bridge of Lindenau,
attacked by General Giulay.
XVIII.
The battalion was commencing to descend the hill, opposite
Leipsic, when we saw a staff-officer crossing the plain beneath,
and coming at full gallop toward us. In two minutes he was with
us; Colonel Lorain had spurred forward to meet him; they
exchanged a few words, and the officer returned. Hundreds of
others were rushing over the plain in the same manner, bearing
orders.
{746}
"Head of column to the right!" shouted the colonel.
We took the direction of a wood, which skirts the Duben road some
half a league. Once at its borders, we were ordered to re-prime
our guns, and the battalion was deployed through the wood as
skirmishers. We advanced, twenty-five paces apart, and each of us
kept his eyes well opened, as may be imagined. Every minute
Sergeant Pinto would cry out:
"Get under cover!"
But he did not need to warn us; each one hastened to take his
post behind a stout tree, to reconnoitre well before proceeding
to another. We kept on in this manner some ten minutes, and, as
we saw nothing, began to grow confident, when suddenly, one, two,
three shots rang out. Then they came from all sides, and rattled
from end to end of our line. At the same instant I saw my comrade
on the left fall, trying, as he sank to the earth, to support
himself by the trunk of the tree behind which he was standing.
This roused me. I looked to the right and saw, fifty or sixty
paces off, an old Prussian soldier, with his long red mustaches
covering the lock of his piece; he was aiming deliberately at me.
I fell at once to the ground, and at the same moment heard the
report. It was a close escape, for the comb, brush, and
handkerchief in my shako were broken and torn by the bullet. A
cold shiver ran through me.
"Well done! a miss is as good as a mile!" cried the old sergeant,
starting forward at a run, and I, who had no wish to remain
longer in such a place, followed with right good-will.
Lieutenant Bretonville, waving his sabre, cried, "Forward!"
while, to the right, the firing still continued. We soon arrived
at a clearing, where lay five or six trunks of felled trees, but
not one standing, that might serve us for a cover. Nevertheless,
five or six of our men advanced boldly, when the sergeant called
out:
"Halt! The Prussians are in ambush around. Look sharp!"
Scarcely had he spoken, when a dozen bullets whistled through the
branches, and, at the same time, a number of Prussians rose, and
plunged deeper into the forest opposite.
"There they go! Forward!" cried Pinto.
But the bullet in my shako had rendered me cautious; it seemed as
if I could almost see through the trees, and, as the sergeant
started forth into the clearing, I held his arm, pointing out to
him the muzzle of a musket peeping out from a bush, not a hundred
paces before us. The others, clustering around, saw it too, and
Pinto whispered,
"Stay, Bertha; remain here, and do not lose sight of him, while
we turn the position."
They set off to the right and left, and I, behind my tree, my
piece at my shoulder, waited like a hunter for his game. At the
end of two or three minutes, the Prussian, hearing nothing, rose
slowly. He was quite a boy, with little blonde mustaches, and a
tall, slight, but well-knit figure. I could have killed him as he
stood, but the thought of thus slaying a defenceless man froze my
blood. Suddenly he saw me, and bounded aside. Then I fired, and
breathed more freely as I saw him running, like a stag, toward
the wood.
At the same moment, five or six reports rang out to the right and
left; the sergeant, Zébédé, Klipfel, and the rest appeared, and a
hundred paces further on, we found the young Prussian upon the
ground, blood gushing from his mouth. He gazed at us with a
scared expression, raising his arms, as if to parry
bayonet-thrusts, but the sergeant called gleefully to him:
{747}
"Fear nothing! Your account is settled."
No one offered to injure him further but Klipfel took a beautiful
pipe, which was hanging out of his pocket, saying:
"For a long time I have wanted a pipe, and here is a fine one."
"Fusilier Klipfel!" cried Pinto indignantly, "will you be good
enough to put back that pipe? Leave it to the Cossacks to rob the
wounded! A French soldier knows only honor!"
Klipfel threw down the pipe, and we departed, not one caring to
look back at the wounded Prussian. We arrived at the edge of the
forest, outside which, among tufted bushes, the Prussians we
pursued had taken refuge. We saw them rise to fire upon us, but
they immediately lay down again. We might have remained there
tranquilly, since we had orders to occupy the wood, and the shots
of the Prussians could not hurt us, protected as we were by the
trees. On the other side of the slope we heard a terrific battle
going on; the thunder of cannon was increasing, it filled the air
with one continuous roar. But our officers held a council, and
decided that the bushes were part of the forest, and that the
Prussians must be driven from them. This determination cost many
a life.
We received orders, then, to drive in the enemy's tirailleurs,
and as they fired as we came on, we started at a run, so as to be
upon them before they could reload. Our officers ran, also, full
of ardor. We thought the bushes ended at the top of the hill, and
that then we could sweep off the Prussians by dozens. But
scarcely had we arrived, out of breath, upon the ridge, when old
Pinto cried:
"Hussars!"
I looked up, and saw the _Colbacks_ rushing down upon us
like a tempest. Scarcely had I seen them, when I began to spring
down the hill, going, I verily believe, in spite of weariness and
my knapsack, fifteen feet at a bound. I saw before me, Pinto,
Zébédé, and the others, making their best speed. Behind, on came
the hussars, their officers shouting orders in German, their
scabbards clanking and horses neighing. The earth shook beneath
them.
I took the shortest road to the wood, and had almost reached it,
when I came upon one of the trenches where the peasants were in
the habit of digging clay for their houses. It was more than
twenty feet wide, and forty or fifty long, and the rain had made
the sides very slippery; but as I heard the very breathing of the
horses behind me, without thinking of aught else, I sprang
forward, and fell upon my face; another fusilier of my company
was already there. We arose as soon as we could, and at the same
instant two hussars glided down the slippery side of the trench.
The first, cursing like a fiend, aimed a sabre-stroke at my poor
comrade's head, but as he rose in his stirrups to give force to
the blow, I buried my bayonet in his side, while the other
brought down his blade upon my shoulder with such force, that,
were it not for my epaulette, I believe that I had been well-nigh
cloven in two. Then he lunged, but as his point touched my
breast, a bullet from above crashed through his skull. I looked
around, and saw one of our men, up to his knees in the clay. He
had heard the oaths of the hussars and the neighing of the
horses, and had come to the edge of the trench to see what was
going on.
"Well, comrade," said he, laughing, "it was about time."
{748}
I had not strength to reply, but stood trembling like an aspen
leaf. He unfixed his bayonet, and stretched the muzzle of his
piece to me to help me out. Then I squeezed his hand, saying:
"You saved my life! What is your name?"
He told me that his name was Jean Pierre Vincent. I have often
since thought that I should be only too happy to render that man
any service in my power; but two days after, the second battle of
Leipsic took place; then the retreat from Hanau began, and I
never saw him again.
Sergeant Pinto and Zébédé came up a moment after. Zébédé said:
"We have escaped once more, Joseph, and now we are the only
Phalsbourg men in the battalion. Klipfel was sabred by the
hussars."
"Did you see?" I cried.
"Yes; he received over twenty wounds, and kept calling to me for
aid." Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "O Joseph! it is
terrible to hear the companion of your childhood calling for
help, and not be able to give it! But they were too many. They
surrounded him on ail sides."
The thoughts of home rushed upon both our minds. I thought I
could see grandmother Klipfel when she would learn the news, and
this made me think too of Catharine.
From the time of the charge of the hussars until night, the
battalion remained in the same position, skirmishing with the
Prussians. We kept them from occupying the wood; but they
prevented us from ascending to the ridge. The next day we knew
why. The hill commanded the entire course of the Partha, and the
fierce cannonade we heard came from Dombrowski's division, which
was attacking the Prussian left wing, in order to aid General
Marmont at Mockern, where twenty thousand French, posted in a
ravine, were holding eighty thousand of Blücher's troops in
check; while toward Wachau a hundred and fifteen thousand French
were engaged with two hundred thousand Austrians and Russians.
More than fifteen hundred cannon were thundering at once. Our
poor little fusilade was like the humming of a bee in a storm,
and we sometimes ceased firing, on both sides, to listen. It
seemed as if some supernatural, infernal battle were going on;
the air was filled with smoke; the earth trembled beneath our
feet; old soldiers like Pinto declared they had never seen
anything like it.
About six o'clock, a staff-officer brought orders to Colonel
Lorain, and immediately after a retreat was sounded. The
battalion had lost sixty men.
It was night when we left the forest, and on the banks of the
Partha among caissons, wagons, retreating divisions, ambulances
filled with wounded, all defiling over the two bridges--we had to
wait more than two hours for our turn to cross. The heavens were
black; the artillery still growled afar off, but the three
battles were ended. We heard that we had beaten the Austrians and
the Russians at Wachau, on the other side of Leipsic; but our men
returning from Mockern were downcast and gloomy; not a voice
cried _Vive l'Empereur!_ as after a victory.
Once on the other side of the river, we marched on amid the din
of the retreat from Mockern, and at length reached a
burial-ground, where we were ordered to stack arms and break
ranks.
{749}
By this time the sky had cleared, and I recognized Schoenfeld in
the moonlight. How often had I eaten bread and drank white wine
with Zunnier there at the Golden Sheaf when the sun shone
brightly and the leaves were green around? But those times had
passed! I sat against the cemetery wall, and at length fell
asleep. About three o'clock in the morning, I was awakened.
It was Zébédé. "Joseph," said he, "come to the fire. If you
remain here, you run the risk of catching the fever."
I arose, sick with fatigue and suffering. A fine rain filled the
air. My comrade drew me toward the fire which smoked in the
drizzling atmosphere; it seemed to give out no heat; but Zébédé
having made me drink a draught of brandy, I felt at least less
cold, and gazed at the bivouac fires on the other side of the
Partha.
"The Prussians are warming themselves in our wood," said Zébédé.
"Yes," I replied; "and poor Klipfel is there too, but he no
longer feels the cold."
My teeth chattered. These words saddened us both. A few moments
after, Zébédé resumed:
"Do you remember, Joseph, the black ribbon he wore the day of the
conscription, and how he cried that we were all condemned to
death, like those who had gone to Russia?"
I thought how Pinacle had held out the black ribbon for me; and
the remembrance, together with the cold, which seemed to freeze
the very marrow in our bones, made me shudder. I thought Pinacle
was right; that I had seen the last of home, and I cursed those
who had forced me from it.
At day-break, wagons arrived with food and brandy for us. The
rain had ceased; we made soup, but nothing could warm me; I had
caught the fever. I was not the only one in the battalion in that
condition; three fourths of the men were suffering from it; and,
for a month before, those who could no longer march had lain down
by the roadside weeping and calling upon their mothers like
little children. Hunger, forced marches, the rain, and grief had
done their work, and happy was it for the parents that they could
not see the miserable end of their cherished sons.
As the light increased, we saw to the left, on the other side of
the river, burnt villages, heaps of dead, abandoned wagons, and
broken cannon, stretching as far as the eye could reach. It was
worse than at Lutzen. We saw the Prussians deploy, and advance
their thousands over the battle-field. They were to join with the
Russians and Austrians and close the great circle around us, and
we could not prevent them, especially as Bernadotte and the
Russian General Benningsen had come up with twenty thousand fresh
troops. Thus, after fighting three battles in one day, were we,
only one hundred thousand strong, seemingly about to be entrapped
in the midst of three hundred thousand bayonets, not to speak of
fifty thousand horse and twelve hundred cannon.
From Schoenfeld, the battalion started to rejoin the division at
Kohlgarten. All the roads were lined with slow-moving ambulances,
filled with wounded; all the wagons of the country around had
been impressed for this service; and, in the intervals between
them, marched hundreds of poor fellows with their arms in slings,
or their heads bandaged--pale, crestfallen, half dead.
We made our way, with a thousand difficulties, through this mass,
when, near Kohlgarten, twenty hussars, galloping at full speed,
and with levelled pistols, drove back the crowd, right and left,
into the fields, shouting as they pressed on:
{750}
"The emperor! the emperor!"
The battalion drew up, and presented arms; and a few moments
after, the _grenadiers-à-cheval_ of the guard--veritable
giants, with their great boots, their immense bear-skin hats,
descending to their shoulders and only allowing their mustaches,
nose, and eyes to remain visible--passed at a gallop. Our men
looked joyfully at them, glad that such robust warriors were on
our side.
Scarcely had they passed, when the staff tore after. Imagine a
hundred and fifty to two hundred marshals, generals, and other
superior officers, mounted on magnificent steeds, and so covered
with embroidery that the color of their uniforms was scarcely
visible; some tall, thin, and haughty; others short, thick-set,
and red-faced; others again young and handsome, sitting like
statues in their saddles; all with eager look and flashing eyes.
It was a magnificent and terrible sight. But the most striking
figure among those captains, who for twenty years had made Europe
tremble, was Napoleon himself, with his old hat and gray
over-coat; his large, determined chin and neck buried between his
shoulders. All shouted, "_Vive l'Empereur!_" but he heard
nothing of it. He paid no more attention to us than to the
drizzling rain which filled the air, but gazed with contracted
brows at the Prussian army stretching along the Partha to join
the Austrians.
"Did you see him, Joseph?" asked Zébédé.
"I did," I replied; "I saw him well, and I will remember the
sight all my life."
"It is strange," said my comrade; "he does not seem to be
pleased. At Wurzen, the day after the battle, he seemed rejoiced
to hear our "_Vive l'Empereur!_' and the generals all wore
merry faces too. To-day they seem savage, and nevertheless the
captain said that we bore off the victory on the other side of
Leipsic."
Others thought the same thing without speaking of it, but there
was a growing uneasiness among all.
We found the regiment bivouacked near Kohlgarten. In every
direction camp-fires were rolling their smoke to the sky. A
drizzling rain continued to fall, and the men, seated on their
knapsacks around the fires, seemed depressed and gloomy. The
officers formed groups of their own. On all sides it was
whispered that such a war had never before been seen; it was one
of extermination; that it did not help us to defeat the enemy,
for they only desired to kill us off, knowing that they had four
or five times our number of men, and would finally remain
masters.
Toward evening of the next day, we discovered the army of the
north on the plateau of Breitenfeld. This was sixty thousand more
men for the enemy. I can yet hear the maledictions levelled at
Bernadotte--the cries of indignation of those who knew him as a
simple officer in the army of the republic, who cried out that he
owed us all--that we made him a king with our blood, and that he
now came to give us the finishing blow.
That night, as we drew our lines still closer around Leipsic, I
gazed at the circle of fires which surrounded us, and it seemed
as if the whole world was bent on our extermination. But I
remembered that we had the honor of bearing the name of
Frenchmen, and must conquer or die.
To Be Concluded In Our Next.
------
{751}
The Old Roman World. [Footnote 67]
[Footnote 67: _The Old Roman World:
the Grandeur and Failure of its Civilization._
By John Lord, LL.D.
New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1867.]
Did Doctor Lord dream that the world would pronounce him immortal
for having formed an ill-assorted museum of effete ideas gathered
from all the kingdoms of thought? While he was writing the sheets
of _The Old Roman World_, was he thinking of a political
world, or an ecclesiastical world, or a literary world, or a
military world, or conjuring up a visionary world? Did he base
his claims to an imperishable name on his faculty to extract
philosophical truth from historical facts, or on his powers of
describing facts and communicating truths so as to be useful to
his fellow-man, or on his irrepressible fluency in saying again
and again, what had been better said again and again by others
before? Did he intend to write a book; or are the sixteen
chapters of his volume sixteen independent and unrelated
pamphlets, or sixteen stump speeches, or sixteen lectures, or
sixteen spiritualistic effusions in a meandering mood of mind?
Did he write to instruct the student, or amuse the indolent, or
delight the world, or add to the lore of the learned? Did he ever
read, in the original languages, the historians, the
philosophers, the critics, the poets, the scientific writers on
whose minds and merits he wrote; or has he seen them only as in a
mirror, by means of encyclopedian dissertations, hand-books, and
such second-hand depositories? Did he think that the world would
regard his compilations as a faithful reflector of ancient minds
and ancient life?
There is, however, in Dr. Lord's _Old Roman World_ food for
thought. No one denies the importance of the high and momentous
questions connected with the Roman name. It is an unquestionable
fact that, in the history of the human race, the Romans occupy
the most prominent position. To the eyes of the historian, the
Roman world is, amongst the nations of bygone centuries, what, to
the eyes of the astronomer, the sun is amongst the heavenly
bodies. The generative causes of that outshining social edifice
have occupied the most splendid intellects in past ages, and have
been analyzed anew in our day, according to his generalization,
by Dr. Lord. To his mind it seems that the nations of the earth
were welded into one body by the superior military mechanism of
the Romans, and that the impaired efficiency of this military
machinery, together with a certain mysterious fatality, produced
the disintegration of the Roman empire, by destroying the
cohesive qualities of Roman rule. Such is the pervading idea of
his chapters. We know that vast empires have been born of the
sword; but we have yet to learn that an empire embracing the
nations, religions, and languages of the earth, could have been
founded on, and conserved for centuries by, military mechanism.
The Romans, like Attila, or Genghis Khan, or Alexander, or
Sesostris, might have gone forth, and, either by bravery, or
superior tactics, or vast levied armies, have overrun the nations
of the earth; but military mechanism could never have raised and
sustained through a long lapse of ages a mighty empire built on
vanquished peoples.
{752}
And yet Rome not only conquered and incorporated independent
races, but glued them to the centre Rome; so much so, that they
lost animosity, language, institutions, and nationality to become
Romans. Rome not only romanized Italy, but italianized the then
known world. In the days of Hadrian and Trajan, the waves of the
Mediterranean knew no lord but the Roman; from the margin of
those seas were wafted the wealth and the produce of the world
toward Rome; and far beyond that margin, through hundreds of
miles, the genius and power of Rome were transforming the
nations, building roads and palaces, founding cities, subdividing
provinces, spreading the Latin language, and stamping the mind of
Latium on the human race. From the Padus to Japugium the names of
the Italian tribes were merged into the name of Rome. The men of
Mesraim bowed before the Roman eagle, and saw the traditions of
two thousand years vanish away before the institutions of Rome.
The Asiatic cities renounced their pride of birth, and Greece
yielded up a rich heritage of literary and military glory. The
fiery valor of the Gauls and the martial memories of western
nations were surmounted by the unconquerable energy of the Roman
mind. To Rome the known nations of the world became as handmaids,
and paid homage through a dozen generations. Whatever had been
great in the world, whatever powerful, whatever beautiful,
whatever renowned, whatever ennobling, was swallowed up in the
mighty name of Rome. And when, amid the upheaving of humanity and
the undulations of races, Rome sank as a ship in a troubled
ocean, her spirit lived to elevate the Italian, the Frank, the
Spaniard, the Norman, to be the princes of the families of
mankind. Could military mechanism have accomplished such results?
Could military mechanism, when it was no more, possess a
renovating influence? Does not Sallust assert the superiority of
the Gauls to the Romans in war? Besides, it is a questionable
point whether the military systems of the Greeks are not
preferable to the war tactics of the Romans. The Thessalian
cavalry, and the Macedonian phalanx with its adaptability to
evolutions, can stand a strict critical comparison with the Roman
equites and Roman legion. The variety of movements in the
phalanx, despite its inflexible and inseparable character, may
well compensate for the individual and displayed energy of the
Roman combination. That Polybius judges the mechanism of the
Roman superior to that of the Greek, may be ascribable to the
fact that he preferred attributing the subjugation of his
countrymen, not to a superiority of valor, but of military
manoeuvres. Does any one suppose that the army of Pompey, twice
as numerous as that of Caesar, was worsted through the defect of
theoretic military mechanism, rather than through the deficiency
of the qualities which make a soldier? If any one will take the
trouble of writing, in parallel columns, the organization, the
sub-organizations, the war habiliments, the aggressive and
defensive weapons, the laws of army management in sieges, in
march, in battle, and in the tent, as they existed in Italy and
Greece, we would leave to his candid judgment the decision on the
speculative excellence of Grecian and Roman war systems,
considered as a whole. And on the sea, the Romans were tyros when
the Greeks had attained considerable perfection. The Romans
defeated the Carthaginians, not on a system indigenously reared
on the waters of Latium, but with a fleet formed after the
fashion of an inimical craft wrecked on the Italian shore.
{753}
In the progressive days of Rome, the nomenclature of the parts
and naval acts of a Roman vessel was suggested by, or adopted
from, the preexisting terminology of Greece. What thence? Do we
depreciate the military mechanism of Rome? By no means. But we
unhesitatingly object to placing it as the primary cause of the
elevation of Rome to the pinnacle of power. Where Doctor Lord
placed Roman military mechanism, he should have mentioned Roman
character and Roman institutions. In no place did character and
institutions more powerfully concur to elevate the individual
than in the city of old Rome, in the state of Latium, on the
banks of the Tiber. The kings imparted a multifold and vigorous
development to the martial, the religious, the aesthetical, the
governmental, the utilitarian tendencies of the people. These
fountains of grandeur poured their united streams of glory during
the five centuries of the republic into a magnificent reservoir,
to empty which there was demanded the lapse of five hundred years
of enfeebling despotism. It would be long to trace the single
developments. But we can see, and might explain by facts that, in
as far as Rome incorporated with an equalization other powers, so
far did she strengthen and aggrandize herself; whereas,
incorporations subject to inequality were co-causes of her
destruction. In the books of the Machabees we see that the Jews,
in their emergency, called in the Romans as the justest amongst
the Gentiles. In his preface Livy says: "Caeterum aut me amor
negotii suscepti fallit, aut nulla unquam respublica nec major,
nec sanctior, nec bonis exemplis ditior fuit; nec in quam tam
serae avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint: nec ubi tantus tamdiuque
paupertati ac parsimoniae honos fuerit: adeo quanto rerum minus
tanto minus cupiditatis erat. Nuper divitiae avaritiam at
abundantes voluptates desiderium per luxum atque libidinem
pereundi perdendique omnia invexere." It is always safer to
accuse those that are dead than those with whom we live; and
surely, the historian that did not dread to attack the living,
would not have failed to arraign the dead, had the dead deserved
it. The expulsion and cause of expelling Tarquin, consecrated an
individual self-respect which evermore remained an important
element in the Roman character. This self-respect is the bulwark
of individual freedom, and the most indestructible foundation of
a social edifice. From it arose the acquisition by the populace
of the _jus suffragii, jus commercii, jus connubii, jus
honorum_. It was the mine which blew up, first, the
patricians, and then the nobles. Where did Dr. Lord learn that
patricians and nobles are synonymous terms? This self-respect
imparted fortitude to the soldier, wisdom to the statesman, honor
to the merchant. The individual was clothed with the majesty of
his country. To uphold that majesty was the first duty of the
Roman. Allied with self-respect, unchangeableness of purpose
appears as a trait of the Roman character. Athens might have been
a Rome, had the Athenian spirit the persistency of the Roman.
There was, perhaps, no formative element of the Roman character
so prominent as the practical common sense which made them
learners in all the departments of life. The Romans admitted the
perfectibility of their institutions and practices, so as to
adopt from foreigners whatever they deemed an improvement.
{754}
The Spartan loved his country as intensely and as devotedly as
the Roman, but Sparta, rejecting the eclecticism of Rome,
remained cramped and undeveloped in its exclusiveness. These
qualities of the mind, together with a physical strength, such as
appears from the saying of Pyrrhus, "Had I the Romans for
soldiers, I could conquer the world," led Rome along the highway
of glory and power.
It would be folly to follow Dr. Lord through the many subjects on
which he speaks. We take the first chapter of his work as a
specimen of the wild, thoughtless, rambling manner in which he
writes. It is headed "The Conquests of the Romans;" but in it one
finds a paragraph on "the lawfulness of war," a paragraph on "the
evils of war," a few pages on "Providence," a disquisition on the
immediate and ultimate consequences of the Crusades, a paragraph
on Providence again, something on the aspirations of the South, a
paragraph to show "how petty legends indicate the existence of
great virtues," a paragraph to show "how petty wars with
neighboring states develop patriotism," something on morals and
Cato, whom he characterizes as "a _hard, narrow_ statesman,"
a _chronicon Romanum_, the history of the helepolis, a
paragraph to show the necessity for the empire. Would any one
imagine that the same man wrote of Rome under the emperors the
following passages: "The real (page 13) grandeur of Rome is
associated with the emperors. Great works of art appear, and they
become historical. The city is changed from brick to marble, and
palaces, and theatres, and temples become colossal. There are
more marble busts than living men. A liberal patronage is
extended to artists. Medicine, law, and science flourish. ... The
_highest state of prosperity is reached_ that the ancient
world knew." Again "Rome (p. 69) yields her liberties, and
imperial despotism begins its reign--hard, immovable, resolute--
under which genius is crushed. Empire is added, _but prosperity
is undermined_. The _machinery is perfect_, but life is
fled." Dr. Lord tells us that he loves to ponder on the sacred
geese, but we would respectfully direct his pondering to the
inconsistencies, contradictions, and false pronouncements with
which his volume teems. He considers the Crusades the worst wars
in history, uncalled for, unscrupulous, fanatical; but, though
they were uncalled for, unscrupulous, and fanatical, he styles
Bernard, Urban, Philip, and Richard, great men, far-sighted
statesmen, and asserts that "the hand which guided that warfare
between Europe and Asia was the hand that led the Israelites out
of Egypt across the Red Sea;" and those wars which he pronounces
worst he declares to have developed the resources of Europe,
built free cities, opened the horizon of knowledge, and given a
new stimulus to all the energies of the European nations. There
are few who will agree with Dr. Lord when he says that the Romans
"despised literature, art, philosophy, agriculture, and even
luxury when they were making their grand conquests." He need only
read his own description of the heroes who made the conquests to
see the falsehood of his statements. There are few, too, who will
say that he describes the characters of the ancients with
accuracy. We would especially notice his defect of appreciation
in the case of Homer, of Sophocles, and of the Latin historians.
The grand excellence of Homer remains unseen by him.
{755}
The raising up of hero after and over hero, and the transference
of a collective glory to Achilles may be said to constitute the
greatest marvel of the Iliad. This generates the oneness which
has been noticed and praised by all the ancients. The Doctor
praises extravagantly Virgil's epic, but every candid reader will
confess that he feels unconcerned, and, it may be, weary, as he
wades though the last half of the AEneid, whereas he becomes more
and more enraptured as he advances through the books of the
Iliad. Diomedes is as grand a warrior as AEneas, and we doubt
very much whether Virgil could have raised a higher model than
AEneas, whereas Homer has worked the climax through four or five
to Achilles. Who believes, or has believed, that Demosthenes'
Philippics are more brilliant than his De Corona? To us Dr. Lord
seems, in judging of the ancients, to have acted as a compiler
rather than to stand boldly before the extant originals and
pronounce his own judgment. When he does speak for himself, he
seems to be more anxious to make himself singular than to see and
tell the truth with accuracy. Speaking of "the solitary grandeur
of the Jewish muse and the _mythological myths_ of the
ante-Homeric songsters," he looks rather in the light of a
_foolish fool_ than a serious writer communicating truth to
a criticising world.
It is curious, touchy, and, we might say, laughable, to read over
Dr. Lord's notions of the connection of the old Roman world with
the church. Bossuet's idea of the old Roman empire being an
instrument in the hands of God to propagate Christianity, has a
deep fascination for our author; but Bossuet never gets the
credit of it. We err very much if, in writing _The Old Roman
World_, Dr. Lord did not intend to elaborate this conception
in a work which the world would recognize as the rival of
Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_. How does he do it? He discovers
that there had existed an ineffable fatalism, according to which
the Roman empire was doomed to die. What was old and heathen
should disappear, that what was new and Christian might arise.
The fading away of the Roman reign was unworthy to be compared
with the glories about to be manifested. What were they? Were
they the beauties of a grand society whose teaching authority as
to the things of eternity was to be the Holy Spirit, whose head
and sanctifier was to be Christ--of a society to be sustained by
the hand of God, elevated above all societies, extended and
visible through the world such as Bossuet conceived? Dr. Lord
opines that, when Christianity is embraced by all, it is
corrupted, and may be said to be dead except with a few chosen
spirits; and when Christianity is embraced only by a few and is
pure, it is valueless for the mass of mankind, being limited and
uninfluential. On either horn of the dilemma, Christianity may be
regarded as an unimportant and unprofitable school for the
multitude. Yet he says that the world marches on in Christian
progress. There are always some revivalists, some believers, as
the Puritans, in a pure and personal God; and Providence, which
"grandly and mournfully" eliminates the Roman world, consoles the
human race by casting up, here and there, some select ones, some
pure ones, some godly ones. But, if Dr. Lord merely wished to act
the part of a noonday somnambulist or a dreamy rhapsodist, we
would fain permit him to revel undisturbed in his reveries. We
have, however, a right, as Catholics, to object to
misrepresentations of Catholic doctrine. There are many honest
and righteous Protestant minds whose vision may become jaundiced
by the assertions of this writer.
{756}
Where has he learned that the Virgin has been made the object of
absolute worship? When he speaks of ceremonies, and festivals,
and pomps, he ought to look upon them as those do who use them.
We have always been at a loss to understand what special enmity
some people have against a special sense. If the senses are
channels for communicating thought, why decry the legitimate use
of any one of them performing its own function? Why instruct
through the ear and not through the eye? Does not a map surpass
all language in communicating geographical knowledge? Logically,
one ought to praise God through the intuition of spirit
_vis-a-vis_ spirit and disown corporeal agents, eyes,
tongue, ears, hands, physical actions; or recognize all, provided
they be means of communicating thought. There is not and there
never has been in the church, any imposing altar typical of
Jewish sacrifices. As to the monks, either Lord admits the truth
of what are called evangelical counsels, or he does not; if he
does, he should not be at war with the monks for actuating what
is true; if he does not, how does he get rid of the texts of the
Bible which contain them? Did the monks effect nothing for the
good of humanity? Were all the monks in pursuit of a purely
contemplative life? Were there no teachers, no benefactors of the
poor, no cultivators of deserts, and woods, and wildernesses
amongst them? Were there no founders of cities, no evangelizers
of savages? Surely, the disciples of Columbanus, of Benedict, of
Basil, deserve something better than the following turgid
rigmarole of a visionary _fanfaron_: "Monastic life (p. 559)
ripened also in a grand system of penance and expiatory rights,
such as characterized oriental asceticism. Armies of monks
retired to gloomy and isolated places, and abandoned themselves
to rhapsodies, and fastings, and self-expiations in opposition to
the grand doctrine of Christ's expiation. They despaired of
society and abandoned the world to its fate--a dismal and
fanatical set of men overlooking the practical aims of life. They
lived more like beasts and savages than enlightened
Christians--wild, fierce, solitary, superstitious, ignorant,
fanatical, filthy, clothed in rags, eating the coarsest food,
practising gloomy austerities, introducing a false standard of
virtue, regardless of the comforts of civilization, and careless
of those great interests which were entrusted to them to guard.
...
The monks and hermits sought to save themselves by climbing to
heaven by the same ladder that had been sought by the soofis and
fakirs, which delusion had an immense influence in undermining
the doctrines of grace. Christianity was fast merging itself into
an oriental theosophy." It is a sad thing to see, and a
tormenting thing to have to follow, through over six hundred
pages, a man, rushing madly from subject to subject. We have no
interest, except in the cause of truth and right, to censure Dr.
Lord; and could we fairly, in the capacity of critic, have
awarded him praise, we should have, without reluctance, and with
warmth, performed the task. We should say that he must have
labored long to compile his work; but if anything distinguishes
that work, it is an unlikeness to the sources from which it is
presumed to have been gotten up. The ancients conceived of a
whole, and elaborated the natural component parts to form that
whole; in the work before us the formative materials produce as
grotesque a union as that in the minotaur, or centaur, or gorgon,
or chimaera, or hydra, or sphinx. In the ancients, we are pleased
with a modesty which dreads alike the overstatement or the
withholding of the truth; Dr. Lord astounds us with an unblushing
and unthinking recklessness of assertion. In presenting their
thoughts to the world, the Greeks and Romans were scrupulous down
to the collocation of a particle; Dr. Lord's production is
overgrown with expletives, ambiguities, redundancies, and
repetitions. To any one accustomed to gaze on the chaste,
crystal, and refreshing pages of classic lore, his volume is an
unendurable eyesore.
--------
{757}
The Divine Loadstone.
"And I, if I be lifted up from the earth,
will draw all things to myself."
The Disciple.
"Ah me! what doth my feet restrain,
That I thy cross behold--
A loadstone all divine--
Drawing men's hearts with mystic chain
As misers lured by gold,
And yet it draws not mine?"
The Master.
"My word is very truth, my son;
All hearts to me should freely run;
And if I draw not thee
As sweetly as the rest,
'Tis thou who wouldst the loadstone be,
And draw the hearts of men to thee--
Their love doth mine contest."
The Disciple.
"Nay, Lord; 'tis only for thy heart I pine."
The Master.
"Say'st so? Then give me, also, all of thine."
----------
{758}
Translated From The German.
The Rival Composers.
Late one afternoon, in the autumn of the year 1779, a gentleman,
walking in the garden of the Tuileries, was observed by the guard
near the gate of the palace private grounds, gesticulating in a
manner to excite suspicion. He was plainly dressed, and advanced
in years. When the sentinel saw him, after walking briskly to and
fro, and muttering half aloud, stop and lift his hand in a
threatening manner toward the royal abode, he promptly arrested
him. Calling two _gens d'armes_, he put the suspected man,
supposed guilty of designs against the king, into their hands, to
be conveyed to prison.
At the gate they met a richly gilded open carriage, in which sat
two ladies, with a child and nurse. The taller of the ladies wore
a hat of dark velvet, with drooping plumes, and a mantle of the
same, with a flowing dress of satin, the sleeves trimmed with
rich lace. The soldiers stopped to salute the young Queen Marie
Antoinette, and the prisoner removed his hat and bowed low. At
the same instant the lady leaned from the carriage, exclaiming,
"Ah! Master Gluck!"
The queen laughed heartily when she heard her old music-master
had just been arrested for disloyal practices near the palace;
when he was only declaiming a passionate recitative out of his
new opera! She insisted on his entering the carriage and going to
the palace with her; while the astonished guards went to report
their mistake.
Not unfrequently had the celebrated composer been the guest of
the royal lady. He was wont to visit her in the garden of the
Trianon, talking German with her, and exchanging reminiscences of
Vienna. When the opera-house in Paris had resounded with the
applause called forth by the representation of one of his operas,
and he was sent for to the royal box, the queen's own hand had
crowned him with the chaplet his genius had won.
At this period the music-loving population of Paris was divided
into partisans of the two rival composers, Gluck and Piccini. The
merits of each were discussed in every circle, and comparisons
were made, often with a confused war of tongues; the dispute
being, to whom the palm of superior greatness should be awarded.
Each had composed a piece on the same subject, which was shortly
to be represented; the success deciding which of the two should
keep the field.
Late the same evening a number of the Parisian connoisseurs and
artists were assembled in the brilliantly illuminated
_salon_ of the Café du Feu. Many of the _noblesse_ were
to be seen, surrounded by critics, amateurs, etc., and the
company was in a Babel of declamation and argument; the
battle-cries all over Paris being "Gluck" and "Piccini." Three
young men, who had just entered, secured a place in a quiet
side-room, where three others were seated; one in a corner, deep
in the shadow of a pillar. Comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair,
this man sat with head leaning back, drumming with the fingers of
one hand on the table, and taking no notice of anything that
passed.
{759}
Another occupant of the room was a handsome young Frenchman, with
deep blue eyes shaded with heavy brown lashes, and complexion of
the rich brown of Provence; he was poorly dressed, but his manner
was graceful and spirited. His companion at the table was a long,
thin, middle-aged man, with an air of discontent and spite in his
whole demeanor. He wore a rough brown peruke; his features were
heavy, and he had a pair of keen, squinting eyes, with a peevish,
sinister twist about the mouth. He spoke French badly, his accent
betraying the Saxon. He was speaking of Gluck, and ended his
remarks by saying: "I cannot understand what a people of so much
judgment and taste as the French find so great in this man!"
"Are you speaking," cried the young Frenchman, "of the creator of
_Armida_, of _Orpheus_, of _Iphigenia?_"
"Ahem! yes. He is not esteemed highly among us in Germany, for he
knows little or nothing of art-rules, as the learned Herr Forhel
in Göttingen and other distinguished critics have proved."
"And you, a musician, a composer, a German, speak thus!"
exclaimed the young man. "I know little of art-rules; but one
thing I know and feel, the Chevalier Gluck has a grand and noble
spirit. His music awakens elevated feeling; no low or common
thought can approach me while I listen to it; even when
spiritless and dejected, my despondency takes flight before the
lofty joy I feel in Gluck's creations."
"And think you," cried young Arnaut, who belonged to the other
faction, "that the great Piccini would enter into a contest with
your chevalier, did he not know he was to strive with a worthy
adversary!"
The German, nettled at the question, shuffled a little as he
answered, "Hem! I suppose not; I only maintain that M. Gluck is
not the best composer, as the learned Herr Forhel has proved.
With regard to a church style--"
"Who is talking of church styles!" interrupted the brown youth,
with vivacity. "The point is, a grand opera style! Would your
learned critics change Gluck's _Armida_ into a nun's hymn,
or have his wild motets of _Tauris_ sung in the style of
Palestrina?"
The squinting man moved in his seat, sipped his orangeade, and
muttered: "The learned Herr Forhel has proved that the Chevalier
Gluck understands nothing of songs."
"Nothing of songs!" echoed all the company, in surprise. The
German continued: "He cannot carry through an ordinary melody
according to rule; his song is but an extravagant declamation."
The brown youth started to his feet in glowing indignation. "You
are not worthy to be a German, sir," he cried, "thus to speak of
your great countryman. All Paris acknowledges in Gluck a mighty
artist; the dispute is only whether he or Piccini is the greater.
Gluck's music is the true expression of feeling, alike removed
from the cold constraint of rules and from capricious innovation!
Whether he would excel in church or concert music--or would
attempt it--we cannot tell! He has set himself one glorious task,
and pursues that with all the strength of a great spirit!"
"What is your name, young man?" sounded a sonorous voice from the
corner behind him.
The stranger, whom all turned to look at, had risen from his
seat, and the light of the candles shone full upon his face.
{760}
"The Chevalier Gluck!" exclaimed several voices. Gluck smiled and
bowed; then turning to the brown youth, he repeated his question.
"My name is Etienne Mehul," was the modest reply.
"You are a musician, I perceive," said Gluck. "Will you call at
my house? Here is my address."
Handing him the card, he turned to the squinting German, who sat
embarrassed, and spoke to him with undisguised contempt:
"Mr. Elias Hegrin! It is an unexpected pleasure to see you in
Paris; yet a pleasure--for I like to tell you honestly what a
miserable rascal you are! You think I understand nothing of the
rules of music or of songs--eh! You thought differently in
Vienna, when you almost lived at my house, and received
instructions in music from me, and took what I procured for you
from patrons, and what I gave you out of my own pocket! You
became my enemy because I candidly told you you could master only
the lifeless form, not the spirit. You seek what you can never
obtain--not for the sake of art, but for your own temporary
advantage. You would do better as an honest tailor or shoemaker,
than a mean musician! You could not forgive my telling you this!
and so you go and abuse me in Göttingen! Go and do better, if you
can; but I think that will be difficult; for he who belies art
because he cannot compass her, will be likely to remain the
rascal he has shown himself! Adieu, Messieurs!"
Gluck nodded to young Mehul, and went out.
Queen Marie Antoinette had a private morning reception of her
friends at her favorite Trianon. Comte d'Artois, just returned to
Paris from his hunting castle, had come with his brother, the
Comte de Provence, to pay his respects to his beautiful
sister-in-law. They talked of the latest news in the capital, the
balls, flirtations, witticisms, spectacles, etc., and of the new
entertainment expected in the contest between Gluck and Piccini;
the anticipations of which kept all Paris in dispute.
D'Artois declared himself for Gluck. "Your countryman," he cried
to the queen, "is a splendid fellow! He went on the chase with
me, and made five shots one after the other. As to the Italians,
they do not know how to hold a gun!"
"I like the Italian music best," said the Comte de Provence. "You
cannot well sing or dance to the German, as Noverre justly
observes."
"Noverre had to dance to German music, though!" cried the queen,
laughing. Then she told the story of the great dancing-master's
visit to Gluck, and how he had ventured to tell him that no
dancer in the grand opera could dance to his music in the
Scythian ballets; and how Gluck, enraged, had seized the little
man, and danced him through the whole house, up-stairs and
down-stairs, singing the Scythian ballets; and had asked him,
when the breath was nearly knocked out of Noverre, "Well, sir,
think you, now, a dancer in the grand opera can dance to my
music?" to which the poor panting victim had gasped out an eager
affirmative! The story was much laughed at, and the arrogance of
the opera artists commented on.
A page entered and announced, "The Chevalier Gluck, come to give
the queen a lesson on the piano."
Marie Antoinette ordered him to be admitted.
"We were talking of you, M. Gluck," said the Princess Elizabeth;
"and her majesty praised you for an excellent dancing-master."
"And my brother thinks you an expert in hunting, and on that
account he belongs to your party," remarked the Comte de
Provence.
{761}
"Come," cried the queen, "you must not tease my good master!
Leave him to save all his patience for his pupil--myself! He will
have need of it, I assure you!"
"Because, Antoinette," said Gluck gravely, speaking in German,
"you do not play half so well as queen, as when you were
archduchess."
The queen laughed as she answered in the same language, "Wait but
a little, Christophe! your ears shall ring presently. Ladies and
gentlemen, will you be quiet?" She spoke to them in French, as
she went to open the piano.
She inserted the key and turned it, perhaps too hastily; for she
could not open the instrument. After several vain attempts, she
called impatiently:
"Come hither, Gluck, and help me!"
Gluck tried, but with no better success; the others took their
turn; but the lock resisted all their efforts. The queen looked
vexed.
"What fool can have made such a lock?" exclaimed Gluck.
"Take care, chevalier, what you say," said the Comte de Provence;
"the lock is of the king's own making--of a new sort, I
believe."
D'Artois went out, and in a few moments returned with the king.
Louis XVI. wore a short jacket, his head covered with an
unsightly leathern cap, his face glowing and begrimed with soot,
his hands were rough as those of a locksmith, and a bundle of
keys and picklocks were fastened to his belt. He went up to the
piano, and examined the lock with the earnest manner of an
artisan, tried several keys without success, shook his head
dissatisfied, and tried others. Finding the right one at last,
the lock yielded, and with an air of triumph, as if he had won a
battle, he said, smiling on his wife,
"There, the piano is open! Now, madame, you can play!"
But so long a time had passed, that the queen had lost the
inclination. As she would not take her lesson, the Princess
Elizabeth asked Gluck to play them something from his
_Iphigenia_. He played the frenzy scene of Orestes. When he
had finished it, the king exclaimed: "Excellent, chevalier! I am
delighted. I will have your opera produced first, with all the
care you like; and I hope the success will gratify you."
Two more visitors were announced--Signor Piccini and the
Chevalier Noverre, who started and colored in some embarrassment
when he saw Gluck. The king commanded the two composers to salute
each other, which they did with dignity, cordiality, and easy
grace. After the queen had spoken to them, the Chevalier Noverre
reminded her majesty that she had been pleased to grant
permission to Signor Piccini to play some new airs from his
_Iphigenia_ before her.
Marie Antoinette assented, and asked Piccini what selection he
had made; to which he replied that Noverre had wished him to play
the first Scythian dance.
D'Artois burst into a laugh; but the others restrained their
mirth. At the queen's command, Piccini seated himself at the
piano, the Comte de Provence and Noverre beating time to his
music. All the company thought Piccini's Scythian dance more
pleasing and better adapted to the grace of motion than that of
Gluck. But D'Artois whispered to the king that the dance, though
admirable and full of melody, was better suited for a masked ball
in the _salon_ of the grand opera than for a private abode
in Tauris.
{762}
Gluck listened with earnest attention, evidently appreciating the
merits of his opponent; but a light curl of his lips was seen,
when Piccini indulged too freely in his pretty quaverings and
tinklings. There was great applause when it was ended. Noverre
praised the performance as displaying the inspiriting rhythmus
which alone would enable the dancer to give true expression to
his _pirouettes_ and _enterchats_.
"I agree with you, Monsieur Noverre," interrupted Louis, "that
Signor Piccini's music is admirable; but I hope you will also
make yourself acquainted with the music of the Chevalier Gluck."
Noverre replied timidly, that the Chevalier Gluck and he
_were_ on the most friendly terms.
After the artists had left the royal abode, Gluck and Piccini
took a courteous leave of each other. As Gluck stepped into his
carriage, he said to Noverre: "Do not, chevavalier, forget his
majesty's command. If I made you dance against your will, it was
to introduce you to my music. I regret I am not a proficient in
the art of dancing; yet I am, like yourself, chevalier of the
order _de l'Esprit_, and in that character I wish you a good
morning."
Piccini laughed at this, but Noverre looked vexed as Gluck drove
away.
The rehearsals and preparations for the representation of the two
_Iphigenias_ were nearly complete, and the day was appointed
when the masterpiece of Gluck was to receive the sentence of the
Parisians. It was to be performed first; the preference having
been yielded to him as the oldest of the two composers. He was at
that time sixty-five.
Treatises, learned and superficial, were published, upon Gluck
and Piccini, the differences in their style and in the two
operas; all tinctured with party spirit, and many showing gross
ignorance of music. The performers, too, fell into dissension.
Piccini had hard work to propitiate, by attentions and favors,
some who were opposed to him, that his work might not be spoiled
by their perversity. Gluck resorted to threats, and made his
enemies afraid of him. He trusted to the excellence of his motto,
"Truth makes its way through all things;" and reflected that the
worst success would not make a good work a bad one.
On the morning of the final rehearsal, the day before the first
representation, young Mehul was announced. Gluck cordially
welcomed him, and asked why he had not seen him before.
"I feared to disturb you," answered the young man. "But to-day my
anxiety brings me."
"Anxiety?" questioned Gluck.
"You have enemies; your opera is to be produced to-morrow! Should
the success fall short of its merits--"
"Then be it so," said the master, smiling.
"You can say that so calmly?"
"Why not? Do you think of devoting yourself to dramatic
composition?"
"It is my wish to do so."
"Work, then, with bold heart! Lay hold on what glowing
inspiration brings you, and mould it with earnest heed! The great
thing is, to stand firm, and go on with spirit and strength. The
world makes this hard for the artist, and many fall in the
conflict."
"You have won!"
"If I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, still I
have my faults. To some the All-Benevolent has granted to know
but little, till what they have attained is wasted, or in danger
of being lost. Happy he who apprehends the better part, and holds
it fast, though his heart be torn in the struggle!
{763}
What will you say when I confess to you, that perception of the
highest--the _only_ good, came late--fearfully late to me!
Music was all to me from earliest youth. When a boy, in lovely
Bohemia, I heard her voice in the dense forest, the gloomy
ravine, or the romantic valley; on the bold, stark cliff; in the
cheerful hunter's call, or the hoarse song of stream and torrent.
I thought there was nothing so great and glorious, that man,
impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I learned that
something was impossible. How soon are the spirit's wings
clipped! Then come harassing doubts, false ambition, thirst of
gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares; the hateful
gnomes of earth, that cling to you and drag you downward, when
you would soar like the eagle toward the sun. Thus it is in
youth, in manhood, in old age. One among many, redeemed from
folly, discerns and appreciates the right, and might create the
beautiful. But by that time the ardor and vigor of youth are
gone; and to his enthusiasm, his newly acquired knowledge, there
remains a grave!"
"More--much more--to you!" cried Mehul in deep emotion.
"Perhaps it is true; for when I burst the fetters of the unworthy
and the base, there came to me a radiant vision from the pure,
bright Grecian age. The work of holding it fast, and shaping it
in the external world, is my last. And melancholy it is that a
whole vigorous lifetime could not be consecrated alone to such a
theme--or to yet higher ones. But I must submit in repentance
and humility, for my shortcomings! I will bear it, whether these
Parisians adjudge me fame and wealth, or hiss down my work."
The hour struck for the rehearsal, and Gluck, accompanied by his
young friend, went to the Royal Academy of Music.
Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walking up and down
his room, glancing now and then at the manuscript of his opera
that lay upon his writing-desk. At times he would go to the desk
as if a happy thought had struck him, to add something to the
notes; but the next instant he would let fall the pen, shake his
head with a dissatisfied and melancholy air, and resume his walk
through the room.
A knocking was heard; and after it was repeated twice, Piccini
opened the door. Elias Hegrin came in. The composer seemed
disturbed at his presence, and gloomily asked what he wanted.
Hegrin answered that the Chevalier Noverre had informed him
Signor Piccini wished to see him.
After a pause, Piccini admitted that he had sent for him.
"And in what can I serve my honored patron?" asked Elias.
"By speaking the _truth!_" sternly answered Piccini.
"Confess that you spoke falsely, when you told me Gluck stirred
up all his friends to make a party against me!"
Elias Hegrin changed color, but he collected himself, and
answered, "I spoke the truth."
"It is _false_, Elias! It was the same when you told me you
had read the manuscript of my adversary, and that the work hardly
deserved the honors of mediocrity."
"It was the truth, Signor Piccini, and I repeat my opinion of the
opera of the Chevalier Gluck."
"So much the worse for your judgment! I have heard five
rehearsals, and I must--ay, and _will_ declare before all
the world, that Gluck's _Iphigenia_ is the greatest opera I
know, and that in its author I acknowledge my master."
{764}
Elias stared in amazement.
"I believed I had accomplished something worthy in my own work,"
continued Piccini; "and, indeed, my design was pure; nor is my
work altogether without merit; but oh! how void and cold, how
weak and insignificant does it seem to me, compared with Gluck's
gigantic creation! Yes, creation! mine is only a work! a work
that will vanish without a trace; while Gluck's _Iphigenia_
will endure as long as feeling for the grand and the beautiful is
not dead in the hearts of men!"
"But, Signor Piccini," stammered Elias.
"Silence!" interrupted Piccini. "Why have you slandered the noble
chevalier, and striven to bring down his works and his character
to your own level? Are you not ashamed of such pitiful behavior?
In spite of Noverre's recommendation, I have never fully trusted
you; for I know that Noverre hated Gluck for having wounded his
ridiculous vanity. But I never thought you capable of such
meanness as I find you guilty of. Gluck stir up his friends to
make a party against me! Look at these letters in Gluck's own
hand, written to Arnaud, Rollet, Maurepas, wherein he judges my
work thoroughly, dwelling upon the best parts, and entreats them
to listen impartially to my opera as to his own, and to give an
impartial judgment, as he is anxious only for the truth! My
patron, the Comte de Provence, persuaded those gentlemen to send
me these letters, to remove my groundless suspicions. I am deeply
mortified that I ever condescended to make common cause with you!
You have deceived me! Now, tell me, what induced you to act in
this dishonorable manner toward your benefactor?"
Elias, shrunk into himself, replied in a lachrymose tone, "Ah! I
am an unhappy man, and deserve your sympathy! From boyhood I
heard it said at home that I had extraordinary talent for music,
and would become a great composer, and win both wealth and fame.
I studied zealously; my first work was praised in the town where
I lived; but when I went to Vienna, I could do nothing."
"Gluck took you by the hand in Vienna, supported you, gave you
instruction, and corrected your works."
"He did so; but he likewise told me I had no genius, and that I
never could be a great composer."
"And did he deceive you? What have you proved yourself? You hate
and slander him, then, because he honestly advised you to desist
from useless efforts?"
Elias squinted sullenly, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, I hate him!" he exclaimed fiercely. "Confound him! All the
fame and gold are for him, and none for me! I will do him all the
harm I can! I will embitter his life!"
"Begone!" cried Piccini, full of horror. "We have nothing more in
common. Honor, religion, guide the true man; your divinities are
vanity, envy, cowardly malice! Such as you deserve no sympathy!"
Full of spite and vexation, Elias Hegrin left the house.
Piccini's opera was admired, but that of Gluck obtained the
victory, awakening universal enthusiasm. After its third
representation, Gluck left the opera-house, followed by the
acclamations of the enraptured multitude. Mehul was with him,
going to sup at his house.
When they entered Gluck's drawing-room, both started with
surprise to see a man wrapped in his mantle standing at the
window and looking out. As they came in, he turned round and
faced them.
{765}
"Signor Piccini!" exclaimed Gluck in surprise.
"I am not an unwelcome guest, I hope?" said the composer, with a
smile.
"Most welcome!" cried Gluck cordially, taking the offered hand
and warmly pressing it, "I esteem and honor so noble an
adversary!"
"We are no longer adversaries!" exclaimed Piccini. "Our strife is
at an end. I acknowledge you as my master, and shall be happy and
proud to call you my friend! Let the Gluckists and Piccinists
dispute as they like; Gluck and Piccini understand each other!"
"And love each other, too!" cried Gluck, with vivacity. "Indeed
it shall be so!"
The supper was enjoyed by the whole party.
--------
The Irish In America. [Footnote 68]
[Footnote 68: _The Irish in America_.
London: Longman, Rees & Co.
New York, Boston, and Montreal: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1868.]
This is the title of a book recently published simultaneously in
London and New York, and which bids fair to excite considerable
attention east and west of the Atlantic. The author, Mr. John
Francis Maguire, M.P., has long since attained to honorable
distinction not only in Ireland, his own country, but in the
British House of Commons. His visit to this country during the
past year strengthened the favorable impression already made on
those who had known him only through his published speeches and
the prominent part he has taken for many years in the affairs of
his native country. Heart and soul devoted to the best interests
of that country, and of the Irish race everywhere; thoroughly
acquainted with the Celtic nature, its capabilities for progress
and improvement, and fervently devoted to the faith which is the
richest inheritance of Catholic Ireland, Mr. Maguire felt anxious
to see with his own eyes the actual condition of the Irish in
America, what advantages they had gained by emigration, and how
far they had retained and carried out in their new country the
Christian traditions of the old. He accordingly visited America,
availing himself of the interval between the sessions of
parliament, and, in so far as his limited time permitted, took
personal observations on the state of "the Irish in America." The
book before us is the result of these observations.
In the main, Mr. Maguire has given his readers a fair and correct
view of his subject, vast and comprehensive as it is; he has
taken pains to find out the exact condition of the people of whom
he writes, in the new home across the wave to which they have
carried their broken fortunes as a race. The opening paragraph of
the first chapter is well adapted to interest the general reader.
It is as follows:
"Crossing the Atlantic, and landing at any city of the American
seaboard, one is enabled, almost at a glance, to recognize the
marked difference between the position of the Irish race in the
old country and in the new. Nor is the condition of the Irish
at both sides of the ocean more marked in its dissimilarity
than are the circumstances and characteristics of the country
from which they emigrated and the country to which they have
come.
{766}
In the old country, stagnation, retrogression, if not actual
decay--in the new, life, movement, progress; in the one
oppression, want of confidence, dark apprehension of the
future--in the other, energy, self-reliance, and a perpetual
looking forward to a grander development and a more glorious
destiny. That the tone of the public mind of America should be
self-reliant and even boastful, is natural in a country of
brief but pregnant history--a country still in its infancy,
when compared with European states, but possessing, in the
fullest sense, the strength and vigor of manhood--manhood in
all its freshness of youth and buoyancy of hope. In such a
country man is most conscious of his value: he is the architect
of his country's greatness, the author of her civilization, the
miracle-worker by whom all has been or can be accomplished.
Where a few years since a forest waved in mournful grandeur,
there are cultivated fields, blooming orchards, comfortable
homesteads, cheerful hamlets--churches, schools, civilization;
where but the other day a few huts stood on the river's bank,
by the shore of a lake, or on some estuary of the sea, swelling
domes and lofty spires and broad porticoes now meet the eye;
and the waters but recently skimmed by the light bark of the
Indian are ploughed into foam by countless steamers. And the
same man who performed these miracles of a few years since--of
yesterday--has the same power of to-morrow achieving the same
wondrous results of patience and energy, courage and skill. But
for him, and his hands to toil and his brains to plan, the vast
country whose commerce is on every sea, and whose influence is
felt in every court, would be still the abode of savage tribes,
dwelling in perpetual conflict, and steeped in the grossest
ignorance. Labor is thus a thing to be honored, not a badge of
inferiority."
Mr. Maguire commences his American _tour_ at Halifax, which,
he says, "an enthusiastic Hibernian once described as 'the wharf
of the Atlantic.'" He finds that, in that city, and indeed,
throughout the provinces generally, the Irish form an important
and influential element in the population. Of Halifax he says in
particular:
"This Irish element is everywhere discernible; in every
description of business and in all branches of industry, in
every class and in every condition of life, from the highest to
the lowest. There are in other cities larger masses of Irish,
some in which they are five times and even ten times as
numerous as the whole population of Halifax; but it may be
doubted if there are many cities of the entire continent of
America in which they afford themselves fuller play for the
exercise of their higher qualities than in the capital of Nova
Scotia, where their moral worth keeps pace with their material
prosperity."--P. 3.
Speaking of the progress of the faith in Nova Scotia, and of the
arduous labors of the devoted missionaries of years past and
present, our author relates some facts that will no doubt
astonish his European readers. In America they are neither new
nor strange; for what is told of Nova Scotia either applies, or
has applied, within the memory of some living, in a greater or
less degree, to every part of the new world.
"Within the last ten years a Nova Scotia priest has discharged
the duties of a district extending considerably over one
hundred miles in length; and while I was in Halifax, the
archbishop appointed a clergyman to the charge of a mission
which would necessitate his making journeys of more than that
many miles in extent. And when a missionary priest, in 1842,
the archbishop would make a three months' tour from Halifax to
Dartmouth, a distance, going and returning, of 450 miles; and
would frequently diverge ten or even twenty miles from the main
line into the bush on either side, thus doing duty for a
population of 10,000 Catholics who had no spiritual resource
save in him and a decrepit fellow-laborer on the brink of the
grave.
"It is not three years since a young Irish priest, then in the
first year of his mission, received what, to him, was literally
a death-summons. He was lying ill in bed when the 'sick call'
reached his house, the pastor of the district being absent. The
poor young man did not hesitate a moment; no matter what the
consequence to himself, the dying Catholic should not be
without the consolations of religion. To the dismay of those
who knew of his intention, and who remonstrated in vain against
what to them appeared to be an act of insanity, he started on
his journey, a distance of thirty-six miles, which he
accomplished on foot, in the midst of incessant rain.
{767}
It is not possible to tell how often he paused involuntarily on
that terrible march, or how he reeled and staggered as he
approached its termination; but this much is well ascertained--
that scarcely had he reached the sick man's bed, and performed
the functions of his ministry, when he was conscious of his own
approaching dissolution; and there being no brother priest to
minister to him in his last hour, he administered the viaticum
to himself, and died on the floor of what was then, indeed, a
chamber of death. Here was a glorious ending of a life only
well begun.
"Bermuda is included within the jurisdiction of the Archbishop
of Halifax, and to this fact is owing one of the most
extraordinary instances of a 'sick call' on record. A Catholic
lady in Bermuda was dying of a lingering disease, and knowing
that further delay might be attended with consequences which
she regarded as worse than death, she availed herself of the
opportunity of a vessel then about to sail for Halifax to send
for a clergyman of that city. The day the message was delivered
to the clergyman, a vessel was to sail from Halifax to Bermuda,
and he went on board at once, arrived in due course at the
latter place, found the dying lady still alive, administered to
her the rites of the church, and returned as soon as possible
to his duties in Halifax; having, in obedience to this
remarkable 'sick call, 'accomplished a journey of 1600
miles."--P. 16.
Not quite so interesting as this is the somewhat prolix account
Mr. Maguire gives of his visit to Pictou, N. S., where he took
passage for Prince Edward's Island. We do not think his readers
would have sustained any loss by his omission of several pages in
which a certain "Peter," resident in those parts, acted as his
_cicerone_. "Peter" may have interested Mr. Maguire, but he
will not interest his readers. There is one paragraph, however,
in connection with the visit to Prince Edward's Island that we
may not pass over here, for the reason that it, too, is of
general application. Mr. Maguire is speaking of St. Dunstan's
College in Charlottetown:
"This college is supplied with every modern requirement and
appliance, and is under the able presidency of the Rev. Angus
McDonald, a man well qualified for his important task, and
whose title of 'Father Angus' is as affectionately pronounced
by the most Irish of the Irish as if it were 'Father Larry,' or
'Father Pat.' The Irish love their own priests; but let the
priest of any other nationality--English, Scotch, French,
Belgian, or American--only exhibit sympathy with them, or treat
them with kindness and affection, and at once he is as
thoroughly 'their priest' as if he had been born on the banks
of the Boyne or the Shannon. 'Father Dan' McDonald, the
vicar-general, is a striking instance of the attachment borne
by an Irish congregation to a good and kindly priest; and I now
the more dwell on this thorough fusion of priest and people in
love and sympathy, because of having witnessed with pain and
sorrow the injurious results, alike to my countrymen and to the
church, of forcing upon almost exclusively Irish congregations
clergymen who, from their imperfect knowledge of the Irish
tongue, could not for a long time make themselves understood by
those over whom it was essential they should acquire a
beneficial influence."--Pp. 46, 47.
Very interesting is our author's account of the Irish settlements
in Prince Edward's Island and New Brunswick; one of the latter,
Johnville, commenced within a few years, under the auspices of
Right Rev. Dr. Sweeny, Bishop of New Brunswick, furnishes a
striking proof of the advantages to be gained by settling on the
land, instead of congregating in the over-crowded cities. The
beneficent effect on their morals, the cultivation of kind
feeling and fraternal charity amongst the settlers by the
formation of these rural colonies is happily described in the
following passage:
"The settlers of Johnville are invariably kind to each other,
freely lending to a neighbor the aid which they may have the
next day to solicit for themselves. By this mutual and
ungrudging assistance, the construction of a dwelling, or the
rolling of logs and piling them in a heap for future burning,
has been quickly and easily accomplished; and crops have been
cut and gathered in safety, which, without such neighborly aid,
might have been irrecoverably lost. This necessary dependence
on each other for mutual help in the hour of difficulty draws
the scattered settlers together by ties of sympathy and
friendship; and while none envy the progress of a neighbor,
whose success is rather a subject for general congratulation,
the affliction of one of these humble families brings a common
sorrow to every home.
{768}
I witnessed a touching illustration of this fraternal and
Christian sympathy. Even in the heart of the primitive forest
we have sickness, and death, and frenzied grief, just as in
cities with histories that go back a thousand years. A few days
previous to my visit a poor fellow had become mad, his insanity
being attributed to the loss of his young wife, whose death
left him a despairing widower with four infant children. He had
just been conveyed to the lunatic asylum, and his orphans were
already taken by the neighbors, and made part of their
families."--P. 68.
"On our return to St. John," says Mr. Maguire, "we met the
postmaster-general--a Scotchman--who had recently paid an
official visit to the settlement; and he was loud in the
expression of his astonishment at the progress which the people
had made in so short a time, and at the unmistakable evidences of
comfort he beheld in every direction. The settlement of
Johnville," he goes on, "is but one of four which Dr. Sweeny has
established within a recent time. He has thus succeeded in
establishing, as settlers, between 700 and 800 families, or, at
an average of five persons to each family, between 3500 and 4000
individuals."
This one fact shows what might be done in that way for the social
and moral improvement of many, many thousands of "the Irish in
America," who need some favorable change in their condition, if
they are to be saved from total destruction. If the vast
superfluous populations of the cities could only be induced to
scatter abroad through the rural districts, and work as laborers
until they could afford to purchase land, much misery and
degradation would be avoided. The Irish are chiefly an
agricultural people at home; why will they not understand that
those who were farmers or laborers "in the old country" would be
most likely to succeed by following the same pursuits here? All
the portions of Mr. Maguire's book relating to these Irish
settlements are both useful and interesting. Of the progress of
the Irish and their cherished faith in St. John's, the capital of
New Brunswick, our author says:
"Forty years since, an ordinary room would have afforded
sufficient accommodation to the Catholic worshippers of that
day: now congregations of two thousand or three thousand pour
out on Sundays and holidays through the sculptured portals of
the Church of the Immaculate Conception. On All Saints' Day I
beheld such a congregation issuing from an early mass, filling
the street in front of the splendid building; and from the
appearance of the thousands of well-dressed,
respectable-looking people, who passed before me, I could
appreciate not only the material progress of the Irish in St.
John, but the marvellous development of the Catholic Church in
that city."--P. 89.
Passing on into the Canadas, Mr. Maguire finds the Irish
occupying as prominent a position as in any of the Lower
Provinces. "Entering Canada at Quebec," he says, "the presence of
a strong and even influential Irish element is at once
observable. In the staple industry of this fine old city--the
lumber trade--the Irish take a prominent part. . . . It is
pleasant to hear that not only are the Irish in Quebec, and
indeed along the St. Lawrence, among the most industrious and
energetic portion of the population, but that they are thrifty
and saving, and have acquired considerable property. Thus, along
the harbor, from the Champlain market westward to the limits of
the city, an extent of two miles, the property, including
wharves, warehouses, and dwelling-houses, belongs principally to
the Irish, who form the bulk of the population in that quarter.
And by Irish I here mean Catholic Irish."
Following the course of the St. Lawrence, he reaches Montreal,
and he thus describes the position of the Irish there:
{769}
"In no part of the British Provinces of North America does the
Catholic Irishman feel himself so thoroughly at home as in the
beautiful and flourishing city of Montreal. He is in a Catholic
city, where his religion is respected, and his church is
surrounded with dignity and splendor. In whichever direction he
turns, he beholds some magnificent temple--some college, or
convent, or hospital--everywhere the cross, whether reared
aloft on the spire of a noble church, or on the porch or gable
of an asylum or a school. In fact, the atmosphere he breathes
is Catholic. Therefore he finds himself at home in the thriving
commercial capital of Lower Canada. In no part of the world is
he more perfectly free and independent than in this prosperous
seat of industry and enterprise, in which, it may be remarked,
there is more apparent life and energy than in any other
portion of the British Provinces. It is not, then, to be
wondered at that the Catholic Irish are equal in number to the
entire of the English-speaking Protestant population, including
English, Scotch, and Irish. It is estimated that the Irish
Catholics are now not less than thirty thousand. Of these a
large proportion necessarily belong to the working classes, and
find employment in various branches of local industry. Their
increase has been rapid and striking. Fifty years since, there
were not fifty Irish Catholic families in Montreal. It is about
that time since Father Richards, an American, took compassion
upon the handful of exiles who were then friendless and
unknown, and gathered them into a small sacristy attached to
one of the minor churches, to speak to them in a language which
they understood. In thirty years afterward their number had
increased to eight thousand, and now they are not under thirty
thousand."--P. 96.
Much more than he has said, Mr. Maguire might have said about the
Irish in Montreal, and the positions of honor and emolument to
which many of them have attained. Of the city itself, he
digresses to speak as follows:
"It is foreign to the purpose of this book to describe the
public institutions and buildings of any place; but I cannot
refrain from expressing my admiration of Montreal, which is in
every respect worthy of its high reputation. It has an air at
once elegant and solid, many of its streets spacious and alive
with traffic and bustle, its places of doing business
substantial and handsome; its public buildings really imposing,
and its churches generally splendid, and not a few of them
positively superb. This description of the churches of Montreal
is not limited to the Jesuits' Church, the stately
_Paroisse_, and the grand church of St. Patrick, of which
the Irish are deservedly proud; it applies with equal propriety
to the Episcopalian Cathedral, and more than one church
belonging to the dissenting bodies. Montreal is rich in all
kinds of charitable, educational, and religious institutions;
and such is the influence and power of the Catholic element,
that this beautiful city, which is every day advancing in
prosperity and population, is naturally regarded by the
Catholic Irishman as a home. The humble man sees his
coreligionists advancing in every walk of life, filling
positions of distinction--honored and respected; and, instead
of mere toleration for his faith, he witnesses, in the
magnificent procession of Corpus Christi, which annually pours
its solemn splendor through the streets, a spectacle consoling
alike to his religious feeling and his personal pride."
Although it is not exactly germane to our subject, we must be
pardoned for giving in this connection Mr. Maguire's observations
on the admirable system of education, of which Catholic Lower
Canada may well be proud.
"Education in Lower Canada is entirely free. Each denomination
enjoys the most complete liberty, there being no compulsion or
restriction of any kind whatever. And the magnificent Laval
University, so called after a French bishop, enjoys and
exercises every right and privilege possessed by the great
universities of England. This university, which is eminently
Catholic, obtained a charter conferring upon it all the powers
that were requisite for its fullest educational development.
"The rights of the Protestant minority are protected in the
amplest manner, as well by law as by the natural tendency and
feeling of the majority; for there are no people more liberal
and tolerant, or more averse to any kind of aggression on the
faith or opinions of others, than the French Canadians; and the
Irish Catholics too well remember the bitterness caused by
religious strife in the old country, to desire its
introduction, in any shape or form, or under any guise or
pretence, into their adopted home. There are abundant means of
education within every man's reach; and it is his own fault if
his children do not receive its full advantage.
{770}
But the Irishman, whatever may be his own deficiencies as to
early training, rarely neglects that of his children; and in
Canada, as in the States, the fault attributed to him is not
that he neglects to educate them at all, but that he is tempted
to educate them rather too highly, or too ambitiously, than
otherwise."--Pp. 95, 96.
Following the widely-scattered Irish race along the rivers and
through the forests of the great northern countries, Mr. Maguire
happily describes what they have done and are doing in Upper
Canada, as Protestant, nearly, as Lower Canada is Catholic. Even
there, he shows us, Catholicity is making as rapid progress as in
any part of America, and there, as in many other parts of the
world, its marvellous growth corresponds with that of the Irish
race. Mr. Maguire's account of his travels in Upper or Western
Canada is, indeed, highly interesting. It was his good fortune to
meet in Hamilton, C. W., a well-known and much-honored
patriarch-priest, Very Rev. Mr. Gordon, vicar-general of that
diocese, from whom he obtained much valuable information
concerning the Irish Catholic people of Western Canada. Mr.
Maguire says in this connection:
"There is still living in Hamilton, Western Canada, as
vicar-general of the diocese, an Irish priest--Father Gordon,
from Wexford--who has witnessed astonishing changes in his
time. He has seen the city founded, and the town spring up, the
forest cleared, and the settlement created; the rude log
chapel, in which a handful of the faithful knelt in the midst
of a wood, replaced by the spacious brick church in which many
hundreds now worship. And not only has he witnessed astonishing
changes, but has himself done much to effect the changes which
he has lived to see accomplished. ... Father Gordon had charge
of the back townships, twenty-four in number. We must
appreciate the extent of his spiritual jurisdiction when we
learn that a township comprised an area of twelve miles square
and Father Gordon had to attend twenty-four of these. ...
Father Gordon spent half his time in the saddle; and though he
spared neither himself nor his horse--but himself much less
than his horse--it was with the utmost difficulty that he could
visit the more distant portions of his mission oftener than
twice or thrice a year; many a time did the active missionary
lose his way in the midst of the woods, and after hours of
weary riding find himself, in the dusk of the evening, in the
very same spot from which he set out in the morning!"--Pp. 112,
117.
Some of Father Gordon's early adventures in the wild Canadian
forests, are extremely interesting, but for them we must refer
the reader to the book itself. Father Edward Gordon is nearly the
last of the noble band of Irish missionaries who went to those
remote regions with the first instalments of the Irish exodus
that reached there. Another, his friend and fellow-laborer, Very
Rev. Mr. McDonagh, died but a year or two ago at Perth, in the
diocese of Kingston, of which diocese he was vicar-general. A
third, if we mistake not, is still living, namely, Father
Brennan, of Bellville, C. W. These are the men who laid the
foundations of the Catholic Church in those parts of Upper
Canada. In the Scotch settlements farther east, there are still a
very few of the old Scotch missionaries remaining, chiefly
McDonalds. One of the most thrillingly interesting portions of
the book is that devoted to the account of the terrible
ship-fever brought to Canada by the Irish emigrants in the
ever-memorable years of 1847-8. Our author's description of its
ravages at Grosse Isle, the quarantine station of Quebec, at
Point St. Charles, Montreal, and in the cities of Upper Canada,
is of deep and painful interest. The adoption of the orphan
children of the poor Irish emigrants--of whom twelve thousand
perished at Grosse Isle alone--by the friendly French Canadians,
is beyond expression touching. How the good Canadian priests and
bishops took charge, and induced their people to take charge of
these "children of the faithful Catholic Irish," as they
expressively called the poor orphans, is told by Mr. Maguire with
the grace of a poet and the skill of a dramatist.
{771}
Yet the picture is nothing overdrawn, as the writer of this, and
many others yet living, can bear witness from their own sad
memories of those sorrowful days.
Outside the Catholic Church no such spectacle of charity was ever
seen as that which met the eyes of the Canadian people in
Montreal and their other cities in those two disastrous years,
but especially the first. The following passage will give some
idea of the extent to which Christian heroism was carried then
and there:
"The horrors of Grosse Isle had their counterpart in Montreal.
"As in Quebec, the mortality was greater in 1847 than in the
year following; but it was not till the close of 1848 that the
plague might be said to be extinguished, not without fearful
sacrifice of life. During the months of June, July, August, and
September, the season when nature wears her most glorious garb
of loveliness, as many as eleven hundred of 'the faithful
Irish,' as the Canadian priest truly described them, were lying
at one time in the fever-sheds at Point St. Charles, in which
rough wooden beds were placed in rows, and so close as scarcely
to admit of room to pass. In these miserable cribs the patients
lay, sometimes two together, looking, as a Sister of Charity
wrote, 'as if they were in their coffins,' from the box-like
appearance of their wretched beds. Throughout those glorious
months, while the sun shone brightly, and the majestic river
rolled along in golden waves, hundreds of the poor Irish were
dying daily. The world outside was gay and glad, but death was
rioting in the fever-sheds. It was a moment to try the devotion
which religion inspires, to test the courage with which it
animates the gentlest breast. First came the Grey Nuns, strong
in love and faith; but so malignant was the disease, that
thirty of their number were stricken down, and thirteen died
the death of martyrs. There was no faltering, no holding back;
no sooner were the ranks thinned by death than the gaps were
quickly filled; and when the Grey Nuns were driven to the last
extremity, the Sisters of Providence came to their assistance,
and took their place by the side of the dying strangers. But
when even their aid did not suffice to meet the emergency, the
Sisters of St. Joseph, though cloistered nuns, received the
permission of the bishop to share with their sister religious
the hardships and dangers of labor by day and night.
"'I am the only one left,' were the thrilling words in which
the surviving priest announced from the pulpit the ravages that
the 'ocean plague' had made in the ranks of the clergy. With a
single exception, the local priests were either sick or dead.
Eight of the number fell at their posts, true to their duty.
The good Bishop, Monseigneur Bourget, then went himself, to
take his turn in the lazar-house; but the enemy was too mighty
for his zeal, and having remained in the discharge of his
self-imposed task for a day and a night, he contracted the
fever, and was carried home to a sick-bed, where he lay for
weeks, hovering between life and death, amid the tears and
prayers of his people, to whom Providence restored him after a
period of intense anxiety to them, and long and weary suffering
to him.
"When the city priests were found inadequate to the discharge
of their pressing duties, the country priests cheerfully
responded to the call of their bishop, and came to the
assistance of their brethren; and of the country priests not a
few found the grave and the crown of the martyr."--Pp. 145,
146, 148.
After a glance at the Irish in Newfoundland, where, in proportion
to their numbers, and the extent of the island, they have done
fully as much for their own advancement and that of religion, as
in any other part of America, Mr. Maguire, before crossing the
great waters that separate British America from the United States
makes these pertinent remarks on the Irish exodus generally:
"There are few sadder episodes in the history of the world than
the story of the Irish exodus. Impelled, to a certain degree,
by a spirit of adventure, but mainly driven from their native
land by the operation of laws which, if not opposed to the
genius of the people, were unsuited to the special
circumstances of their country, millions of the Irish race have
braved the dangers of an unknown element, and faced the perils
of a new existence, in search of a home across the Atlantic. At
times, this European life-stream flowed toward the new world in
a broad and steady current; at others, it assumed the character
of a resistless rush, breaking on the shores of America with so
formidable a tide as to baffle every anticipation, and render
the ordinary means of humane or sanitary precaution altogether
inadequate and unavailing."--P. 179
{772}
Having crossed into the territory of the United States, Mr.
Maguire very judiciously prefaces his account of what he saw
amongst the Irish there, by a long and carefully written account
of the dangers to which emigrants and their pockets are exposed
in New York, the great centre of emigration. This is one of the
most useful portions of the work, and should be read, if
possible, by every intending emigrant to the United States. The
greater part of Chapter X. is devoted to it, comprising some
amusing and characteristic anecdotes and some very important
directions for the guidance of newly-arrived emigrants.
Mr. Maguire next turns his attention to the tenement-houses of
New York, and the sanitary condition of their inhabitants. He
devotes much space to this, and his remarks are clear, practical,
and judicious. He evidently examined the condition even of the
poorest and most wretched of the Irish in this metropolis. He
speaks, in this connection, earnestly and feelingly on the great
mistake, the terrible mistake made by those emigrants who, being
farmers or country people at home, remain huddled together in the
great cities here, instead of spreading abroad over the fertile
regions of America, where land is to be had cheap, in some places
almost for the asking.
"Let it not be supposed that, in my earnest desire to direct
the practical attention of my countrymen, at both sides of the
Atlantic, to an evil of universally admitted magnitude, I
desire to exaggerate in the least. From the very nature of
things, the great cities of America--and, in a special degree,
New York--must be the refuge of the unfortunate, the home of
the helpless, the hiding-place of the broken-down, even of the
criminal; and these, while crowding the dwelling-places of the
poor, and straining the resources and preying on the charity of
their communities, multiply their existing evils, and add to
their vices. Still, in spite of the dangers and temptations by
which they are perpetually surrounded--dangers and temptations
springing even from the very freedom of republican
institutions, no less than from the generous social habits of
the American people--there are thousands, hundreds of
thousands, of Irish-born citizens of the United States,
residing in New York and in other great cities of the Union,
who are, in every respect, the equals of the best of American
population--honorable and upright in their dealings;
industrious, energetic, and enterprising in business;
intelligent and quick of capacity; progressive and go-ahead;
and as loyally devoted to the institutions of their adopted
country as if they had been born under its flag. Nevertheless,
I repeat the assertion, justified by innumerable
authorities--authorities beyond the faintest shadow of
suspicion--that the city is not the right place for the Irish
peasant, and that it is the worst place which he could select
as his home."--Pp. 235-236.
Mr. Maguire's limited time did not permit him to travel much in
the interior of any State; he could but visit the principal
cities. His account of the Middle, Southern, and great Western
States, is written in general terms; he speaks at some length of
the Irish settlements in the new States and territories, of the
vast resources of the country, and the enormous quantity of
public lands at the disposal of the United States government.
After describing the progress of the Irish in the West and
North-west, he adds:
"It is not at all necessary that an Irish immigrant should go
West, whatever and how great the inducements it offers to the
enterprising. There is land to be had, under certain
circumstances and conditions, in almost every State in the
Union. And there is no State in which the Irish peasant who is
living from hand to mouth in one of the great cities as a
day-laborer, may not improve his condition by betaking himself
to his natural and legitimate avocation--the cultivation of the
soil. Nor is the vast region of the South unfavorable to the
laborious and energetic Irishman. On the contrary, there is no
portion of the American continent in which he would receive a
more cordial welcome, or meet with more favorable terms. This
would not have been so before the war, or the abolition of
slavery, and the upset of the land system, which was based upon
the compulsory labor of the negro.
{773}
Before the war, the land was held in mass by large proprietors,
and, whatever its quantity, there was no dividing or selling
it--that is, willingly; for, when land was brought to the hammer,
the convenience of the purchaser had to be consulted. But there
was no voluntary division of the soil, no cutting it up into
parcels, to be occupied by small proprietors. Now, the state of
things is totally different."--P. 252.
Our author seems much impressed with the advantages offered by
the "magnificent State of California" to Irish emigrants. Of it
he says:
"There is not a State in the Union in which the Irish have
taken deeper and stronger root, or thriven more successfully,
than California, in whose amazing progress--material, social,
and intellectual--they have had a conspicuous share. For nearly
twenty years past, this region has been associated in the
popular mind with visions of boundless wealth and marvellous
fortunes; and it may be interesting to learn under what
circumstances the Irish became connected with a country of such
universal repute, and of whose population they form a most
important and valuable portion."--P. 262.
Mr. Maguire waxes eloquent over the benefits conferred on his
countrymen, in all the cities of America, by temperance
societies. He deplores, over and over again, the fatal propensity
to spirituous liquors, of which he everywhere saw lamentable
instances amongst his countrymen in America. He says, in many
places, that drink, and drink alone, is the cause why so many of
the Irish do not find in the new world that success which crowns
the efforts of so many thousands and even millions of their race.
"Drink, accursed drink," he says, "is the cause why so many of
the Irish in America fail, and fail miserably." On the other
hand, he saw, wherever he went, east, west, north, and south,
that those among them who attained to wealth and position were
all sober men, many of them "teetotalers."
The love of home and kindred, which is one of the most beautiful
as it is one of the strongest traits in the Irish character, is
duly noted by Mr. Maguire as distinguishing them in America. The
many and great sacrifices made by Irish emigrants here, and
especially by servant-girls, are thus described by our author:
"The great ambition of the Irish girl is to send 'something' to
her people, as soon as possible after she has landed in
America; and, in innumerable instances, the first tidings of
her arrival in the new world are accompanied with a remittance,
the fruits of her first earnings in her first place. Loving a
bit of finery dearly, she will resolutely shut her eyes to the
attractions of some enticing article of dress, to prove to the
loved ones at home that she has not forgotten them; and she
will risk the danger of insufficient clothing, or boots not
proof against rain or snow, rather than diminish the amount of
the little hoard to which she is weekly adding, and which she
intends as a delightful surprise to parents who, possibly, did
not altogether approve of her hazardous enterprise. To send
money to her people, she will deny herself innocent enjoyments,
womanly indulgences, and the gratifications of legitimate
vanity; and such is the generous and affectionate nature of
these young girls, that they regard the sacrifices they make as
the most ordinary matter in the world, for which they merit
neither praise nor approval. To assist their relatives, whether
parents, or brothers and sisters, is with them a matter of
imperative duty, which they do not and cannot think of
disobeying, and which, on the contrary, they delight in
performing. And the money destined to that purpose is regarded
as sacred, and must not be diverted to any object less
worthy."--P. 315.
A very important and deeply interesting portion of Mr. Maguire's
book is that which treats of the share the Irish have had in
building up and sustaining the church in America. In all the
checkered history of the Irish race, there is no page more
glorious than that which records their fidelity to the faith, in
foreign lands as well as at home; their heart-warm attachment to,
and profound reverence for, their clergy; the mighty sacrifices
they make, and have made to promote the interests of religion,
and the important part they have played in the propagation of the
faith:
{774}
"It has been confidently stated, that the moment the Irish
touch the free soil of America, they lose the old faith--that
there is something in the very nature of republican
institutions fatal to the Church of Rome. Admitting, as a fact
which cannot be denied, and which Catholics are themselves the
first to proclaim, that there has been some, even considerable,
falling off from the church, and no little indifferentism, it
must be acknowledged that there has been less of both than,
from the circumstances of the country, might have been
reasonably expected; and that the same Irish, whose alleged
defection _en masse_ has been the theme of ungenerous
triumph to those whose 'wish was father to the thought,' have
done more to develop the Church, and extend her dominion
throughout the wide continent of North America, than even the
most devoted of the children of any other of the various races
who, with them, are merged in the great American nation. This
much may be freely conceded to them, even by those who are most
sensitively and justly proud of what their own nationality has
done to promote the glory of the Universal Church. Fortified by
suffering and trial at home, and inheritors of memories which
intensify devotion rather than weaken fidelity, the Irish
brought with them a strong faith, the power to resist as well
as the courage to persevere, and that generosity of spirit
which has ever prompted mankind to make large sacrifices for
the promotion of their religious belief."--P. 346.
In order to give a more correct idea to his European readers of
the services rendered by the Irish in America to the cause of
religion, our author gives a retrospective view of the rise and
progress of Catholicity in the United States. This he illustrates
by extracts from the writings and correspondence of various
bishops and priests of the elder time, and also the later, and
with interesting data from other sources. He dwells at some
length on the foundation or introduction into these countries of
the two great orders of Charity and Mercy, the one founded in
Dublin by Mrs. McAuley, the other at Emmettsburg, Maryland, by
Mrs. Seton, an American lady and a convert. _A propos_ to
the latter, he relates the following:
"It may be remarked, that this holy woman, this model wife and
daughter, was deeply impressed with the religious demeanor of
the poor Irish emigrants of that day--the opening of the
present century--who were detained in quarantine at Staten
Island, and attended by her father, as Health Physician to the
port of New York. 'The first thing,' she says, 'these poor
people did, when they got their tents, was to assemble on the
grass, and all kneeling, adored our Maker for his mercy; and
every morning sun finds them repeating their praises.' The
scenes then witnessed at Staten Island remind one of those
which were so fatally frequent in subsequent years. Even at
that time--1800, and the years following--large numbers of
emigrants arrived at the port of New York, suffering from the
dreadful scourge of fever, so calamitous to the Irish
race."--P. 363.
For all that relates to the illustrious prelates, Bishop England
and Archbishop Hughes, their lives and their works, we must refer
the reader to the book itself. An anecdote, in which Bishop
England and one of his zealous priests were actors, will be found
peculiarly interesting:
"One evening the bishop, who was on this occasion accompanied
by one of his few priests--Father O'Neill; it need scarcely be
added, a countryman of his own--drew up at a house of rather
moderate dimensions, whose master was a marked specimen of the
species surly. Negotiations were entered into for a dinner,
which the liberal host was willing to give on certain
conditions, somewhat exorbitant in their nature; but there was
to be no further accommodation. 'You cannot stop the night,
nohow,' said the agreeable owner of the mansion; and his look
of dogged dislike was quite as emphatic as his words. After
dinner, Dr. England sat on a chair in the piazza, and read his
'office;' while Father O'Neill, having no desire to enjoy the
company of his unwilling entertainer, sauntered toward the
carriage, a little distance off, where the boy was feeding the
horses; and taking his flute from his portmanteau, he sat on a
log, and commenced his favorite air, 'The Last Rose of Summer,'
into which he seemed to breathe the very soul of tenderness.
{775}
From one exquisite melody to another the player wandered, while
the negro boy grinned with delight, and the horses enjoyed
their food with a keener relish. That
'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'
was here exemplified. As the sweet notes stole on the soft
night air of the South, and reached the inhospitable mansion, a
head was eagerly thrust forth, and the projecting ears thereof
appeared eagerly to drink in the flood of melody. Another
lovely air, one of those which bring involuntary tears to the
eyes, and fill the heart with balm, was played with lingering
sweetness, when a voice, husky with emotion, was heard uttering
these words, 'Strangers! don't go! do stay all night! don't go;
we'll fix you somehow.' It was the voice of the charmed host!
That evening the two guests enjoyed the snuggest seats at the
hearth, Father O'Neill playing for the family till a late hour.
Next morning the master of the house would not accept of the
least compensation. 'No, no, bishop! no, no, Mr. O'Neill! not a
cent! You're heartily welcome to it. Come as often as you
please, and stay as long as you can. We'll be always glad to
see you; but,' specially addressing Father O'Neill, 'be sure
and don't forget the flute!'"--P. 323.
Mr. Maguire's account of the Irish in the late civil war is long
and interesting. He tells many interesting anecdotes of their
heroism, their fidelity to their flag, whether Confederate or
Federal, and also of the influence they, their religion, and its
ministers exercised on the non-Catholics with whom they were
brought in immediate contact. Here are one or two extracts:
"A Southern general said to me, 'The war has worn away many a
prejudice against Catholics, such was the exemplary conduct of
the priests in the camp and the hospital, and the Christian
attitude of the church during the whole of the struggle. Many
kind and generous acts were done by the priests to persecuted
ladies, who now tell with gratitude of their services. Wherever
an asylum was required, they found it for them. I wish all
ministers had been like the priests, and we might never have
had this war, or it would not have been so bitter as it
was.'"--P. 480.
Exceedingly honorable to the Irish soldiers of the Union is the
following testimony:
"The Irish displayed a still nobler quality than courage,
though theirs was of the most exalted nature; they displayed
magnanimity, generosity--Christian chivalry. From one end of
the South to the other, even where the feeling was yet sore,
and the wound of defeat still rankled in the breast, there was
no anger against the Irish soldiers of the Union. Whenever the
feeble or the defenceless required a protector, or woman a
champion, or an endangered church a defender, the protector,
the champion, and the defender were to be found in the
Irishman, who fought for a principle, not for vengeance or
desolation. The evil deeds, the nameless horrors, perpetrated
in the fury of passion and in the license of victory whatever
these were, they are not laid at the door of the Irish. On the
contrary, from every quarter are to be heard praises of the
Irish for their forbearance, their gallantry, and
_chivalry_--than which no word more fitly represents their
bearing at a time when wanton outrages and the most horrible
cruelties were too frequently excused or palliated on the
absolving plea of stern necessity."--Pp. 552, 553.
Of the Philadelphia riots and church-burning, and of the
memorable struggle for the freedom of Catholic education in New
York, Mr. Maguire gives interesting accounts. From this portion
of the work we select the following. The author has been speaking
of the beneficent effects exercised by convent schools; he goes
on to say:
"What is true of convent schools is equally true of schools and
colleges under the care of the great educational
orders--Jesuits, Sulpicians, Vincentians, Redemptorists,
Brothers and Sisters of the Holy Cross, Christian Brothers,
Franciscans, and others."--P. 504.
When Mr. Maguire comes to speak of the Fenians, he generally
takes a fair and impartial view of the subject. We must, however,
object _in toto_ to one remark of his. He says, on page 592:
"So far as I have been able to learn, my belief is, that among
the Fenians in almost every State of the Union there are many
thousands of the very cream of the Irish population."
{776}
So far is this from being the case, as it must have been
represented to Mr. Maguire, that it was, and is, the constant
complaint of the Fenians themselves, precisely that the "cream of
the Irish population" kept widely aloof from them.
The concluding pages of the book are devoted exclusively to the
strange phenomenon presented by the fondly-cherished,
never-dying, hatred of England found among the Irish in every
part of America; the deep-seated, burning thirst for vengeance on
the power whose baneful influence has for many ages blighted the
genius, the hopes, the energies of the Irish at home--whose
colossal shadow has thrown into the shade the fairer and more
graceful genius of the Celtic race, and made "the oldest
Christian nation of Western Europe," the proud Celto-Iberian
race, the poorest, the most abject of European nations, with all
its wealth of genius, of poetry, of energy, of all that gives
historic fame.
Mr. Maguire has given a good "bird's-eye view" of the Irish in
America; he has shown them in various lights, and under various
aspects; still his book has left much untold, much that would
have interested the Irish and the friends of the Irish
everywhere. There is, moreover, a want of method in the
arrangement of this book--a certain haziness and indistinctness,
that detracts considerably from its value as a book of reference.
Too much is said of some things and some persons, too little of
other things and persons; and these omissions unfortunately
include what we here consider most honorable to "The Irish In
America."
--------
The Double Marriage. [Footnote 69]
[Footnote 69: From _The Diary of a Sister of Mercy_.
By Mrs. C. M. Brame. Now in press,
by the Catholic Publication Society.]
Chapter I.
Just before vespers, as I came in from a visit to the hospital,
Mother Frances, our superioress, called me to her, and said:
"Dear sister, you have been out nearly all day, and were up last
evening; you can go into the church for vespers, and then you had
better go to your cell."
After the service was ended, I remained a few minutes to say my
prayers. When my time had expired, I went through the cloisters
to my cell; and, just as I opened the door, I heard from the
gate-bell a loud peal that rang through the silent house. I heard
the door opened, and a hurried message delivered.
"Another call," I thought; and then came a quiet tap at my door.
I opened it quickly, and Mother Frances entered, saying:
"I am grieved, sister, to disturb you so soon; but that poor
girl, Mary MacNeal, is dying at the hospital, and she wishes most
earnestly to see you."
"Is she indeed dying? why, I left her so much better."
"Yes; but a fatal change has taken place, and she has not long to
live."
{777}
There was no time to think of my aching head and wearied limbs. I
dressed again hastily, and, together with the messenger, soon
arrived at the hospital.
At the entrance of the ward where Mary lay I met the nurse. "Oh!
God be praised, sister, that you're come at last! Poor Mary's
only cry is for you."
This Mary MacNeal was a young girl who had been brought up in our
schools, and afterward maintained herself by dressmaking. Hard
toil, poor fare, and want of exercise did their work; and Mary
lay dying in the last stage of consumption. She was a good girl,
and had been long under my especial care. That very afternoon she
had implored me to be with her during her last moments. When I
reached her bed, a calm, happy smile welcomed me, and the feeble,
faint voice spoke a few words of greeting, "And ye'll say the
rosary, sister?"
I knelt down and complied with her request. When we said the last
Gloria, Father Bernard came, and Mary received the last
sacraments. I have stood by many a death-bed: I have seen the
strong man in his agony expire; I have seen the atheist, fearing,
dreading God, die, with despair in his glazing eye and faithless
heart; I have seen infants die with the smile of an angel on
their little faces; in every form I have met with death; but I
never knew a soul leave this world that seemed more fit for
heaven than that of this young girl. The rosary in one hand, the
crucifix in the other, she lay so calm and still. Ever and anon,
as I wiped the death-damp from the pale brow, she lifted her eyes
as though to thank me. She seemed desirous to speak. I stooped
over her to catch the few struggling words, and they were:
"Thank God, I have always loved the Blessed Mother; she is with
me now." And she murmured the sweet names of Jesus and Mary.
Then the slight breath stopped; anon it came again; again it
went, and without a struggle that happy soul took flight. I
closed the eyes, still wearing the lingering look of gratitude
and love; I crossed the hands, and twined the beads around them,
and then knelt down and said the litany for the dead. I was now
preparing to leave the hospital, when the nurse came, and asked
me if I would step for a minute into the next ward, just to speak
to a poor old woman who seemed to be getting worse. This ward was
quite full; but I noticed a bed I had seen empty in the morning,
occupied; when I had finished talking to the old woman, I asked
who the fresh comer was.
"Ah! sister, she's in an awful way, let her be who she may. I
asked her this afternoon if she would see you, or the priest; and
I declare the look of her frightened me--it was so wild and
fierce. But she's a lady, I am sure; for, though the poor feet of
her were bare and bleeding, the few ragged clothes she had on
were of the finest, and when she is in her senses, she speaks so
lady-like; but she went on in a dreadful way, and told me not to
talk to her of sisters or priests, but to do her the only
kindness I could, and let her die alone; so there she lies, and
not one bit or drop can I get down her."
"But, nurse, I must see her, poor thing! Perhaps I can help to
soothe her."
I approached the bed carefully, shading the lamp with my hand. I
set the light down on the table, and drew a chair close to the
bedside, and sat down upon it. Loud, heavy breathing, and quick,
frightened starts, told me the patient slept. I gently drew aside
the sheet, with which she had covered her face and head, and
started at the picture that met my gaze.
{778}
It was a woman, seemingly about two-and-twenty years of age; her
face and neck were covered with a perfect mass of thick, glossy
hair; it spread in its rich profusion over the pillow and the bed
clothes. I took one of the tresses in my hand, and wondered at
its length and softness. One small white hand was thrown above
her head, and it grasped a portion of the hair so tightly that I
could not move it, lest I should wake her. Before I had sat many
minutes, the sleeper awoke with a loud, piercing scream, and a
quick, fearful start. I laid my hands on her, to soothe her.
"Do not be frightened," I said; "you are quite safe."
"Who are you?" she replied abruptly and sharply.
"I am a Sister of Mercy, and I am anxious to assist you."
"I don't want you; go away; you only torment me." She turned from
me, and concealed her face.
"I am afraid you mistake me," I said very gently; "indeed, I only
wish to do you good."
"Do me good? You cannot; leave me alone! Let me die as I have
lived."
"God is good, and very merciful, my poor sister."
"Don't mention his name to me. Leave me! Let me be forgotten by
God and man. Let me die, and do not torment me."
"God loves you with an infinite love--a love more tender than you
can imagine."
"I tell you to go! I am cursed? hated! I want no good; I will
listen to none. Your words are all in vain; save them, and go!"
With these words she resolutely turned from me, and covered her
face with the clothes, so that she could neither hear nor see me.
I took my rosary, and knelt down, and said it for her; and
ardently did I pray that the poor heart might be turned to God.
When I had knelt above an hour, she turned fiercely round, and
said
"Are you still there? what are you doing?"
"I am praying for you, my sister."
"Praying for me!" and a wild, fearful laugh sounded through the
quiet room. "Praying for me; my name is forgotten in heaven.
Don't do that. My mother is in heaven. Don't let my name be heard
there, or she will know; but go away, and leave me. Heaven and
earth have abandoned me; why need you care for me?"
The delirium and fever seemed to increase so rapidly, that I
feared my longer stay would be useless. A torrent of words were
pouring quickly from the parched lips; now a wild appeal, a
fearful cry to God for mercy; then a dreadful outburst of
reproaches and contempt against heaven; then a wild snatch of
song, and a laugh so unearthly, it almost chilled the blood in my
veins. Once, and once only, the loud voice grew calm and sweet,
and a quiet look came upon the flushed face when she fancied she
was a girl at home again, and her mother was speaking to her.
I went home, for I was of no use, and the nurse gave the poor
sufferer an opiate before I left. I could not rest; that wild,
beautiful face was before me, and those pitiful cries rang in my
ears all night. The following morning I hastened to the hospital.
I found my patient more quiet, and a good deal exhausted.
{779}
I procured a basin of cold water, and wetting a handkerchief,
placed it upon her burning brow. Its coolness seemed to revive
her; for after I had bathed her forehead for some minutes, she
opened her eyes, and said, in a faint voice, "Is that you,
mother? bless you, thank you;" but after looking earnestly at me,
she turned away with a despairing sigh I never shall forget.
After I had well bathed her face and head, I gathered the long
hair and arranged it neatly under a cap. How beautiful she
looked! the red flush had gone, and her face was fair and white
as marble. The slight eyebrows were marked so clearly and arched
so beautifully, and the noble open brow was so fair, I could
distinguish every vein. Again my tears fell upon her face as I
stooped over her. She gave a quick start, and said, "Who are
you?"
"I am a Sister of Mercy, one who loves you."
"Loves me! and is that tear for me?"
"Yes, not only one, but many more I have shed for you."
"O sister!" and she turned and threw herself on my breast, "that
is the first tear any one has shed over me since my mother died.
My heart has been so proud, so full of bitter anger and hatred,
that I thought nothing could ever again soften it; that tear was
a dew-drop from heaven. A few moments since, I fancied you were
my mother, for your hand lay upon my head just as hers did when
she used to come, night after night, and bless me; just as it did
the night before I left her. O sister! do not let me lie in your
arms, you are so good, and I have been so wicked and sinful."
"Nay, rest here; none are so sinful but there is love and mercy
left for them."
"Mercy! can I, dare I hope for it?"
"Hush, my child, you are tiring yourself out; now rest."
"And do you promise never to leave me till I die? Say, will you
stay with me?"
"I will indeed do all I can; for the present I must go. Will you
let me put this around you?" (It was a medal of the Immaculate
Conception.)
"Yes," she replied, and took it with a trembling hand.
"Are you a Catholic?" I asked, startled by the haste with which
she seized it.
"I am, sister," and then a burning blush came over her face. "I
am, but a guilty, ungrateful one."
"Then will you say some short prayers, while I go and visit my
other patients?"
"I will, but it is long since I have said a prayer."
At the end of an hour I returned, and found her weeping bitterly.
She took my hand and kissed it. I tried to quiet her excessive
grief. I said, "Do not cry, my child. Tell me, can I help
you--can I do anything for you? My name is Sister Magdalen; what
shall I call _you?_" She looked up with a sad face, and
replied, "My name is Eva." "Well, then, Eva, be comforted; if you
have sinned, there is mercy and hope for you; if you are unhappy,
there is comfort. Look at this;" and I gave her my
crucifix--"does not this teach you to love and hope?" There was
no answer, nothing but bitter sobs. I knelt down, and said the
_Memorare_, and then, taking Eva's hand, I was about to
speak, when she said, "Sister, sister, when I am better, and have
strength to talk, I will tell you my history, and you shall teach
me to be better."
Day after day passed on, and she became so ill that we thought
she must die; but God so willed it that she began to improve,
and, at last, was able to speak and think rationally again. One
evening I sat by her bed, saying the rosary while she slept,
when, looking suddenly at her, I found her eyes open, and fixed
upon me intently.
{780}
"Sister Magdalen," she said, "I want to tell you my history; it
is a very sad one. I have sinned and suffered--will you hear me?"
"With pleasure, because, when I understand you, I can the better
help you."
And as she told it to me, I here give it.