CHAPTER I.

[Transcriber's notes]

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This text includes Volume II;

Number 7--October 1865

Number 8--November 1865

Number 9--December 1865

Number 10--January 1866

Number 11--February 1866

Number 12--March 1866

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THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

A

_A Monthly Eclectic Magazine_

OF

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. II.

OCTOBER, 1865, TO MARCH, 1866.

NEW YORK:

LAWRENCE KEHOE, PUBLISHER,

7 Beekman Street.

1866.

CONTENTS.

Adventure, The, 843.

Anglican and Greek Church, Attempt at Union between the, 65.

All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity, 71, 199, 377, 507, 697, 813.

Ancient Laws of Ireland, The, 129.

Anglicanism and the Greek Schism, 429.

Ancient Faculty of Paris, The, 496, 681.

Bell Gossip, 32.

Birds, Migration of, 57.

Bruges, The Capuchin of, 237.

Bossuet and Leibnitz, 433.

Catholic Congresses at Malines and Würzburg, 1, 221, 331, 519

Constance Sherwood, 37, 160, 304, 444, 614, 759.

Chinese Characteristics, 102.

Catholic Settlements In Pennsylvania, 145.

Capuchin of Bruges. The, 237.

Christmas Carols, A Bundle of, 349.

Christendom, Formation of, 856.

Calcutta and its Vicinity, A Ride through, 386.

Christmas Eve: or, The Bible, 397.

Charles II. and his Son, Father James Stuart, 577.

Canton, Up and Down, 656.

California and the Church, 790.

Charles II.'s Last Attempt to Emancipate The Catholics, 827.

Duc d'Ayen, The Daughters of the, 252.

Epidemics, Past and Present, 420.

Formation of Christendom, The, 356.

Gallitzin, Rev. Demetrius Augustin, 145.

Gertrude, Saint, Thoughts on, 406.

Genzano, The Inflorata of, 608.

Glastonbury Abbey, Past and Present, 662.

Handwriting, 695.

Inside the Eye, 119.

Ireland before Christianity, 541.

Kingdom without a King, 705.

Leibnitz and Bossuet, 433.

Law and Literature, 560.

Malines and Würzburg, Catholic Congresses in, 1, 221, 332, 519.

Marie Louise, Napoleon's Marriage with, 12.

Migrations of European Birds, 57.

Miscellany, 136, 276, 563, 714, 853.

Moricière, General De La, 289.

Malta, Siege of, 483.

Mistaken Identity, 707.

Mary, Queen of Scots, The Two Friends of, 813.

Natural History of the Tropics, Gleanings from, 178

Novel Ticket-of-leave, A, 707.

Pierre Prévost's Story, 110.

Pen, Slips of the, 272.

Paris, The Ancient Faculty of, 496, 681.

Pusey, Dr., on the Church of England, 530.

Positivism, 791.

Plain-Work, 740.

Procter, Adelaide Anne, Poems of, 837.

Récamier, Madame, and her Friends, 79.

Rome, Facts and Fictions about, 325.

Religious Statistics of the World, 491.

Rhodes, The Colossus of, 544.

Steam Engine, The Inventor of, 211.

Saturnine Observations, A Few, 266.

Slips of the Pen, 272.

Saints of the Desert, 275, 476, 453, 655, 835.

Saint Catharine of Siena, Public Life of, 547.

Saint Patrick, The Birth place of, 744.

True to the Last, 110.

The Eye, Inside of, 119.

Tropics, Gleanings from the Natural History of, 178

The Clouds and the Poor, 213

The Bible; or, Christmas Eve, 397.

The Adventure, 848.

World, Religious Statistics of the, 491.

------

POETRY.

An English Maiden's Love, 27.

Better Late than Never, 454.

Books, 495.

Children, The, 70.

Christmas Carol, A, 419, 559.

City Aspirations, 680.

"Dum Spiro Spero," 159.

Falling Stars, 348.

Inquietus, 704

Kirkstall Abbey, 36.

Keviaar, Pilgrimage to, 127.

Little Things, 836.

Properzia Rossi, 235.

Patience, 812.

Resigned, 654.

Song of the Year, 490.

Saint Elizabeth, 529.

Tender and True and Tried, 385.

The Round of the Waters, 396.

The Better Part, 757.

Unshed Tears, 789.

Winter Signs, 198.

------

{iv}

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Archbishop Hughes's Complete Works, 282.

American Republic, The, 714.

Andrew Johnson, Life of, 856.

Banim's Works, 286.

Baker, Rev. F. A., Memoir and Sermons of, 566.

Brownson's American Republic, 714.

Brincker, Hans, 719.

Catholic Anecdotes, 287.

Cobden, Richard, Career of, 860.

Complete Works of Archbishop Hughes, 282.

Croppy, The, 859.

Darras' History of the Church, 143.

De Guérin, Eugénie, Journal of, 716.

Draper's Civil Policy of America, 858.

England, Froude's History of, 676.

Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 575.

Hedge's Reason in Religion, 430.

Holmes, Oliver W., Humorous Poems, 576.

Lives of the Popes, 288.

Mother Juliana's Sixteen Revelations, 281.

Metropolites, The, 287.

Memoir and Sermons of Rev. F. A. Baker, 566.

Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, 568.

Merry Christmas, A Cantata, 719.

Monthly, The, 719.

Mozart, Letters of, 856.

Newman's, Rev. Dr., History of Religious Opinions, 139.

Nicholas of the Flue, 718.

Remy St. Remy, 287.

Reason in Religion, 430.

Sixteen Revelations of Mother Juliana, 281.

Sherman's Great March, Story of, 283.

Saint John of the Cross, Works of, 432.

Spelling Book, The Practical Dictation, 576.

Spare Hours, 718.

St. Teresa, Life of, 855.

Thoreau's Cape Cod, 283.

The Old House by the Boyne, 26.

The Christian Examiner, 573, 717.

United States Cavalry, History of, 858.

Vade Mecum, The Catholic's, 859.

------

{1}

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. II., NO. 7.--OCTOBER, 1865.

------

Translated from the German.

MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.

A SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC CONGRESSES

HELD AT MALINES AND WÜRZBURG

BY ANDREW NIEDERMASSER.

CHAPTER I.

The Catholic Congresses in Belgium are of more recent date than the

general conventions of all Catholic societies in Germany. The

political commotions of 1848 burst the chains which had fettered the

German Church, and ushered in a period of renewed religious life and

activity. This new and glorious era was inaugurated by the council of

twenty-six German bishops at Würzburg, which lasted from Oct 22 to

Nov. 16, 1848. There it was that our prelates boldly seized the

serpent of German revolution, and in their hands the serpent was

turned into a budding rod, the stay alike of Church and state.

Since then sixteen years have rolled by; sixteen general conventions

have been held, each of which gained for its participants the respect

of the public. Powerful was the influence exerted by these meetings on

the religious life of the laity, as is shown both by the numerous and

active associations that arose everywhere, and by the general spirit

of enterprise which they fostered. By their means, the spirit and

principles of the Church were made known to the Catholic laity, whose

actions they were not slow to influence.

To these meetings may be traced, directly or indirectly, whatever good

was accomplished within the past sixteen years in Catholic Germany;

every part of Germany has felt their beneficial effects; they were

well suited to perform the task allotted them; and have thus far at

least attained the end for which they were called into existence.

These meetings were associations of laymen; of laymen penetrated with

the spirit of faith, devoted to the Church, and fully convinced that

in matters relating to the government of the Church, to the

realization of the liberty and independence due to the Church, their

only duty was to listen to the voice of their pastors, and to follow

devotedly the lead of a {2} hierarchy they respected and revered.

Though for the most part but one third of the members of the annual

conventions were laymen, the lay character of the conventions is still

theoretically asserted, and appears to some extent at least in

practice, inasmuch as the president of the convention is always a

layman, and the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen. The

preference is also given to lay orators. The society of laymen

submitted the constitution drafted and adopted at its first meeting,

held at Mayence in 1848, not only to the Holy Father, but to all the

bishops of Germany, who joyfully approved its sentiment, and expressed

their interest in the welfare of the society. The same course is

pursued to the present day; each of the sixteen general conventions

maintained the most intimate relations with the German bishops and the

Holy See.

In honor of the present pontiff, Pius IX., these associations at first

adopted the name of _Piusvereine,_ thus paying a just tribute of

respect to the Holy Father. For Pius IX., during his long pontificate

of almost twenty years, has become the leading spirit of the age; _we

live in the age of Pius IX._ It was he who brought into vogue modern

ideas, and he was the first to do justice to the wants of the age. As

the historian now speaks of the age of Gregory VII. and Innocent III.,

so will the future historian write of the age of Pius IX. The true

sons of the nineteenth century are gathered to fight under the banners

of the many Catholic associations which, founded for the purpose of

putting to flight the threatening assaults of infidelity, have spread

during the pontificate of Pius IX. over every portion of the globe. In

Switzerland the original name of these societies is retained; in

Germany, owing to their branching out into numerous similar

associations, it has disappeared, and we now speak of a "general

convention of the Catholic associations in Germany."

The first general convention took place toward the beginning of

October, 1848, in the ancient electoral palace at Mayence. Hundreds of

noble spirits from every quarter of Germany met here, as if by magic;

the Spirit of God had convened them. Meeting for the first time, they

felt at once that they were friends and brothers. There was no

discord, no embarrassment, for on all hearts rested a deep

consciousness of the unity, the power, and the charity of their common

faith. Whoever was present at this first gathering of the Catholics of

Germany, owned to himself that by no scene which he had previously

witnessed had he been so profoundly impressed. Opposite the stand from

which the speakers were to address the meeting sat Bishop Kaiser, of

Mayence, whilst most prominent among the orators of the occasion

appeared his destined successor, Baron Emmanuel von Ketteler, who was

at that time pastor of the poor and insignificant parish of Hopsten.

Writing of him, Beda Weber said: "His determined character is a fresh

and living type of the German nation, of its universality, its

history, and its Catholic spirit. In his heart he bears the great and

brave German race with all its countless virtues, and hence springs

the peculiar boldness of his words, asserting that the revolution is

but a means to rear the edifice of the German Church, an edifice

destined to be far statelier than the cathedral of Cologne. His form

was tall and powerful, his features marked, expressing at once his

fearlessness, his energy, and his Westphalian devotion to God and the

Church, to the emperor and the nation. The words of Baron von Ketteler

acted irresistibly on all present, for they were but the echo of their

own sentiments." Such was the impression then produced by the man who

is now looked upon by the Catholics of Germany as their

standard-bearer.

The voice of Beda Weber too was heard on that occasion. Frankfort had

not as yet become the scene of his {3} labors as pastor, for he was

still professor at Meran. He was a member of the German parliament,

then holding its sessions at Frankfort, and like many other Catholic

fellow members had come to Mayence for the purpose of assisting at the

first general reunion of the Catholic societies. His eloquence

likewise called forth immense enthusiasm. Strong and energetic,

sometimes pointed and unsparing, a vigorous son of the mountains,

manly, noble, and respected, he came forth at a most opportune moment

from the solitude of his mountains and his cell, in order to take part

in the struggles of his age and become their historian. A master at

painting characters, he has written unrivalled sketches of the German

parliament and clergy. Equally successful as an orator, a poet, a

historian, and a contributor to periodical literature, Beda Weber was

distinguished no less by a childlike heart and a nice appreciation of

the beautiful in nature and art, than by manly force and an untiring

zeal for what is true and good. His deep and extensive learning has

proved a useful weapon at all times. His writings were read throughout

Germany, and to the rising generation Beda Weber has been an efficient

instructor and director.

_Döllinger_ of Munich was also present; he spoke for the twenty-three

members of the German parliament, maintaining that the concessions

granted to Catholics by that body would necessarily lead to the entire

independence of the Church and the liberty of education. At a meeting

of the Rhenish-Westphalian societies, held at Cologne in May, 1849,

the learned provost delivered another speech, which was at that time

considered one of the best, most timely, and most telling efforts of

German eloquence. Döllinger's speech at the third general convention,

which took place at Regensburg in October, 1849, was hailed as one of

the few consoling signs of that gloomy period. It was a masterpiece of

oratory, that brought conviction to all minds, and which will prove a

lasting monument of German eloquence. The interest Döllinger displayed

in these conventions should not be forgotten. He is entitled to our

respect and gratitude for his aid in laying the foundations of the

edifice; its completion he might well leave to others.

The other members of the parliament that spoke at Mayence were

_Osterrath_, of Dantzic; _von Bally_, a Silesian; A. Reichensperger,

of Cologne; Prof. Sepp, of Munich; and Prof. Knoodt, of Bonn. One of

the most impressive speakers was Forster of Breslau, at that time

canon of the Metropolitan church of Silesia, now prince-bishop of one

of the seven principal sees in the world. Germany looks upon him as

her best pulpit orator. Listen to the words of one who heard Forster

at Mayence: "The chords of his soul are so delicate that every breath

calls forth a sound, and as he must frequently encounter the storms of

the world, we may readily pardon the deep melancholy which tinges his

words. As he spoke, his heart was weighed down by the troubles of the

times, and grief was pictured in his countenance, for he saw no

prospect of reconciliation between the conflicting elements. He has no

faith in a speedy settlement of the relations between Church and

state, such a settlement as will allow freedom of action to the

former. To him the revolution appears to be a divine judgment,

punishing the clergy for their negligence, and chastising the laity

for their crimes. His voice possesses a rich melody, which speaks in

powerful accents to the heart. It sounds like the solemn chimes of a

bell, waking every mind to the convictions which burst forth from the

depth of his soul. He is an orator whose words seem like drops of

honey, and whose faith and devotion call forth our love and our

gratitude."

The best known of the Frankfort representatives were, Arndts, of

Munich; Aulicke, of Berlin; Flir, of {4} Landeck; Kutzen, of Breslau;

von Linde, of Darmstadt; Herman Müller, of Würtzburg; Stülz of St.

Florian; Thinnes, of Eichstädt; and Vogel, of Dillingen.

The noble Baron Henry von Andlaw also assisted at the convention in

Mayence. For sixteen years this chivalric and devoted defender of the

Church has furthered by every means in his power the success of the

Catholic conventions, and his name will often appear in these pages.

Chevalier Francis Joseph von Buss, of Freiburg, was president of the

meeting at Mayence. Buss is the founder of the Catholic associations

in Germany; to him above all others was due the success of the

convention at Mayence, and he it was who laid down the principles on

which are based the Catholic societies throughout Germany, and which

are the chief source of their efficacy. In 1848 Buss was in the flower

of his age, fresh and vigorous in body and mind. All Germany was

acquainted with his writings, his exertions, his sufferings, and his

struggles. He was no novice on the battle-field, for he had passed

through a fiery ordeal, and bore the marks of wounds inflicted both by

his own passions and by the broken lances of his enemies. Naturally an

agitator, and an enthusiast for ideas, bold, quick, and intrepid, he

united restless activity and unquenchable ardor with the most

self-sacrificing devotion. He is distinguished for extensive learning,

a powerful imagination, and for the force and flow of his language. So

constant and untiring have been his exertions for the liberty and

independence of the Church, that one who is no mean painter of men and

character has lately styled him the Bayard of the Church in the

nineteenth century. The last time I saw and heard the Chevalier von

Buss was in the convention held at Frankfort in 1862. His imposing

figure, his bold commanding eye, his fiery patriotic heart, his

glowing fancy, his powerful ringing voice, all were unchanged. His

speeches exert the magic influence which belongs to an enthusiastic,

powerful, and penetrating mind. Age has whitened his hair, wrinkles

furrow his noble features, his life is on the wane. A glance at

Catholic Germany and the growth of the Church during the past sixteen

years, will reflect a bright consoling radiance on the evening of his

life.

We must still mention one of the founders and chief stays of the

Catholic general conventions, and one who, alas, is no more. I refer

to Dr. Maurice Lieber, attorney and counsellor at Camberg in Nassau,

one of the most active members at Mayence in 1848; he was elected

president of the second general convention at Breslau in 1849. He was

present at the first seven general meetings, and at Salzburg in 1857

filled the chair a second time. At Cologne, in 1858, this honor would

again have been conferred on him had he not declined. Maurice Lieber

seems by nature to have been designed to preside at these assemblies.

Of a noble appearance, he combined dignity with gentleness, force and

decision with moderation; his remarks were always to the point. An

able and spirited writer and journalist, he contributed in a great

measure to make the public acquainted with the aim and object of the

newly founded association. He never grew weary of scattering good and

fruitful seed, and his writings as well as his speeches were

life-inspiring, strengthening, purifying productions. The name of

Maurice Lieber will ever be honored.

Beside the eminent men above mentioned, those whose exertions aided in

calling into existence the Catholic general conventions in Germany are

Lennig, vicar-general at Mayence, Prof. Riffel, Himioben, now dead,

and lastly, Heinrich and Moufang, who have been present at almost

every meeting.

So many illustrious names are connected with the foundation of the {5}

Catholic congress in Belgium that to do all justice will be extremely

difficult.

The political and religions status of Belgium is sufficiently well

known. In Belgium there are but two parties; the one espouses the

cause of God, the other supports that of Antichrist. These parties are

on the point of laying aside entirely their political character and of

opposing each other on religious grounds. War is inevitable, war to

the knife; either party must perish. "To be or not to be, that is the

question."

Outnumbering the Catholics in parliament, the followers of Antichrist

eagerly use their superiority to trample their opponents in the dust

and, if possible, annihilate them. The people is the stronghold of the

latter; for the great majority of the Belgians are Catholics, sincere,

fervent, self-sacrificing Catholics. They yield support neither to the

rationalists nor to the solidaires and affranchis. Day by day the

influence of the Catholic leaders increases; they are whetting their

swords, and gathering recruits to fight for Christ and his Church. The

congress at Malines is their rendezvous, as it were. Even the first

congress, that of 1863, exerted a magic influence; the drowsy were

aroused from their lethargy, and the faint-hearted were inspired with

confidence; they saw their strength and felt it. In that congress we

see the beginning of a new epoch in the religious history of Belgium.

The Belgium congresses are imitations of the Catholic conventions in

Germany. A number of men used their best endeavors to bring about the

congress of 1863, and for this they deserve our respect and gratitude.

We shall mention but a few of the many.

_Dumortier_ will head our list. He is one of the most powerful

speakers in Belgium, a ready debater, a valiant champion of the

Catholic cause, whose delight it is to fight for his principles.

Dumortier has the power of kindling in his hearers his own enthusiasm,

as he proved in 1863 at Aix-la-chapelle. He has all the qualities of

an agitator, and these qualities were the cause of his success in

bringing about the congress of 1863. When indignant, Dumortier

inspires awe; his brow is clouded, and like a hurricane he sweeps

everything before him. It is the anger of none but noble spirits that

increases our affection for them. Once only I saw Dumortier swell with

just indignation, and I seldom witnessed a spectacle more sublime.

_Ducpetiaux_ was the soul of the congresses at Malines. To singular

talent for organization he joins a burning zeal for the interests of

Catholicity, and to them he devotes every day and hour of his life. No

sacrifice is too great, no labor too exhausting, if it is needed to

further the Catholic cause. As general secretary, he is in

communication with the leading men of Catholic Europe. At his call

Catholics from every country flocked to Malines. Ducpetiaux was the

ruling mind of the congress, for the president had intrusted him, to a

great extent, with its management. Cautious, subtle, and quick, he is

prompt in action, though no great speaker. The most numerous assembly

would be obedient to his nod. Ducpetiaux is no stranger to Germany,

for he was among us at Aix-la-chapelle in 1862, and at Würzburg in

1864, and the whole-souled remarks made by him on the latter occasion

will long ring in our memory. He is an international character, a type

of the nineteenth century. By the interest a man takes in the

movements and ideas of his age, and by his intercourse with prominent

characters, we may easily estimate his influence. To Germany a general

secretary like Ducpetiaux would be of inestimable advantage.

Viscount _de Kuckhove_ must not be passed over in silence. A thorough

well bred gentleman, he is familiar with the nations and languages of

{6} Europe. He is a man of mind, energy, and prudence, and of a

dazzling appearance. He seems the embodiment of elegance. His speeches

sparkle with delicate touches and are distinguished for refinement.

His voice is somewhat shrill and sharp, but melodious withal. In

Belgium the viscount ranks as an orator equal to Dechamps and

Dumortier. His favorite scheme, to the promotion of which he gives his

entire energies, is the closest union among Catholics of all

countries. At times he expresses this idea so forcibly that he is

misunderstood, but in itself the scheme is praiseworthy, and has been

more or less realized in the age of Pius IX.

Baron _von Gerlache_ now demands our attention. He was president of

the congress both in 1863 and in 1864. If I were writing his

biography, how eventful a life would it be my lot to portray! Baron

Gerlache is identified with Belgian history since 1830; for more than

forty years he has been acknowledged by the Catholics in Belgium as

their head. In 1831 he had no mean share in forming the Belgian

constitution, a constitution based on political eclecticism, which at

that time satisfied all parties, and which promised even-handed

justice to all. Gerlache has ever been the loyal defender of this

constitution; Belgium has not a more devoted son. He is a historian

and a statesman. But the Church too claims his affection, the great

and holy Catholic Church. All Belgium listens to his voice, and his

words sometimes become decrees. He speaks with dignity and moderation,

with caution and prudence; he is always guided by reason, and never

loses sight of facts. His energies spent in the course of a life of

seventy-two years, he is no longer understood as well as formerly; his

voice has become too weak to address an assemblage of six thousand

persons; but there is in it something so solemn, so moving, that his

hearers seem spell-bound. His language is appropriate, and at times

approaches sublimity. Baron Gerlache is as much the idol of the

Catholics of Belgium as O'Connell was of the Irish; he is as respected

as Joseph von Grörres was in Germany; he is the Godfrey de Bouillon of

the great Belgian crusade of the nineteenth century. Great men seldom

appear alone; around them are grouped many minor characters, well

worthy of a niche in the temple of fame. The most prominent of those

who have fought side by side with Baron von Gerlache are the Count de

Theux, a veteran in political warfare, generous, able, and experienced

in the art of governing; the Baron della Faille, a man distinguished

for the dignity of his demeanor and the nobility of his character; his

manners are captivating, and his features bear the impress of

calmness, moderation, and judgment; the Viscount Bethune of Ghent, a

venerable old man, whose countenance beams with piety, and who in the

course of a long career has gathered a store of wisdom and experience;

General Capiaumont, a man immovable as a rock, and full of chivalrous

sentiments. These venerable men were seated on each side of the

President von Gerlache. But the other members are no less worthy of

notice. To hear and see such men produces a profound impression.

_Dechamps_, the mighty Dechamps, the lion of Flanders and Brabant,

must not be forgotten. He stands at the head of the Belgian statesmen,

brave as Achilles, the terror of the so-called liberals. Dechamps was

one of the pearls of the last congress; his mere appearance had a

magic effect; the few words he addressed to the assembly before its

organization called forth a storm of applause; he electrifies his

hearers by his bold and sparkling ideas.

We must next call attention to Joseph _de Hemptinne_. The owner of

immense factories, he employs thousands of laborers, and freely

devotes his fortune to the cause of the Church. _He_ also contributed

to the success of {7} the congress of Malines. His employés owe him a

debt of gratitude. Like a father, he cares for their corporal and

spiritual welfare, accompanies them when going to assist at mass, and

with them he says the beads and receives the sacrament. De Hemptinne

is entirely devoted to his country and his faith; his countenance is a

mirror that reflects a pure and guileless soul, deeply imbued with

religious feeling. It has seldom been my good fortune to meet as

amiable a man as Joseph de Hemptinne.

_Perin_ next demands our notice. He fills a professorship at Louvain,

and is well known to the public by his writings. In the congress be

was noted as an adroit business man. Possessing a refined mind, stored

with manifold attainments, he exerts a peculiar, I might almost say

magic, influence on those with whom he deals. His fine piercing eye

beams with knowledge, not mere book learning, but the knowledge of

men, whilst his noble forehead is stamped with the seal of uncommon

intellectual power. In his language as well as in his actions Perin is

extremely graceful; he might not inaptly be styled the _doctor

elegantissimus_. Count _Villermont_ of Brussels is well known in

Germany, and respected for his historical researches. At Malines he

displayed extraordinarily activity. True, he seems to be no favorite

of the graces--the warrior appears in all his actions. On seeing him,

I imagined I beheld the colonel of one of Tilly's Walloon regiments.

This circumstance must surprise us all the more, as the count is not

only a diligent student of history and a generous supporter of the

Catholic press in Belgium, but also a man who takes a lively interest

in every charitable undertaking and in the social amelioration of his

country. Would to God that Germany had many Counts Villermont!

Monsignor de _Ram_ the rector magnificus of the university of Louvain,

was the representative of Belgian science at Malines. Ever since its

establishment, he has been at the head of that institution, which he

has governed with a firm and steady hand. He is the pride of Belgium,

eminent, perhaps the most eminent, among all her sons. His authority

is most ample, and to it we must probably trace the majestic calmness

that distinguishes his whole being, for to me de Ram appears to be the

personification of dignity. At the proper moment, however, he knows

how to display the volubility and affable manners of the Roman

prelate.

Many illustrious Belgian names might still be mentioned, but we will

speak of them in a more appropriate place.

The Belgian congresses differ in some respects from the Catholic

conventions in Germany, for the latter are by no means so well

attended as the former. At the German meetings, the number of members

never exceeded fifteen hundred; only six hundred representatives were

present at the convention of Frankfort in 1863, whilst that of Breslau

in 1849 mustered scarcely two hundred members. In 1863 four thousand,

and in 1864 no less than five thousand, were present at the Malines

congress. The sight of this army, full of fervor and of zeal to do

battle for the faith, involuntarily reminds us of the warriors who

were marshalled under the banners of Godfrey for the purpose of

achieving the conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Or it recalls

to our mind the great council of Clermont (Nov., 1095), at which the

entire assembly, hurried away by the eloquent appeals of Urban II.,

shouted with one accord "_Deus lo volt_," "God wills it," and swore to

deliver Jerusalem from the tyranny of the Moslems. The members of the

Catholic congresses are the crusaders of the nineteenth century, for

in their own way they too battle for Christendom against its enemies,

falsehood and malice.

Belgium is a small kingdom, Malines the central point where all its

railroads converge; it is a Catholic {8} country, boasting of a

numerous clergy both secular and regular; it is an international

country, the Lombardy of the north. Its position has made it the

connecting link between the Romanic and Teutonic races, between the

continent and England. Thus situated, Belgium is a rendezvous equally

convenient for the German, the Frenchman, and the Briton. Moreover,

Belgium has ever been the battle ground of Germany and France: where

can be found a more suitable spot on which to decide the great

struggle for the freedom of the Church? This explains sufficiently the

numerous attendance of the Belgium congress. In addition to the

foreign element, the congress at Malines calls forth the entire

intellectual strength of Belgium, both lay and clerical No one remains

at home; all are brethren fighting for the same cause; all wish to

imbibe new vigor, to gather new courage for the struggle, for the

congress acts like the spiritual exercises of a mission.

Very different is the situation of Germany. Much larger than Belgium,

its most central point is at a considerable distance from its

extremities. Beside, the conventions do not even meet at the most

convenient point, but change their place of meeting every year.

Suppose, therefore, the convention is held in some city on the French

border, say Freiburg, or Treves, or Aix-la-chapelle, this arrangement

will render it very difficult for the delegates from the opposite

extremity of the empire to attend, the more so since it is not likely

that the German railroad companies will reduce their fares to half

price, as was done by the Belgium government roads. Lastly, our

language, difficult in itself, and especially so to the Romanic races,

who are not distinguished for extensive philological learning, will

prevent many from attending our meetings.

For these reasons, the German reunions are hardly an adequate

representation of the Church militant; comparatively few can attend,

the majority must remain at home. For the most part, our conventions

are chiefly composed of delegates from the district or diocese in

which they are held. Nevertheless, every German tribe has its

representative, and Germany, with its many tribes and states, is by no

means an inappropriate emblem of the European family of nations.

The hall of the _Petit Seminaire_ at Malines, where the Belgian

congress meets, is spacious and well fitted for its purpose; it will

seat six thousand persons. Nevertheless, only such as have admission

tickets, which cannot be obtained except at extravagant prices, can

assist at the sessions. The public in general are excluded, and but

few seats are reserved for ladies. On the other hand, the German

convention, which meets now in one city, then in another, desires and

encourages, above all things, the attendance of the inhabitants of the

city where it meets. In every city it has scattered fruit-producing

seed. At one place, the convention called into existence a society for

the promotion of Christian art; at another, an altar society, a

conference of St. Vincent de Paul, or a social club; and in many

cities it inspired new religious life and activity. In fact, if the

city for some reason cannot assist at the meetings, as was the case in

Würzburg, one of the most important ends of the convention is

defeated. The congress at Malines is too numerous to travel from place

to place; moreover, its meetings are not annual, as are those of the

German conventions.

The congress of Malines, like the German convention, claims to be a

congress of laymen. But though here, too, the principal committee is

mainly composed of laymen, the assembly has almost lost its lay

character. Among the laymen, however, who attend the Belgian congress,

there are many excellent speakers, in fact these are more numerous

than in Germany.

{9}

All the Belgian bishops were present at Malines. Whilst in Germany but

one or two bishops assist at the convention, the daily meetings of the

Malines congress were attended by the primate of Belgium, Cardinal

Sterex, and the bishops of Bruges, Namur, Ghent, Liege, and Doornik.

The bishops took part in the debates, and in 1864 the speech of

Monseigneur Dupanloup was the event of the day, whilst the congress of

1863 had been distinguished by the presence of the illustrious

archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Wiseman. Whenever the bishops

appeared, they were welcomed with bursts of enthusiasm. For a full

week might be witnessed the most friendly intercourse between the

bishops and the other members of the congress, and thus the bonds of

affectionate love already existing between the hierarchy, the clergy,

and the laity were drawn still closer.

The nobility too of Flanders and Brabant, nay of all Belgium, was well

and worthily represented. On the rolls of the Malines congress we meet

the most illustrious Belgian names, names pregnant with historic

interest. The German nobles, on the contrary, have thus far paid

little attention to what is nearest and dearest to mankind, the

interests of humanity and religion. True, the Rhenish-Westphalian

nobility appeared in considerable numbers and displayed praiseworthy

zeal at the conventions of Aix-la-chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg,

nevertheless there is still room for improvement. Thus far the

Bavarian and Franconian nobles have taken no part in furthering the

restoration of the Church in Germany, and of the same indifference the

Austrian nobility were accused by Count Frederick von Thun, of Vienna.

Still, what a blessing for the nobility if they devoted their

influence to the service of the Church! The consequence would be the

regeneration of the German nobility. May God grant that the German

nobles, like those of Belgium, will join in cordially promoting our

great and sacred cause. Leaders are not wanting, men of talent,

energy, and devotion, such as the Prince Charles of Löwenstein,

Werthheim, and Prince Charles of Isenburg-Birstein.

The professors of the university at Louvain were not only present at

Malines, but worked with their usual energy and ability in the

different sections of the congress. They presented to the world the

noble spectacle of laymen uniting learning with zeal for religion and

devotion to the Church, a spectacle seldom witnessed in Germany. Of

the two thousand professors and fellows of the twenty-two German

universities, how many are there who, untainted by pride and

self-sufficiency, call the Church their mother? It is the union of

knowledge and piety that produces genuine men, worthy of admiration,

and at Malines such men were not scarce.

At Malines the foreigners were well represented; in the German

conventions but few make their appearance. Twice did France send her

chosen warriors to the congress--the first time in 1863, led by

Montalembert, at present the most brilliant defender of the Church,

and again in 1864, under the Bishop of Orleans, called by some the

Bossuet of our day. In August, 1863, the Tuileries were anxiously

occupied with the speeches held in the Petit Seminaire at Malines, for

in France despotism has gagged free speech, and there a congress of

Catholic Europe is an impossibility; the Caesar's minions would

tolerate no such assembly.

Next to the French delegation, the German, led by A. Reichensperger,

of Cologne, was the most numerous. There might also be seen a noble

band of Englishmen, and their speaker, Father Herman the convert,

seemed another St Bernard preaching the crusade. Spain, Italy,

Ireland, Hungary, Poland, Brazil, the United States, Palestine, the

Cape of Good Hope, almost every country on the globe, were represented

at Malines. True, the assembly was by no means {10} as large as the

multitude that met in Rome on June 8, 1862, when Pius IX. saw gathered

around him in St. Peter's church three hundred prelates, thousands of

priests, and forty to fifty thousand laymen, representing every nation

of the earth. Still, the congress at Malines brings to recollection

those immense gatherings of bygone times, where princes and bishops,

nobles and priests, met to provide for the welfare of the nations

committed to their charge.

The Malines congress is in its infancy, still the general committee

has displayed rare ability. All business matters are intrusted to a

few, whilst in Germany there is a great want of order, owing partly to

the inexperience of the local committees, and partly to the scarcity

of men versed in parliamentary proceedings. At the Mayence convention

in 1848, want of preparation might be excused; the subsequent meeting

had not the same claims on our indulgence. The Frankfort reunion in

1863 attempted to remedy the evil and partly succeeded, but until an

efficient general committee be established, many irregularities must

be expected. At Malines the delegates are furnished with a programme

of the questions to be discussed in the different sections; at

Würzburg, on the contrary, the convention seemed at first scarcely to

know the purpose for which it had been convened. In Germany, the

bureau of direction is composed of three presidents and sundry

honorary members and secretaries; at Malines it consists of fifty to

sixty officers of the congress, and the list of honorary

vice-presidents is at times very formidable. In Belgium secret

sessions are unknown, whilst in Germany it often happens that the most

important proceedings are decided upon in secret session, whereas the

public meetings are mainly devoted to the delivery of brilliant

speeches. At Malines the resolutions adopted by the different sections

are passed upon in a short session, seldom attended by more than

one-fifth of all the delegates. One evil at the Belgium congress is

the imperfect knowledge of the German character and of the religious

status of Germany. As the Romanic nations will never learn our

language, it remains for us to supply the deficiency. We must go to

Malines, and expound our views in French both in the sections and

before the full congress. A. Reichensperger pursued the proper course

in the section of Christian art. With surpassing ability he defended

the principles of the Church, triumphantly he came forth from the

contest, and many were prevailed upon to adopt his views. No doubt men

like Reichensperger are not found every day, nevertheless we might

easily send one or two able representatives to every section of the

congress. If some one were to do for Germany what Cardinal Wiseman did

for England in 1863, when he set forth in clear and forcible language

the state of Catholicity in that country, he would deserve the

everlasting gratitude of the Romanic races.

Leaving these considerations aside for the present, one thing is

certain, we must profit by each other's wisdom and experience.

Whatever may be the defects of the Belgian congresses or of the German

conventions, they mark the beginning of a new era for Belgium and

Germany. For when in the spring of 1848 the storm of revolution swept

away dynasties built on diplomacy and police regulations, the

Catholics, quick to take advantage of the liberty granted them, made

use of the freedom of assembly, of speech, and of the press to defend

the interests of religion and of the Church. To Germany the liberty

thus acquired for the Church has proved a blessing. This liberty,

attained after so many years of Babylonian captivity, acted so

forcibly, that many called the day on which the first general

convention met a "second Pentecost, revealing the spirit, the force,

and the charity of Catholicism." We Catholics have learned the

language of freedom, we {11} know the power of free speech. Next to

the liberty of speech, it is their publicity that gives a charm to

these conventions. Whoever addresses these assemblies speaks before

the whole Church, and his words are re-echoed in every country. There

the prince and the mechanic, the master and the journeyman, the

refined gentleman and the child of nature, all alike have the right to

express their opinions. They afford a general insight into the social

and religions condition of our times, disclosing at once their defects

and their fair side. How inspiring it is to see men, thorough men,

with sound principles, full of vital energy, and of experience

acquired in public life, men of intellectual vigor and mental

refinement! Hence arise great and manifold activity, unity of

sentiment, and zeal for the weal of all, in short, feelings of true

brotherly love. Great events arouse deep feelings, and the glory of

one casts its radiance over many. There is something beautiful and

grand in these Catholic reunions. They tend to awaken society to a

consciousness of its nobler feelings and to spread Catholic ideas;

they give strength and unity to the exertions of all who endeavor

seriously to promote the interests of Catholicity; they are, as it

were, a mirror that reflects an exact image of the life of the Church.

Before their influence narrow-mindedness withers; we take an interest

in men and things that had never before come within the scope of our

mental vision, and on our return from the congress to the ordinary

pursuits of life, we forget fossil notions and take up new ideas. As

we feel the heat of the sun after it has set, so long after the

adjournment of each convention do we feel its influence. The eloquent

words of the champion of their faith kindle in the hearts of Catholic

youth a glowing ardor which promises a bright and glorious future. All

are impressed with the conviction that it is only by unflinching

bravery that victories are won.

"As in nature," says Hergenröther, "individuals are subordinate to

species, species to genera, and these again to a general unity of

design, thus in the Catholic Church all submit freely to the triple

unity of faith, of the sacraments, and of government. Whether they

come from the north or the south, from beyond the Channel or from

the banks of the Rhine, from the Scheldt or the Danube, from the

March or the Leitha, all Catholics of every country and every clime

are brethren, members of the same family, all speak but one

language, the lips of all pronounce the same Catholic prayer, and

all offer to their Heavenly Father the same august sacrifice. Every

Catholic convention is a symbol of this great, this universal

society. And as in nature we admire the most astonishing variety,

and the wonderful display of thousands of hues and tints, so in the

Church we behold a gathering of countless tribes and nations,

differing in their institutions, their customs, and in their

application of the arts and sciences."

Some of my readers, perhaps, are impatient of the praise here lavished

on contemporaries. Fame, it is true, has ever dazzled mortal eyes, but

I am not now dealing with the miserable characters who consider fame

as merchandise that can be bought and sold, who are always panting for

honied words, and who never lose sight of themselves. No; I am in the

presence of Catholic men, purified by Catholic doctrine and

discipline, who hold fame to be vain trumpery. Claiming to be no

infallible judge of men, my aim has been to note down what I have seen

and heard, for I have been at no special pains to study the characters

of those here mentioned.

--------

{12}

From The Month.

NAPOLEON'S MARRIAGE WITH MARIE-LOUISE.

There are many circumstances where even an excess of caution may not

be injudicious, and few things can be more important than to ascertain

the veracity of historical facts. Therefore we would fain preface this

second episode drawn from the memoirs of Cardinal Consalvi, by

pointing out the grounds on which their authenticity rests. We pass

over the editor himself, Monsieur Crétineau-Joly, to arrive at the

account he gives of the manner in which these papers fell into his

possession. Written for the most part by the cardinal during his exile

at Rheims, they were hastily penned, and carefully concealed from the

French officials that surrounded him. When dying, Cardinal Consalvi

intrusted these important documents to friends on whom he could rely.

They have since been transmitted as a sacred deposit from one

fiduciary executor to another. The last clause of his will relates to

this matter, and runs thus:

"My fiduciary heir (and those who shall succeed him in the

administration of my property) will take particular care of my

writings: on the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; on the

concordat of 1801; on the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the

Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria; on the different epochs of my

life and ministry. These five papers (of which some are far

advanced, and I shall set about the others) are not to be published

till after the death of the principal personages named therein. As

the memoirs upon the conclave, the concordat, the marriage, and my

ministry relate more especially to the Holy See and the pontifical

government, my fiduciary heir will be solicitous to present them to

the reigning pontiff; and he will beg the Holy Father to have these

writings carefully preserved in the archives of the Vatican. They

may serve the Holy See more than once; especially if the history of

events therein related comes to be written, or if there were some

false account to refute. As to the memoirs concerning the different

epochs of my life, the extinction of my family leaving no one whom

they may interest, these writings can remain in the hands of my

fiduciary heir and his successors in the administration of my

property (or they might go with the others to the archives of the

Vatican if they are thought worth preserving). My only desire is,

that if hereafter, as will probably be the case, the lives of the

cardinals are continued, these pages written by me may then be made

known. For I wish that nothing contrary to truth should be published

concerning me; being desirous to preserve a good reputation, as is

recommended by holy Scripture. With regard to the truth of the facts

contained in my writings, it suffices me to say: _'Deus scit quia

non mentior.'_

"(Signed) E. Card. Consalvi."

"_Rome, 1st August_, 1822."

In 1858 it was deemed that the time for publication had come. Monsieur

Crétineau-Joly was then staying at Rome; and the papers were confided

to him for that purpose by "those eminent personages who, through

gratitude or respect, had accepted the deposit of Consalvi's

manuscripts." Accordingly, a part did come out the following year, and

the remainder is now before the public. The part which appeared first,

embodied in "_L'Eglise Romaine en face de la Révolution,_" won for M.

Crétineau-Joly in 1861 a flattering brief from Pope Pius IX., which

heads the third edition of the work.

{13}

Nine years had rolled on since the concordat. Ten months after the

Pope's presence had given solemnity to his coronation, Napoleon caused

the French troops to occupy Ancona; Pius VII., having refused to

become virtually a French prefect, was deprived of his temporal

sovereignty, and then at last dragged from his capital to be

transferred a prisoner to Florence, Grenoble, and finally Savona.

Excommunication had been pronounced against those who perpetrated

these deeds of violence. Meanwhile, Napoleon, at the summit of earthly

grandeur, longed for an heir to whom he might transmit his vast

dominions. The repudiation of Josephine offered some difficulty to his

heart, we believe; but his strong will soon triumphed over that and

every other obstacle. Proud Austria stooped to court his preference.

Napoleon, disappointed in his wish for a Russian alliance, but in too

much haste to wait negotiations, let his choice fall with equal

pleasure on a daughter of the house of Hapsburg; Marie-Louise, just

then eighteen, came a willing bride to share the splendors of the

imperial throne. To prepare for her reception, a state comedy had been

enacted at the Tuileries, when Napoleon, holding his good and

well-beloved Josephine by the hand, read from a written paper his

heroic determination to renounce her for the public weal. Poor

Josephine could not get on so well; sobs choked her utterance when she

essayed to read her paper in turn. Convulsive fainting-fits had

followed when Napoleon first broached in private the resolve he had

taken, and called upon her to aid it by consenting to become, instead

of his wife, his best and dearest friend. But all that was over now.

One only difficulty had arisen, which even the imperious will of

Napoleon failed wholly to break. It was the same that had ever

thwarted him. He could destroy all temporal barriers to his ambition;

but the spiritual element would rise up and protest. How cut asunder

the religious tie that linked him to Josephine? For the Church's

blessing had been given to their union ere the Pope would consent to

perform the ceremony of the coronation. Full well Napoleon knew that

he could with an iron hand put down clamor for the present; but would

that dispel the feeling in men's consciences? would that suffice to

establish the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne?

M. Thiers gives a curious account of the whole transaction. Cardinal

Fesch, usually so pliant to all his nephew's wishes, appears to have

been the first to start the difficulty; M. Cambaérès, the chancellor,

transmitted his observations to Napoleon. The latter was highly

indignant, declaring that a ceremony which had taken place privately,

in the chapel of the Tuileries, without any witnesses, and with the

sole view of quieting Josephine's scruples and those of the Pope,

could not be binding. Finally, however, it was agreed to look at the

marriage religiously as well as civilly, and to dissolve both ties.

For both, annulment was preferred to the ordinary form of divorce, as

more honorable for Josephine; and a defect in procedure or a great

state reason were to constitute the grounds of dissolution. It was

resolved that no reference should be made to the Pope in any way, as

his feelings toward Napoleon under present circumstances could not be

friendly. The civil marriage had been easily dissolved by mutual

consent of the parties and for public reasons, as seen above, when

Napoleon and Josephine read their respective papers before the

assembled council. With the views just stated, a committee of seven

bishops was formed to pronounce on the religious tie. They declared

the marriage irregular; as having taken place without witnesses, and

without sufficient consent of the parties concerned. With regard to

the absence of witnesses, M. Thiers puts in a note: "It was through a

false indication given {14} by a contemporary manuscript that I before

mentioned MM. de Talleyrand and Berthier as having been present at the

religious marriage privately celebrated at the Tuileries on the eve of

Napoleon's coronation. The author of this manuscript held the facts

from the lips of the Empress Josephine, and had been led into error.

Official documents which I have since procured enable me to rectify

this assertion."

What more likely than that Josephine told the simple truth, and that

official papers were made to meet future contingencies? If it had not

been intended to annul the marriage by any means, why was the

certificate of it wrested from Josephine?

Agreeably to the decision of the bishops, it was resolved to pursue

the annulment of the marriage as defective in form before the diocesan

officialty in the first instance, and afterward before the

metropolitan authority. Canonical proceedings were quietly instituted,

and witnesses summoned. These witnesses were Cardinal Fesch, MM. de

Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc. The first was to testify as to the

forms observed; and the three others as to the nature of the consent

given by both parties concerned. Cardinal Fesch declared he had

received dispensations from the Pope authorizing the omission of

certain forms, and thus justified the absence of witnesses and of the

parish curé. MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc affirmed having

heard from Napoleon several times that he only intended to allow a

mere ceremony for the purpose of reassuring the Pope's conscience and

that of Josephine; but that his formal determination had ever been not

to complete his union with the empress, being unhappily convinced that

he must one day renounce her for the good of his empire.

A strange conscience is here manifested by Napoleon. Josephine does

not appear to have been summoned to tell her tale.

After this inquiry, the ecclesiastical authority recognized that there

had not been sufficient consent; but out of respect to the parties

this ground of nullity was not specially insisted on. The causes

assigned for dissolving the marriage rested on the absence of all

witnesses, and of the parish curé. The general dispensations granted

to Cardinal Fesch were not considered to have superseded these

necessities. M. Thiers says on this point, "En conséquence, le mariage

fut cassé devant les deux jurisdictions diocésaine et métropolitaine,

c'est à dire, en première et en seconde instances, avec le décence

convenable, et la _pleine observance du droit canonique!_ Napoleon

était donc` libre."

M. Thiers makes no reference to the Pope, who surely must be supposed

to have known whether the ceremony performed for the sole purpose of

allaying his and Josephine's scruples were perfectly valid by canon

law. It is not possible to admit that he could have insisted on the

same, and being present on the spot could yet have failed to ascertain

beyond doubt the religious legality of the marriage; more especially

as he could have at once removed the obstacle by a dispensation.

This topic must have been mentioned between the Pope and Cardinal

Consalvi; it is evident from the conduct of the latter that he and

many other cardinals considered the marriage with Josephine as binding

in a religious point of view. The character of Consalvi precludes the

possibility of supposing any petty motives for his opposition;

conscience alone could have dictated it. Evidently he yielded as far

as he could; and what he withheld from duty was with manifest peril to

himself, and, humanly speaking, even to the Church, whose interests

were so dear to him. As to the number of cardinals holding opposite

views, or at least acting as if they did, the weakness of human

nature, alas, and the selfishness of human interests, too well explain

that {15} circumstance. Grave historians and writers of genius do not

always take sufficient account of _conscience_ in their estimate of

men and things, and thence flow many errors. Those who are politicians

also, from their wide knowledge of human vices, fall still more

readily into this mistake. Thus Napoleon probably never believed the

Pope to be in earnest, of at least his mind could not hold such an

idea long together. To himself state policy was all, or nearly all.

His negotiations with the Holy See, his appreciations of Consalvi, all

bear the stamp of that starting-point; to him it was a trial of

strength in will, or of skill in diplomacy: he ignored conscience. In

the same way, a mind eminently lucid as that of M. Thiers judges facts

in a very different manner than he would do if he could see that with

some minds conscience is the spring of action. If this were not the

case, he could not, while speaking of the Pope with due respect, pass

over his motives so slightly; nor would he construe as he does

Consalvi's conduct with regard to the marriage and that of the other

_black cardinals_. The opinions of such men deserved to raise a doubt

in the mind of the historian, and to lead to investigation that might

have had other results. We purposely lay stress on this matter because

M. Thiers is popular with a large class of readers, who justly admire

his talent, but who erroneously consider him a fair exponent on

ecclesiastical affairs. He does respect religion; but evidently fails

to apprehend the idea of men constantly swayed by duty and conscience;

whose judgments may err, as all things human do, but whose

supernatural principle of action ever lives.

Toward the close of January, 1810, the conclusion of a matrimonial

alliance to take place between Napoleon and the Archduchess

Marie-Louise was made public in Paris. The ceremony was to be

performed by proxy at Vienna in the early part of March; the Archduke

Charles being chosen to represent Napoleon on this occasion, and

Berthier was the ambassador extraordinary named to ask formally the

hand of the princess. The subsequent fêtes at Paris were to vie in

splendor with those given at Vienna. Napoleon wished to surround

himself with all the members of the Sacred College; a large number had

already been summoned to Paris soon after the Pope's captivity; they

had been ordered to partake in the festivities of the capital, and we

regret to say that they complied. Rome, it must not be forgotten, was

now called a French provincial town; Napoleon was progressing on to

become the emperor of the West, with the Pope, the spiritual father of

Christendom, as his satellite. The other cardinals in Rome were called

to Paris. Some found pretexts for delaying obedience; Cardinals

Consalvi and di Pietro replied that they could not think of leaving

without the Pope's permission, but would immediately refer to him, at

the same time declining the pension offered in Paris. After the lapse

of a few days an express order enjoined them to quit Rome within

twenty-four hours. They alleged that no answer had yet arrived from

the Pope. But at the expiration of the period fixed, French soldiers

visited their houses to carry them off by force. Yielding to violence

they departed, and reached Paris together on the 20th January, 1810.

Twenty-nine cardinals, including Fesch, were then assembled in the

French capital. How they should act with regard to the new marriage

became soon a subject of grave consultation for them. Consalvi and di

Pietro had not long arrived when it was publicly announced. Napoleon

seemed disposed to treat them with courtesy. Consalvi had his audience

six days after his arrival. Five other cardinals, new comers also,

were presented at the same time. They were ranged together on one

side, while the other cardinals remained opposite. Further on were the

nobles, ministers, kings. {16} queens, princes, and princesses. When

the emperor appeared, Cardinal Fesch stepped forward and began

presenting the five. "Cardinal Pignatelli," said he. "Neapolitan,"

replied the emperor, and passed on. "Cardinal di Pietro," continued

Fesch. The emperor stopped a moment, and said, "You have grown fat; I

remember having seen you here with the Pope at my coronation."

"Cardinal Saluzzo," said Fesch, presenting the third. "Neapolitan,"

replied the emperor, and walked on. "Cardinal Desping," said Fesch, as

the fourth saluted. "Spanish," replied the emperor. "From Majorca,"

cried Desping, in alarm. But Napoleon had already reached Consalvi,

and ere Cardinal Fesch could say the name, he exclaimed, in the

kindest tone, and standing still, "Oh, Cardinal Consalvi; how thin you

have become! I should hardly have recognized you." "Sire," replied

Consalvi, "years accumulate. Ten have passed since I had the honor of

saluting your majesty." "That is true," resumed Napoleon; "it is now

almost ten years since you came for the concordat. We made that treaty

in this very hall; but what purpose has it served? All has vanished in

smoke. Rome would lose all. It must be owned, I was wrong to displace

you from the ministry. If you had continued in that post, things would

not have been carried so far."

Listening only to the fear of having his actions misconstrued by the

public, Consalvi instantly replied with energy, "Sire, if I had

remained in that post, I should have done my duty." Napoleon looked at

him fixedly, made no answer, and then going backward and forward

through the half-circle formed by the cardinals, began a long

monologue, enumerating a number of grievances against the Pope and

against Rome for not having adhered to his will by refusing to adopt

the system offered. At length, being near Consalvi, he stopped, and

said a second time, "No, if you had remained at your post, things

would not have gone so far." Again Consalvi replied, "Your majesty may

believe that I should have done my duty." Napoleon gave the cardinal

another fixed glance, and then without reply recommenced his walks,

continuing his former discourse. At last he stopped near Cardinal di

Pietro, and said for the third time, "If Cardinal Consalvi had

remained secretary of state, things would not have gone so far."

Consalvi was at the other end of the little group of five, and need

not have answered; but earnest to exonerate himself from all

suspicion, he advanced toward Napoleon, and seizing his arm,

exclaimed, "Sire, I have already assured your majesty that had I

remained in that post, I should certainly have done my duty." The

emperor no longer containing himself, and with eyes steadily bent on

Consalvi, burst forth into these words, "Oh! I repeat it, your duty

would not have allowed you to sacrifice spiritual to temporal things."

After this he turned his back on Consalvi, and going over to the

cardinals opposite, asked if they had heard his words. Then returning

to the five, he observed that the College of Cardinals was now nearly

complete in Paris, and that they would do well to see among themselves

if there was anything to propose or regulate concerning Church

affairs. "Let Cardinal Consalvi be of the committee," added Napoleon;

"for if, as I suppose, he is ignorant of theology, he knows well the

science of politics."

At a second and third audience, Napoleon showed similar kindness to

Consalvi, always asking after his health, and remarking that he was

getting fatter now. The cardinal only answered by deep salutations.

Principally through Consalvi's influence, the cardinals, in a

collective letter addressed to the emperor, declined acting in any way

while separated from their head, the Pope. Napoleon had angrily torn

their letter to pieces; but even this opposition to his will had not

changed his courtesy {17} toward Consalvi, as seen above. He was bent

on creating a schism between them and the Pope. Fesch, his ready

instrument, proposed several steps as beneficial to religion, but the

majority of cardinals refused to do anything. Unlike many of his

colleagues, Consalvi held aloof from all society. Beside the

prohibition of the Pope, who at Rome had forbidden the members of the

Sacred College to assist at festivities while the Church was in

mourning, he considered it unworthy conduct for them to take part in

amusements while their head remained in captivity, or to seem to court

one who had brought such calamities on the Holy See.

While invited to discuss ecclesiastical matters in committee for

presentation to the emperor, the cardinals were not by any means

requested to give an opinion on the new marriage. But it became very

necessary that they should have one as the time approached for the

arrival of Marie-Louise, and for the celebration of the marriage

ceremonies in Paris.

She reached Compiègne on the 27th of March. Napoleon, to spare her the

embarrassment of a public meeting, had surprised her on the road, and

they entered the little town together. A few days after they proceeded

to St. Cloud. Four ceremonies were to take place. First there was to

be a grand presentation on the 31st of March, at St. Cloud, of all the

bodies in the state, the nobles and other dignitaries. The next

morning the civil marriage was to be celebrated also at St Cloud. The

2d of April was fixed for the grand entrance of the sovereigns into

Paris, and for the solemnity of the religious marriage in the chapel

of the Tuileries; the following morning another presentation of the

state bodies and the court was to take place before the emperor and

the new empress seated on their thrones.

Twenty-seven cardinals had taken counsel together; for Fesch, as

grand-almoner to the emperor, was out of the question, and Caprara was

dying. They had decided, after deliberate research, that matrimonial

cases between sovereigns belong exclusively to the cognizance of the

Holy See, which either itself pronounces sentence at Rome, or else

through the medium of the legates names local judges for instituting

the affair.

According to Consalvi's account, the diocesan officialty of Paris on

this occasion refused at first to intervene, on the ground of

incompetency; but the emperor caused competency to be declared by a

committee of bishops assembled at Paris, and presided over by Cardinal

Fesch. The words, however, "_declared competent,_" were not eventually

inserted in the documents drawn up of the meeting; it was pretended

instead that access could not be had to the Pope. But this pretended

impossibility could of course arise only from the will of Napoleon.

Consalvi assures us that the preamble used by the committee in the

first instance ran thus:

"The officialty, being declared competent, and without derogating from

the right of the sovereign pontiff, to whom access is for the moment

forbidden, proclaims null and void the marriage contracted with the

Empress Josephine, the reasons for such decision being stated in the

sentence." But when it was remarked how prejudicial this avowal would

be, the government made it disappear from among the acts of the

ecclesiastical curia. For it had been previously arranged that all

papers relative to this affair should be submitted to government.

According to general report in Paris, some of the papers were burnt,

and others changed. A person belonging to the officialty succeeded,

however, in secretly saving a part, and especially the beginning of

the sentence, which was as given above.

Consalvi does not so much as name the validity or invalidity of the

marriage; the point to establish for him was that the right of

cognizance {18} belonged solely to the Holy See. The incident he

mentions of the papers destroyed has no other importance than as

showing how conscience at first pronounced and how a strong hand

silenced its expression.

Thirteen cardinals resolved to brave any consequences rather than

consent to a dereliction of duty; for their oath, when raised to the

purple, binds them to maintain at all hazards the rights of the

Church. The names of these thirteen were: Cardinals Mattei,

Pignatelli, della Somaglia, di Pietro, Litta, Saluzzo, Ruffo Scilla,

Brancadoro, Galeffi, Scotti, Gabrielli, Opizzoni, and Consalvi. The

other fourteen held different shades of opinion, and only agreed in

deciding not to oppose the emperor.

The sole means by which the thirteen could protest, under the

circumstances, was not to sanction the new marriage by appearing at

the ceremonies. This resolve was accordingly taken, and the fourteen

were apprised. Mattei, the oldest cardinal among the thirteen, called

upon most of the fourteen to acquaint them with the resolution; other

members of the thirteen likewise spoke of it to their colleagues; but

no result was produced on the minds of the fourteen. To the shame of

the latter it must be said that they afterward untruly declared

themselves ignorant of the line of conduct which the thirteen had

intended to adopt. Consalvi positively asserts that such was not the

case. The thirteen spoke with the caution commanded by prudence on so

delicate a matter, not seeking ostensibly to prevent the others from

following their own opinions, and anxious to avoid giving any pretext

for the accusation of exciting a feeling against the government. But

this reserve did not prevent them from clearly expressing their

intention to uphold the rights of the Pope and of the Holy See by

abstaining from all participation in the marriage ceremonies.

Though called upon by duty to act in the way mentioned, the thirteen

cardinals naturally wished to avoid, as much as possible, wounding

Napoleon. With this view Mattei was deputed to seek an interview with

Fesch, for the purpose of informing him what course they felt obliged

to pursue. At the same time Mattei gave him to understand that all

publicity might be avoided, or any bad effect on the public obviated,

by addressing partial, instead of general, invitations to the

cardinals. This was to be done with regard to the senate and the

legislative body, and, indeed, the smallness of the enceinte offered a

plausible pretext; for it was impossible that all entitled to appear

on the occasion could be present. Cardinal Fesch evinced great

surprise and anger, endeavoring to reason Mattei out of this view; but

finding it was of no use, he promised to speak to the emperor, who was

then at Compiègne.

According to Fesch's account, Napoleon flew into a violent passion on

learning the decision come to by the thirteen; but he declared that

they would never dare to carry out their plot, and utterly rejected

the idea of not inviting all the members of the Sacred College.

At the proper time a special invitation reached each cardinal. There

was no possibility of escape. To feign illness or invent a pretext

they rightly deemed would be unworthy.

Nevertheless, anxious as they were to avoid offence, when they came to

consider more closely the nature of the different ceremonies, it was

considered by some that they might, without failing in duty, assist at

the two presentations that were to take place before and after the

marriages. Consalvi was among those opposed to this view on grounds of

honor at least; but, not to provoke any further schism in their ranks,

the minority yielded, and this mode of proceeding was decided on. Both

marriages were to be eschewed; but they would assist at both

presentations. The cardinals hoped thus to prove that they did all

{19} they possibly could to please Napoleon consistently with their

sense of duty. It was also considered highly desirable to shield the

fourteen from remark as much as could be, for it was a grievous matter

to right-minded men to see the honor and dignity of the Sacred College

thus abased.

Accordingly, on the evening fixed, all the cardinals went to St Cloud.

Together with the other dignitaries, they were in the grand gallery

waiting the arrival of Napoleon and his new empress, when Fouché, the

minister of police, came up. Consalvi had been very intimate with him,

but having paid scarcely any visits since his return to Paris, from

the motives stated above, they had not hitherto met. Fouché drew him

aside, and asked with much cordiality and interest if it were true

that several cardinals refused to be present at the emperor's

marriage.

Consalvi was silent at first, not wishing to name any one in

particular. But when Fouché insisted, saying that, as minister of

police, he knew of course all about it, and only asked through

politeness, Consalvi replied that he belonged to the number.

"Oh, what do you say?" exclaimed Fouché. "The emperor was speaking of

it this morning, and in his anger named you; but I affirmed that it

was not likely you should be of the set."

Fouché then pointed out the dangerous consequences of such a

proceeding, saying that the non-intervention of the cardinals would

seem to blame the state, the emperor, and even to attack the

legitimacy of the future succession of the throne. He tried to

persuade Consalvi to be present himself at leasts or if the whole

thirteen would not come to the civil marriage, to attend, however, the

religious ceremony. Consalvi could not of course consent; but he told

the efforts they had made to avoid invitations for all, and promised,

at Fouché's request, to repeat this conversation to the twelve.

Their discourse was interrupted by the appearance of the emperor and

empress. Napoleon came in holding Marie-Louise by the hand, and he

pointed out each person to her by name as he drew near. On approaching

the members of the Sacred College, he exclaimed, "Ah, the cardinals!"

and presented them, one after the other, with great courtesy, naming

each, and mentioning some qualification. Thus Consalvi was designated

as he who arranged the concordat.

It was said afterward that Napoleon's kindliness had been intended to

win them over.

They all bowed in return, without speaking. When this ceremony was

over, the thirteen returned to Paris and met at the house of Cardinal

Mattei. Consalvi then related his conversation with Fouché; they saw

clearly what there might be to apprehend, but none wavered in the

resolution taken.

The following day, the civil marriage was celebrated at St Cloud. The

thirteen cardinals abstained from appearing. Of the fourteen, eleven

were present: one was ill, and two, seized with tardy misgiving, said

they were.

Monday, the 2d of April, had been fixed for the triumphal entrance of

the sovereigns into Paris, and for the religious marriage in the

chapel of the Tuileries. A successful representation of the arch of

triumph was made; afterward reproduced in the one at the top of the

Champs Elysées. Napoleon passed under it, with Marie-Louise at his

side, in a carriage that afforded a fair view of both to the

spectators. Arrived at the gate of the Tuileries, on the Place de la

Concorde, they alighted, and he led her through the gardens till they

arrived at the chapel of the palace, prepared for the nuptial

ceremony.

It was crowded densely, and many more persons longed to enter, but

there were thirteen vacant seats!

It had been hoped that Fouché's words would produce some effect, and

{20} that the thirteen cardinals might, at least, be induced to attend

the religions marriage. Their seats had been left up to the last

moment; but as Napoleon drew near, they were hastily removed. His eye,

however, fell immediately on the group of cardinals, always

conspicuous from their red costume, and as he marked the smallness of

their number, anger flashed from his countenance.

Indeed, only twelve cardinals, including Fesch, were present One was

really too ill to go, and two others, as before, pretended sickness.

But, as they wrote to this effect, they were considered as absent from

accident. And they encouraged this version.

During both these days and nights, the thirteen remained at home,

carefully abstaining, as became their position, from all semblance of

participation in any rejoicings.

On the morrow was to take place the final ceremony of presentation to

both sovereigns seated on their thrones. All the cardinals went, and,

according to injunction, in full costume. Two hours passed waiting for

the doors of the throne-room to be opened.

Then the stream began to move toward the spot in the middle of the

grand gallery that connects the Tuileries with the Louvre, where

Napoleon and Marie-Louise were seated on their respective thrones,

surrounded by the members of the imperial family and officers of

state.

The crowd entered slowly, one by one, according to the rule of

precedence prescribed, and each individual, stopping before the

throne, made a profound obeisance, passing out afterward by the door

of the saloon beyond.

In conformity with French etiquette at that time, the senators were

first introduced; and Fesch had the littleness to go in with them,

rather than with the Sacred College. After these followed the

councillors of state and the legislative body, and then came the turn

of the cardinals. But at this moment, Napoleon, with imperious

gesture, beckoned an officer toward him, and gave a hasty order to

have all the cardinals who had not been present at the marriage

immediately expelled from the ante-chamber, as he should not

condescend to receive them. The messenger was precipitately quitting

the hall, when Napoleon, with rapid change of thought, called him

back, and ordered that only Cardinals Opizzoni and Consalvi should be

turned out But the officer, confused, did not clearly seize this

second order, and imagining that the two cardinals named were to be

more particularly designated, acted accordingly.

The scene that followed may be conceived. It rises up vividly. The

order for expulsion was as publicly intimated as it had been publicly

given; and scores of eager eyes turned on the thirteen culprits so

ignominiously dismissed. The report of what was coming got whispered

from hall to hall, and flew on to the numerous groups that thronged

even the vestibule and staircase; if the buzz ceased as the cardinals

drew near, it followed swiftly on their receding steps, while they

traversed each apartment. Friends began to tremble for their personal

safety: the bloody tragedy of Vincennes rose up in remembrance to many

an anxious heart.

Their equipages had disappeared in the confusion of the day. The

Parisian crowd were astounded that morning to mark thirteen rich

scarlet dresses wending about in search of conveyances or homes.

Within the palace, meanwhile, precedence, contrary to custom, had been

given the ministers; but after them the other cardinals were at length

introduced. As each, in turn, drew near the thrones, and, not feeling

very pleasantly we may believe, made his respectful salutation.

Napoleon was giving way to a rapid flow of violent language. Sometimes

he addressed the empress, or sometimes those standing near. The Sacred

College, as a body, came in for its share of abuse; but two cardinals

were special objects {21} of reproachful epithets. "He might spare the

others," said Napoleon, "as obstinate theologians full of prejudice;

but Cardinals Consalvi and Opizzoni he never could forgive." Opizzoni

was ungrateful, owing, as he did, to him (Napoleon) the archbishopric

of Bologna, and the cardinal's hat; but Consalvi was the most guilty

of all. "Consalvi," cried the emperor, warming as he went on, "does

not act from theological prejudice: he is incapable of that; but he

hates me for having caused his fall from the ministry. And this is now

his revenge. He is a deep politician, and he seeks now to lay a subtle

snare, whereby hereafter to attack the legitimacy of a future heir to

the throne."

Marie-Louise, accustomed to the stalely etiquette of Austria, must

have been rather surprised at this outburst. Perhaps her own destiny,

as bride of that crowned soldier of fortune, did not then look quite

so brilliant to her. It is easy to fancy courtiers around with their

varied shades of amaze, horror, and fear at such delinquency, and its

consequences, painted on their faces.

Consalvi tells us in his memoir on the marriage, and also in that of

his private life, that the fury of Napoleon on the day of the

religious ceremony had been so intense, that on coming out from chapel

he actually ordered three cardinals to be shot, afterward confining

the sentence to Consalvi alone. And the cardinal each time says that

he probably owed his life to the intervention of Fouché.

But in a note which M. Crétineau-Joly mentions as detached from the

memoirs, Consalvi writes thus of Napoleon: "In his fits of

anger,--often more feigned than real, especially at first,--he would

threaten _to have persons shot,_ as he frequently did with regard to

myself; but I am persuaded that he never would have signed the order

for execution. More than once I have heard his devoted followers and

intimate confidants relate that the murder of the Duke d'Enghien had

been a surprise rather than a deliberate act of will. I should not be

astonished at the truth of this, for it was a useless crime, leaving

only shame and remorse, which Bonaparte might easily have spared

himself."

The contradiction in these passages is remarkable. M. Crétineau-Joly

does not give the date of the note, so we are reduced to conjecture.

It seems likely to have been written at a later period, when the

downfall of Napoleon would naturally call forth from Consalvi the

deepest charity and most lenient interpretations. The two memoirs, it

will be remembered, were penned during the cardinal's captivity at

Rheims.

The day after their expulsion, those among the cardinals who were

bishops had orders to resign their sees immediately, under pain of

imprisonment. They signed the deed as required, but with the proviso

of the Pope's consent. At eight o'clock on the same evening each one

received a short note from the minister of public worship, enjoining

him to wait on that functionary in an hour's time, for the purpose of

hearing the emperors' orders.

The whole thirteen met in the minister's ante-chamber, and were

introduced together to his cabinet. Fouché was with him, and from a

kindly intention, says Consalvi. Both seemed grieved at the business

they had to transact.

As soon as Fouché perceived Consalvi, he exclaimed,

"Ah, cardinal, I warned you the consequences would be terrible. What

pains me most is that you should be of the number."

Consalvi thanked him for his sympathy, but said he was prepared for

all that might follow.

The thirteen were then made to sit down in a circle, and the minister

of public worship began a long discourse, which could not much have

benefitted the culprits, as only three understood French. The

substance of it was that they had committed a {22} state crime, and

were guilty of treason, having conspired against the emperor. The

proof of this lay in the secrecy they had observed toward him (the

minister) and toward the other cardinals. They ought to have spoken to

him as their superior, and he would have enlightened them with regard

to their erroneous idea of the privative right belonging to the Pope

in matrimonial cases between sovereigns. Their crime, he said, might

have the most serious consequences on the public tranquillity, unless

the emperor succeeded in obviating them, for their mode of acting had

tended to nothing less than to cast doubts on the legitimacy of the

succession to the throne. He concluded by declaring that the emperor,

judging the cardinals to be rebels guilty of conspiracy, had ordered

them to be informed:

1. That they were from that moment deprived of all their property,

ecclesiastical and patrimonial, for the sequestration of which

measures had been already taken.

2. That his majesty no longer considered them as cardinals, and

forbade them henceforth to wear any ensigns of that dignity.

3. That his majesty reserved to himself the right of afterward

deciding with regard to their persons.

And the minister gave them to understand that a criminal action would

be brought against some.

Even going back as fully as we can to the ideas of the times, there is

something equally startling and absurd in the notion of a lay minister

of state undertaking to enlighten princes of the church on matters of

canon law, coolly naming himself as their superior, and treating them

to a long homily on their duties and misdemeanors. The same

pretensions are doubtless reproduced in all revolutionary times; but

still the absurdity strikes us forcibly as we read this account.

Consalvi replied that they were erroneously accused of conspiracy and

rebellion--crimes unworthy of the purple, and also of their individual

characters. No secret, he said, had been made of their opinion to the

other cardinals, though it had been expressed without seeking to gain

proselytes. If they had not communicated with the minister, they had

nevertheless spoken quite openly to Cardinal Fesch, their own

colleague and the emperor's uncle, begging him to lay their

determination, founded solely on motives of conscience, before

Napoleon. Consalvi also explained how they endeavored to avoid all the

blame now laid to their charge by requesting partial invitations,

which request, if complied with, would have prevented their views from

being made public. The other two cardinals who could speak French

likewise expressed themselves in similar terms.

Both ministers appeared convinced, and, regretting the emperor had not

himself heard their defence, suggested that they should write it out

for his perusal. No difficulty was made in complying with this

proposal. The ministers then said that the cardinals must not,

however, bring forward the real motive of their absence, namely, the

Pope's right, as that was just what irritated Napoleon; but lay the

cause to sickness, or some excuse of that kind. The cardinals declined

taking this course, as incompatible with their duty.

Here we must remark that the whole scene appears to us got up to make

them yield at last; but Consalvi, ever charitable, says not a word to

that effect.

One of the ministers then tried to make out a draft of a letter for

the emperor that should be satisfactory to both parties; and one of

the cardinals had the imprudence to copy these rough sketches, for the

purpose of comparing them and seeing afterward what could be done. The

minister insisted much on having the paper then and there drawn up, as

Napoleon was going to travel, and would leave Paris immediately. But

Consalvi, pleading his colleagues' ignorance of the French language,

{23} succeeded at length in obtaining consent for them to retire

together and deliberate among themselves.

It was eleven o'clock when they withdrew; and some of the cardinals

had the further imprudence to assure the ministers that the

expressions used by the latter had been faithfully copied.

As soon as Consalvi was alone with his colleagues and could speak

freely, he showed them the full meaning of the French terms suggested,

and the impropriety, to say the least, of using them. All agreed to

hold staunchly to their duty. But now appeared the further difficulty,

created by having copied the ministers' words, which it would thus be

impossible to seem to forget. Fouché was to see Napoleon soon after

leaving them, and would doubtless hasten to assure him that the

cardinals were writing a letter conformable to his wishes. Thus

Napoleon, prepared for submission, would give way to tenfold anger on

finding the reverse.

The letter was dictated by conscience alone, but its expressions were

as much as possible tempered by prudence. Every word was carefully

weighed; and five hours passed in drawing it up. By its tenor, they

sought to exculpate themselves from all suspicion of revolt and

treason, saying that the real cause of their absence was because the

Pope was excluded from the matter; that they had not pretended thereby

to institute themselves judges, or cast any doubts among the public

either on the validly of the first marriage, or the legitimacy of the

children that might follow the second. In conclusion, they assured

Napoleon of their submission and obedience, without making any request

for the restoration of their property or their purple. The thirteen

signed by order of seniority in the cardinalate.

Cardinal Litta immediately conveyed this document to the minister of

public worship, who pronounced himself tolerably satisfied. But

Napoleon quitted Paris the next day sooner than had been anticipated,

and without giving the audience to the minister which had been agreed

on. Consequently the latter could not give the letter then, and he

informed the cardinals that they must therefore conform to the orders

already received. Accordingly they laid aside the ensigns of their

dignity, and hence arose the designation of _black_ and _red_

cardinals. Their property was immediately confiscated, and their

revenues, contrary to custom, were thrown into the public treasury.

After a short excursion in the Netherlands, Napoleon returned to

Paris. Meanwhile the cardinals had put down their carriages, and hired

more modest abodes, better suited to their fallen fortunes.

Contradictory rumors were afloat abroad as to their fate. Two months

and a half passed ere any change took place.

But on the 10th of June each cardinal received a note from the

minister of public worship, appointing a time for him to call; two

cardinals being designated for each successive hour. Cardinals

Consalvi and Brancadoro were those summoned for the first hour. When

they reached his cabinet, the minister informed them that they were to

set out for Rheims in twenty-four hours, and to remain there until

further orders should be given. Passports were in readiness. All the

other cardinals successively received a similar sentence; the only

difference lay in the place of abode. They were exiled by twos, and

care was taken to separate those supposed to be intimate. The minister

offered to each cardinal fifty louis for the expenses of his journey;

some accepted, and others declined; Consalvi being among the latter.

Soon after their arrival in the towns designated, each cardinal had an

intimation from the minister that a monthly pension of 250f. would be

duly paid. Consalvi refused to profit by this allowance, and he thinks

the others did the same. On the 10th of January, 1811, both he and his

{24} companion received a note from the sub-prefect of Rheims,

requesting them to call and give information on certain orders that

had arrived from the supreme authority in Paris. The two cardinals

went. The sub-prefect then informed them that he was required to ask

what sums they had received for their subsistence since their exile at

Rheims, through what conveyance or persons, from whom, and to what

amount Consalvi was able to answer that he had not accepted a penny

from any one. "But how then do you live, since the government has

seized all your property?" "My banker at Rome sends the necessary sums

through his correspondent at Paris. Under other circumstances I would

have borrowed from my friends."

This measure of the government was caused by irritation on learning

that charitable persons had united to make up a general fund every

month for the support of the cardinals, and it was wished to put a

stop to the proceeding. Consalvi concludes the memoirs of his private

life about this time, expressing a fear that the business mentioned

above will not end with the interrogatory, but may bring about

disastrous consequences. He also says, "We live in exile; foregoing

all society, as becomes our situation and that of the Holy See and the

sovereign pontiff our head. The red cardinals, I am told, remain in

Paris, and go much in the world, but are not esteemed for their late

conduct."

It is curious to contract with the preceding account the manner in

which M. Thiers disposes of this same episode. "On the day of the

emperor's marriage," says that historian, "thirteen out of

twenty-eight cardinals failed to be present at the ceremony. The

motive, which they dared not assign, but which it was desired to make

the public understand, was that, without the Pope, Napoleon could not

divorce, and thence, the first marriage still subsisting, the second

was irregular. This motive was unfounded, since no divorce had taken

place (for in effect divorce being forbidden by the Church could only

have been pronounced by the Pope), but simply annulment of the

marriage with Josephine, pronounced by the ordinary after all the

degrees of ecclesiastical jurisdiction had been exhausted." [Footnote 1]

[Footnote 1: M. Thiers here falls into a grave error: divorce being

contrary to the law of God, no Pope can pronounce one. The question

was whether Josephine were lawfully married or not.]

In reality, however, this conduct of the thirteen cardinals, acting in

conformity with their head, Pope Pius VII., though cut off from all

communication with him, was the protest of the Church against temporal

despotism in things spiritual. The Church was in chains, but God had

left her a living voice to proclaim her rights. Consalvi never for one

instant quits his ground--the Church's right of judgment--to give a

shadow of personal opinion on the matter in question. It is a fine

spectacle also to see him with his few colleagues, deserted by so many

of their own body, quietly discussing what degree of excommunication

Napoleon had incurred, whether all contact was forbidden, while they

inhabited his very capital, and knew well the stem nature of that

inexorable will.

The black cardinals continued to inhabit their different places of

exile until Napoleon, working on the weakness and the affections of

the aged pontiff, drew from him that semblance of a second concordat

dated the 25th of January, 1813. Then, restored to liberty, they

hastened to the feet of Pius VII.; and found him overwhelmed with

grief at the concessions he had made, at what he called his guilt.

Truly he had but yielded in his feebleness to the unceasing

persuasions of the red cardinals, backed by Napoleon's promises in

favor of the Church, and to the charm exercised by that mighty genius

when he stooped to court affection. The proviso made that the new

concordat, to become binding, should first be submitted to the Sacred

College assembled, {25} happily afforded the opportunity of annulling

it. That was fully and worthily done by the papal letter addressed to

the emperor on the 24th of March following.

When the course of events in Europe brought about such a change in his

own position, Napoleon, still powerful notwithstanding, began to wish

for a reconciliation with the Holy See. On the 23d of January, 1816,

Pius VII. was allowed to set out for Rome, restored to his paternal

sovereignty. Strangely, however, Consalvi was not permitted to

accompany him. He received instead a note from the minister of public

worship, informing him that orders would shortly be transmitted

concerning himself, the execution of which admitted neither appeal nor

yet delay.

And accordingly, two days after the Pope's departure, a letter came

from the Duc de Rovigo, minister of police, telling Consalvi that he

was condemned to another exile in the town of Béziers, and was to set

out immediately for that destination in the strictest incognito, and

escorted during the whole journey by an officer of gendarmerie.

Nothing more is said of this incident. Consalvi does not carry his

memoirs beyond 1812. Two notes found among his correspondence, and

signed by the functionaries above named, reveal the orders for this

second exile. Napoleon abdicated on the 4th of April, 1816. On the

19th of May, in the same year, Pius VII. officially recalled Consalvi

to his office of secretary of state.

Thus did Providence terminate the struggle between the spiritual and

temporal powers; thus closed for Consalvi the exile consequent on his

opposition to the imperial marriage.

On the very day that restored Consalvi to his councils, Pius VII.

learned that all the nations of Europe refused to receive within their

territories the proscribed family of Napoleon. Rome opened her gates.

Madame Mère, as she was called, the mother of Napoleon, wrote thus to

Consalvi, 27th May, 1818:

"I wish and I ought to thank your eminence for all you have done in

our favor since the burden of exile has fallen on my children and

myself. My brother, Cardinal Fesch, did not leave me ignorant of the

generous way in which you received the request of _mom grand et

malheureux proscrit de St. Hélène_. He said that on learning the

emperor's prayer, so just and so Christian, you had hastened to

interpose with the English government, and to seek out priests both

worthy and able. I am truly the mother of sorrows; and the only

consolation left me is to know that the Holy Father forgets the

past, and remembers solely his affection for us, which he testifies

to all the members of my family.

"My sons, Lucian and Louis, who are proud of your unchanging

friendship toward them, have been much touched likewise by all that

the Pope and your eminence have done, unknown to us, to preserve our

tranquillity when menaced by the different powers of Europe. We find

support and an asylum in the pontifical states only; and our

gratitude is as great as the benefit. I beg your eminence to place

the expression of it at the feet of the holy pontiff, Pius VII. I

speak in the name of all my proscribed family and especially in the

name of him now dying by inches on a desert rock. His holiness and

your eminence are the only persons in Europe who endeavor to soften

his misfortunes, or who would abridge their duration. I thank you

both with a mother's heart,--and remain always, eminence, yours very

devotedly and most gratefully,

"Madame."

Another letter, from the ex-king of Holland, father of the present

emperor of the French, addressed to Cardinal Consalvi, still further

demonstrates the charity shown by Rome, and suggests many reflections.

With these extracts from Consalvi's {26} correspondence as a sequel,

we shall close our episode of the imperial marriage; the circumstances

they recall form a not uninstructive commentary on an event that

seemed to place Napoleon at such a high point of worldly greatness.

"Eminence,--Following the advice of the Holy Father and of your

eminence, I have seen Mgr. Bernetti, who is specially charged with

the affair in question; and he, with his usual frankness, explained

the nature of the complaints made by foreign powers against the

family of the Emperor Napoleon. The great powers, and principally

England, reproach us with always conspiring. They accuse us of being

mixed up, implicitly or explicitly, with all the plots in existence;

they even pretend that we abuse the hospitality granted us by the

Pope to foment divisions in the pontifical states, and stir up

hatred against the august person of the sovereign.

"I was fortunately able to furnish Mgr. Bernetti with proofs to the

contrary; and he will himself tell you the effect produced on his

mind by my words. If the emperor's family, owing so much to Pope

Pius XII. and to your eminence, had conceived the detestable design

of disturbing Europe, and if it had the means of so doing, the

gratitude that we all feel toward the Holy See would evidently

arrest us on such a course. My mother, brothers, sisters, and uncle

owe too much respectful gratitude to the sovereign pontiff and to

your eminence to draw down new disasters on this city, where, while

proscribed by the whole of Europe, we have been received and

sheltered with a paternal goodness rendered yet more touching by

past injustice. We are not conspiring against any one, and still

less against God's representative on earth. We enjoy in Rome all the

rights of citizens; and when my mother learned in what a Christian

manner the Pope and your eminence were avenging the captivity of

Fontainebleau and the exile of Rheims, she could only bless you in

the name of her _grand et malheureux mort_, shedding sweet tears for

the first time since the disasters of 1814.

"To conspire against our august and sole benefactor would be an

infamy that has no name. The family of Bonaparte will never merit

such a reproach. I convinced Mgr. Bernetti of it, and he will

himself be our surety with your eminence. Deign then to listen to

his words, and to grant us the continuance of your favor, together

with the protection of the Holy Father.--In this hope, I am,

eminence, your very respectful and most devoted servant and friend,

"L. DE SAINT-LEU."

"_Rome, 30th Sept_. 1821."

------

{27}

From Once A Week.

AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.

I read this incident when a mere girl in a very stupid old novel

founded upon it, which I never could succeed in meeting with again.

The preface stated that in some church in England there yet remained

the monument of the knight with his noble one-armed wife beside him. I

should be glad if any of your readers could tell me where this

monument is to be seen, and the real names (which I have forgotten) of

the knight and lady.

'Twas in the grand heroic days,

When Coeur de Lion reigned and fought;

An English knight ta'en in those frays

To Sultan Saladin was brought.

The sultan sat upon his throne,

His courtiers stood around;

And emir, prince, and padisha

Bent lowly to the ground.

They served him upon bended knee--

"To hear is to obey;"--

For the fierce and cruel Moslem race

An iron hand must sway.

The monarch gazed on each stem face;

"Ye Moslem chiefs are brave;

But I know a braver man than ye,

Bring forth the Christian slave!"

The slave was brought, and at a sign

The scimitar waved high,

But the English captive gazed unmoved,

With calm unshrinking eye.

Then spoke the sultan: "Hugh de Vere,

I've need of men like thee,

And thou shalt be the first man here,

In this land, after me.

"Thou shalt have gold, and gems, and land,

Palaces shall be thine.

And thou shalt wed a queenly bride,

And be a son of mine.

"Only forsake thy fathers' faith,

Mah'med and God adore,

And forget thy love and fatherland.

Which thou shalt see no more."

Then Hugh de Vere obeisance made;--

"Since I must make reply,

I will not change my love or faith,

Far liever would I die.

{28}

"I have a God who died for me.

His soldier I am sworn.

Shall I, whose shoulder bears the cross,

Upon the cross bring scorn?

"I have a love, a gentle girl.

Whom I love as my wife;

I cannot bear a Moslem name.

Nor wed a Moslem wife."

"Bethink thee now," the sultan said;

"How knowest thou that the maid

Is not now wed, since thy return

Hath been so long delayed?

"Fickle and false is woman's heart,

It changes like the sky;

The showers that fall so fast to-night

To-morrow' sun will dry.

"Nor--trust me--e'er was maiden yet

Constant as is the dove,

Who dies of grief for her lost mate,

And knows no second love."

Then at the monarch's feet bowed low

The saintly frères who came

To ransom slaves, bound by their vow,

For Jesu's holy name.

And at his footstool wealth untold

With lavish hands they pour:

"His bride sends thee her gems and gold;

Sir Hugh de Vere restore!"

The sultan spoke: "The other knights

And men may go with thee.

But not for gold or jewels bright

Shall Hugh de Vere go free.

"I love him with a brother's love,

His love I hope to win.

And in this land raise him above

All men save Saladin.

"What is a woman's love to mine?

A hundred slaves I'll give,

Let him his Christian faith resign,

And in my shadow live.

"His lady-love sends pearls and gold,

She'd give them for a shawl,

But she must give a dearer thing

Before I yield my thrall.

{29}

"I'll try how Christian maidens love--

This answer to her bear,

'Thy faith and fealty to prove,

Give what is far more dear.

"'This is the ransom I demand,

No meaner thing I'll take,

Thy own right arm and lily hand

Cut off for thy love's sake."

"Return, good frères," Sir Hugh then said,

"To my betrothed bride,

And speak of me henceforth as dead,

Since here I must abide.

"For rather would I die this day

Beneath the paynim swords,

Than ye should bear Agnes de Bray

The sultan's cruel words.

"For well I know her faithful heart

Both arm and life would give

To ransom mine;--and will not prove

Her death, that I may live."

Then mournfully the ransom sent

The good frères took once more.

And with the captives they had freed

Sailed to the English shore.

And Earl de Bray's castell they sought,

And to fair Agnes told,

How that her lover could not be

Ransomed for gems or gold.

And that the cruel sultan asked,--

Nor meaner thing would take,--

Her own right arm and lily hand,

Cut off for her love's sake.

A shudder ran through all who heard,

Her mother shrieked aloud,

Her father, crimsoning, clutched his sword,

And death to Moslems vowed.

Her little sister to her ran,

And clasped her tightly round:

"Sure, sister, such a wicked man

Cannot on earth be found?"

But Agnes smoothed the child's long hair

And kissed her, then spoke low,

"That cruel is the ransom asked.

My dear ones, well I know.

{30}

"But did not God for ransom give

His own beloved Son?

And do not churls and nobles give

Their lives for king and throne?

"Has not my lord and father bled

By Coeur de Lion's side?

And would he bid his daughter shirk

Duty--whate'er betide?

"Am I not Hugh de Vere's betrothed,

Fast pledged to be his wife?

Do not I owe him fealty,

Even though it cost my life?

"What is my life? Long days and years

In vain repining spent,

And orisons to God to end

My dear love's banishment.

"And he _has heard_. At last my prayers

Have reached up to God's throne

God gives me back my long lost one,

Nor leaves me sad and lone.

"Only, he asks a sacrifice,

A proof my love is pure:

For such great gain, a little pain.

And shall I not endure?"

* * * * *

Once more the Sultan Saladin

Sat in his royal court,

At his right hand stood Hugh de Vere

Grave-eyed and full of thought.

A herald came. "Sultan, our lord,

The Christians' holy men

Who come to ransom captive slaves,

An audience crave again."

The friars came, and, bowing low,

They placed before the throne

A silver casket richly chased:

And spoke in solemn tone.

"Monarch, to whom women are slaves,

Toys of an idle hour,

Learn in a nobler faith than thine

Love's purity and power.

"The cruel ransom thou didst ask

For Hugh de Vere here take,

His love's right arm and lily hand

"Cut off for her love's sake."

{31}

Then Hugh de Vere, beside himself,

The casket seized, and said,

"O cruel monks, why told ye her?

I bade ye call me dead.

"O fair sweet arm! O dear white hand!

Cut off for my poor sake!"

And to his breast prest it and sobbed,

As if his heart would break.

But Saladin the casket oped,

And lo! embalmed there lay

The fair white arm and lily hand

Sent by Agnes de Bray.

And as he gazed his tears flowed down,

His nobles also wept

"Oh I would ere I such words had said

I'd with my fathers slept!"

The lily hand full reverently

And like a saint's he kissed.

"O gentle hand! what noble heart

Thee owned, I never wist.

"I never dreamed that woman lived

Who would, to save her lord,

Thus freely give her own right arm

And hand unto the sword.

"Mah'med and God witness for me,

I loved Sir Hugh de Vere!

And thought if I this ransom asked

I should retain him here.

"Fair arm, fair hand, and true brave love!

My kingdom I'd resign--

Richer than any king of earth

In such a love as thine!

"Take, Hugh de Vere, thy freedom, won

So nobly by thy love;

Take gems, and silks, and gold,--all vain

Saladin's grief to prove.

"Tell her I yield my selfish love:

Well may she claim thy life!

She who was such a noble love

Will be a noble wife!

"Unloose the sails, make no delay,

Depart ere close the day.

While I among my precious things

Thy ransom stow away.

"That, 'mid my treasure placed, it may

To future ages prove

How holy Christians' plighted troth,

How pure their maidens' love!"

{32}

From Chamber's Journal.

BELL GOSSIP.

There are some competent artistic observers who contend that bells

were the origin, the cause, the ruling motive, of one of the most

important parts of a Christian church--perhaps _the_ most important,

in regard to external appearance. The Rev. J. H. Sperling, in a paper

read recently before the Architectural Institute, dwells at

considerable length on the influence of the turret, campanile, or

bell-tower in determining the character of a church. As a means of

summoning the faithful to mass (there were no Protestant churches,

because no Protestants, in those days), or to bid them pray wherever

they might be, a bell was needed with a sound that would reach to a

distance; and this could only be insured by placing it in a tower at

some elevation. The Gothic architects made everything contribute to

the design of their cathedrals and churches; and this elevation of the

bell was just the thing to call forth their ingenuity. They made the

bell-tower one of the chief features in their design. It was often

entirely detached from the building, and was known generally as the

campanile. Examples of this are observable at Canterbury and

Chichester cathedrals, at Beccles, at Ledbury, and at West Walton in

Norfolk. Salisbury cathedral had originally a campanile; but modern

wiseacres, who thought they knew better than the men of old, removed

it. The central towers of cathedrals and churches were intended as

lanterns to let in light, not as turrets to contain bells; this was a

later innovation. Many towers have been altered from their original

purpose to convert them into bell-towers, but injuriously--as at

Winchester and Ely. Mr. Sperling, as a matter of usefulness as well as

of style, advocates the detached or semi-detached campanile; and

recommends architects to direct their attention more frequently to

this matter.

Another way in which church bells manifest, if not a scientific or

artistic, at least a historical value, is in their connection with the

saints of the Catholic Church; they are still existing records of a

very old ecclesiastical custom. The bell of a church was frequently,

if not generally, named after the patron saint of that church; and if

there were more bells than one, the lowest in tone was named after the

patron saint, and the others after saints to whom altars, shrines, or

chapels within the edifice were dedicated. Probably, in such case,

each bell was appropriated to the service of its own particular saint;

for the use of many bells in a _peal_ is comparatively modern. At

Durham cathedral, and at the church of St Bartholomew the Great near

Smithfield, are (or were recently) examples of a family of bells

receiving names bearing special relation to the particular fabric for

which they were intended.

Archaeologists claim for church bells a certain value in regard to the

inscriptions which they nearly always bear, and which serve as so many

guide-posts directing to facts belonging to past ages. Each great

bell-founder (and many of them belonged to monastic institutions) had

his own particular style of ornamentation, and his own favorite

inscription, monogram, or epigraph. Sometimes it was only his own

name; sometimes a name and a date; sometimes a pious ejaculation. The

towns of Norwich, Lynn, Colchester, Salisbury, etc., had all

celebrated families of bell-founders, in the days when the later

Gothic cathedrals and churches were built. {33} The earliest known

_dated_ bell is at Fribourg, bearing the year 1258, and the

inscription: _"O Rex Gloriae, veni cum pace; me resonante pia populo

succurre Maria."_ The oldest in England is supposed to be that at

Duncton in Sussex, dated 1319. London can boast one a little over four

centuries old, at All Hallows Staining, Mark Lane. The inscriptions on

the bells, in the days when saints patronized them, were mostly in

Latin, in most cases including the entreaty, _"Ora pro nobis_" (Pray

for us). Sometimes the mottoes adverted to the many uses which church

bells subserved, such as:

"Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum,

Defunctos ploro, pestem fugo, festa decoro."

Even this did not exhaust the list; for we meet with an enumeration of

nearly twenty purposes answered by church bells--some of which we

should be little disposed to recognize in these scientific days of

ours. The following is not an actual motto on a bell, but an elegy on

the subject:

"En ego Campana, nunquam denuntio vana,

Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum.

Defunctos plango, vivos voco, fulmina frango,

Vox mea, vox vitae, voco vos, ad sacra venite.

Sanctos collaudo, tonitrua fugo, funera claudo,

Funera plango, fulgura frango, Sabbatha pango,

Excito lentos, dissipo ventos, paco cruentos."

Occasionally, some of the more peculiar of these uses were expressed

in English:

"Sometimes joy, sometimes sorrow.

Marriage to-day, and Death to-morrow."

They generally lose their point when they lose their Latinity.

The mottoes on old bells, other than those which were dictated by the

reverential feeling of the middle ages, comprise instances of vanity,

ignorance, and silliness, such as would hardly be expected in these

matters. Sometimes a kind of moral aphorism is attempted, with more or

less success.

"Mankind, like us, too oft are found

Possessed of nought but empty sound.

When backward rung, I tell of fire;

Think how the world shall thus expire.

When souls are from their body torn,

'Tis not to die, but to be born."

One, very short, bids us to

"Embrace trew musick."

A bell-founder named Pleasant used to put all kinds of punning mottoes

on his bells suggested by his name. Some record the financial virtues

of the persons who supplied the money for casting the bell:

"I'm given here to make a peal,

And sound the praise of Mary Neale."

"All ye who hear my solemn sound.

Thank Lady Hopton's hundred pound."

"Robert Forman collected the money for casting this bell:

I'll surely do my part as well."

The name of the founder is sometimes supplanted by that of the

churchwarden, or they may appear in companionship.

"John Martin of Worcester he made wee,

Be it known to all that do wee see."

"John Draper made, as plainly doth appeare.

This bell was broake and cast againe wich

tyme churchwardens were,

Edward Dixon for the one who stode close to his tacklin.

And he that was his partner then was Alexander Tacklyn."

The rhymster was evidently driven to his wits' end by the name of

Tacklyn. Some had a touch of loyalty in them:

"God save the Church,

Our Queen, and Realme,

And send us peace in Xt."

The following are examples of a more or less childish class, marvels

to find perpetuated in hard metal:

"My sound is good, my shape is neat:

Perkins made me all complete."

"I am the first, although but small,

I will be heard above you all."

"I sound aloud from day to day:

My sound hath praise, and well it may."

"I ring to sermon with a lusty boom,

That all may come, and none may stay at home."

"Pull on, brave boys; I am metal to the backbone,

I'll be hanged before I'll crack."

The letters of the inscription are not, as some persons may suppose,

cut or engraved on the metal by hand: they are formed in _intaglio_ or

sunk in the sand of the mould, and thus appear in relief on the

outside of the bell when cast. What can be done in this way by that

strange people the {34} Chinese may be seen in the British Museum; we

might search long enough to find an English bell equal in elaborate

ornamentation to the Chinese bell there deposited.

The musical _tone_ of a bell unquestionably depends on the scientific

principles of acoustics as applied to music. The pitch of any one bell

is determined conjointly by the size and the thickness. Of two bells

equally large, the thicker gives the higher note; of two bells equally

thick, the smaller gives the higher note. But then bell-founders look

to the _quality_ of the tone as well as to the pitch; and on this

point there is much divergence of opinion among them. Concerning the

metal used, some combination of copper and tin predominates in nearly

all church bells; generally from two to three times as much copper as

tin. Small additions of other metals are occasionally made, according

to the theoretical views of the founder. The popular belief that

silver improves the tone of a bell, is pronounced by Mr. Sperling and

Mr. Denison to be a mistake; if added in large quantity, it would be

as bad as so much lead; if in small quantity, it does neither good nor

harm. Whether there is or is not really silver in two well-known

bells, called the "Acton Nightingale" and the "Silver Bell" of St

John's College, Cambridge, it is believed by these authorities that

the sweetness of the tone is due to other causes. A feeling of piety

probably influenced the wealthy persons who, in old days, were wont to

cast silver into the furnace containing the molten bell-metal. Mr.

Sperling thinks that the old bells were, as a rule, better than the

modern, by having more substance in them--obtaining depth and fulness

of tone by largeness in height and diameter, rather than by

diminishing the thickness at the part where the hammer or clapper

strikes. "Nothing is more easily starved than a church bell." A

long-waisted bell (high in the sides) is considered to give forth a

more resonant tone than a shallow or low waist, because there is more

metal to act as a kind of sounding-board; but a lower bell is easier

to ring in a peal; hence, as Sperling thinks, a reason for the

difference in the richness of tone in old and modern bells. There are

indications that the old founders sometimes tuned a set of bells in

what is called the _minor_ mode, the source of much that is tender and

plaintive in Scotch and Irish melodies; but in our days they are

always in the _major_ mode. Where the ringing is done by clock-work,

the sounds of several bells constitute a _chime_--where by hand, a

_peal_--but in either case the actual tone or note of each bell is

fixed beforehand. It is by many persons believed that the quality of

the tone is improved by age, owing to some kind of molecular change in

the metal; this is known to be the case in some old organs, and in

instruments of the violin class, in the metal of the one and the wood

of the other; and so far there is analogy to support the opinion. For

good peals of bells, the founders generally prefer D or E as the note

for the tenor or largest bell.

As to largeness in a bell, its intention bears relation rather to

_loudness_ than to _pitch_, as a means of throwing the sound to a

great distance. This is the reason for the mighty bells that we are

told of--St. Paul's weighing something like 13,000 lbs.; Antwerp,

16,000 lbs.; Oxford, 17,000 lbs.; Rome, 18,000 lbs.; Mechlin, 20,000

lbs.; Bruges, 23,000 lbs.; York, 24,000 lbs.; Cologne, 25,000 lbs.;

Montreal, 29,000 lbs.; Erfurt, 30,000 lbs.; "Big Ben," at the Houses

of Parliament, 31,000 lbs.; Sens, 34,000 lbs.; Vienna, 40,000 lbs.;

Novgorod, 69,000 lbs.; Pekin, 119,000 lbs.; Moscow, 141,000 lbs.; and,

giant of all the giants, another Moscow bell weighing 192 tons, or

430,000 lbs. Our own Big Ben is more than twice as heavy as our own

St. Paul's bell, which used to be regarded as one of our wonders, and

its sound travels much further; but whether its quality of tone is

equal, is a point on which opinions differ. {35} The history of the

two Big Bens must be more or less familiar to most of our readers--how

that three chief commissioners of works, and two architects, and three

bell-founders, and two bell-doctors, quarrelled year after year; how

that both the Bens cracked, and got into disgrace; how that one of

them recovered its voice again; and how that we have paid the piper to

the tune of something like four thousand pounds for the two Big Bens

and the four smaller bells. If a musical reader wishes to know, he may

be told that the four quarter-bells give out the notes B, E, F++, G++,

and that Big Ben's tone is E, an octave below the first E. Remember,

when Big Ben is heard six miles off, it is half a minute behind time,

seeing that sound takes about half a minute to travel that distance.

As to _bell-ringing,_ the adepts insist upon it that this is a

science; and they give it the name of _campanology._ We all know, ever

since we learnt about permutation and combination at school, that if

there are six, eight, ten, or any number of distinct things, we may

arrange them in an enormous number of ways, each way differing from

every other. The things in this case are bells of different tones; and

according to the order in which they are struck by the hammer or

clapper so many changes may we produce. Out of the almost infinite

number of these changes, campanologists select certain groups which to

their ear seem most musical and agreeable; and these changes are known

by the names of their proposers or inventors, just as we speak of a

work by a great artist. It is not clearly known whether change-ringing

began earlier than the seventeenth century; but it is certain that the

art is practised much more in England than in any other country. There

are peals from two or three to ten or twelve bells. Sixteen of twelve

bells, and fifty of ten bells, are mentioned in the books as peals now

existing in England. The largest peals now in England are at Bow

church, Exeter, and York, each of ten bells; at Bow church and at York

they vary from eight hundredweights to fifty-three hundredweights

each; at Exeter from eight to sixty-seven hundredweights. From these

weights, it must be evident that it is no small labor for men to pull

such bells for several hours at a time. Just as the achievements of

celebrated pedestrians and race-horses are placed upon record, so are

the fraternity proud to refer to the bell-ringing exploits of their

crack pullers. Twenty-four changes per minute are frequently reached.

We are told that in 1787, 5,040 changes were rung in three hours and a

quarter; and that on other occasions there were 6,876 changes rung in

four hours and a quarter, 7,000 in four hours, 10,008 in six hours and

three quarters, 14,224 in eight hours and three quarters, and (the

_magnum opus_) 40,320 changes rung by thirteen men in twenty-seven

hours, working in relief gangs. In one of the old churches, North

Parret in Somerset, the belfry contains a set of rhyming rules,

purporting that a six-pence fine shall be imposed on the ringers for

cursing or swearing, for making a noise or telling idle stories, for

keeping on their hats, for wearing spurs, or for overturning the bell.

This overturning does sometimes occur, even to the loss of life. One

ringer was killed about the time when his brother was drowned; and the

following delectable epitaph records the double catastrophe:

"These 3 youths were by misfortun serounded;

One died of his wound, and the other was drownded."

Whether bell-pinging is really a science, or whether it is only an

ingenious art, as most people would prefer to call it, certainly the

technical terms are most profuse and puzzling. Let the reader make

what he can out of the following, taken at random from one of the

books on the subject: Treble lead, plain work, course, call word,

reverse method, direct method, double, method, balance, hold up, cut

down, following, handstroke, rounds, {36} backstroke, plain hunt,

touches, course ends, hunting up, hunting down, place making, dodging,

double dodging, Bob doubles, singles, observation, grandsire doubles,

slow course, principle, Bob minor, double Bob minor, treble Bob,

superlative surprise, wrong way, Bob triple, tittums. Bob caller, Bob

major, double Bob major, treble Bob major, Bob caters, grandsire

caters, Bob royals, Bob cinques, Bob maximus, treble Bob maximus. Bob

certainly seems to be in the ascendant here. When the reader has

marvelled at these funny names, let him try to understand the

directions for ringing one particular set of changes: "Call two Bobs

on 9, O, x; bring them round. Or, if the practitioner pleases, he may

call the tenth and eleventh to make the ninth's place; the former will

be a six before the course end comes up. Then a Bob when the tenth and

eleventh dodge together behind completes it. In this course the bells

will be only one course out of the tittums"--which it is very

satisfactory to hear. Once more; and here we would ask whether the

directions do not suggest the idea of a damsel going through a sort of

country-dance with seven swains all rejoicing in the name of Bob?

"When the seventh has been quick, call a Bob when she dodges the right

way behind, which will make her quick again; then, if the sixth goes

up before the seventh, keep her behind with Bobs, until the seventh

comes up to her; but if the sixth does not go up before the seventh,

call her the right way behind again, and the sixth is sure to be up

before her the next time." After a little more of these extraordinary

evolutions--"If not out of course, Bob with the seventh down quick

till the fourth comes home; if out of course, a single must be called

when the seventh goes down quick, to put them right. But if it happens

that the fourth is before the fifth comes home, call when the seventh

does her first whole term, and down quick with a double." And we hope

that they lived happy ever afterward.

------

From The Month

KIRKSTALL ABBEY: A SONNET.

Roll on by tower and arch, autumnal river;

And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide

The phantom of dead day hath ceased to glide,

Whisper it to the reeds that round thee quiver--

Yea, whisper to those ivy-bowers that shiver

Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide:

"My bubbles break; my weed-flowers seaward glide:

My freshness and my mission last for ever!"

Young moon, from leaden tomb of cloud that soarest,

And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn

Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest,

Speak thus: "I died; and lo, I am reborn!"

Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance! Truth

Fails not; and faith once more shall wake in endless youth.

AUBREY DE VERE.

------

{37}

From The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

CHAPTER XIII.

One day there was a great deal of company at Mistress Wells's house,

which was the only one I then haunted, being as afore said, somewhat

sickened of society and diversions. The conversation which was mostly

ministered amongst such as visited there related to public affairs and

foreign countries, and not so much as in some other houses to private

scandals and the tattle of the town. The uncertainty I was in

concerning my father's present abode and his known intent soon to

cross over the sea from France worked in me a constant craving for

news from abroad, and also an apprehensive curiosity touching reports

of the landing of seminary priests at any of the English ports. Some

would often tarry at Mr. Wells's house for a night who had lately come

from Rheims or Paris, and even Rome, or leastways received letters

from such as resided in those distant parts. And others I met there

were persons who had friends at court; and they often related

anecdotes of the queen and the ministers, and the lords and ladies of

her household, which it also greatly concerned me to hear of, by

reason of my dearest friend having embarked her whole freight of

happiness in a frail vessel launched on that stormy sea of the court,

so full of shoals and quicksands, whereby many a fair ship was daily

chanced to be therein wrecked.

Nothing notable of this kind had been mentioned on the day I speak of,

which, howsoever, proved a very notable one to me. For after I had

been in the house a short time there came there one not known, and yet

it should seem not wholly unknown to me; for that I did discover in

his shape and countenance something not unfamiliar, albeit I could not

call to mind that I had ever seen this gentleman before. I asked his

name of a young lady who sat near to me, and she said she thought he

should be the elder brother of Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who was lodging in

the house, and that she heard he tabled there also since he had come

to town, and that he was a very commendable person, above the common

sort, albeit not one of such great parts as his brother. Then I did

instantly take note of the likeness between the brothers which had

made the elder's face not strange to me, as also perhaps that one

sight of him I had at Bedford some years before. Their visages were

very like; but their figures and mostly their countenances different.

I cannot say wherein that great differency did lie; but methinks every

one must have seen, or rather felt it. Basil was the tallest and the

handsomest of the twain. I will not be so great a prodigal of time as

to bestow it on commendations of his outward appearance whose inward

excellences were his chiefest merit. Howsoever, I be minded to set

down in this place somewhat touching his appearance; as it may so

happen that some who read this history, and who have known and loved

Basil in his old years, should take as much pleasure in reading as I

do in writing the description of his person, and limning as it were

the resemblance of him at a period in this history wherein the

hitherto separate currents of his life and mine do meet, like a noble

river {38} and a poor stream, for to flow onward in the same channel.

Basil Rookwood was of a tall stature, and well-proportioned shape in

all parts. His hair of light brown, very thickly set, and of a sunny

hue, curled with a graceful wave. His head had many becoming motions.

His mouth was well-made, and his lips ruddy. His forehead not very

high, in which was a notable dissemblance from his brother. His nose

raised and somewhat sharply cut. His complexion clear and rosy; his

smile so full of cheer and kindliness that it infected others with

mirthfulness. He was very nimble and active in all his movements, and

well skilled in riding, fencing, and dancing. I pray you who have

known him in his late years, can you in aught, save in a never-altered

sweetness mixing with the dignity of age, trace in this picture a

likeness to Basil, your Basil and mine?

I care not, in writing this plain showing of mine own life, to use

such disguises as are observed in love-stories, whereby the reader is

kept ignorant of that which is to follow until in due time the course

of the tale doth unfold it. No, I may not write Basil's name as that

of a stranger. Not for the space of one page; nay, not with so much as

one stroke of my pen can I dissemble the love which had its dawn on

the day I have noted. It was sudden in its beginnings, yet steady in

its progress. It deepened and widened with the course of years, even

as a rivulet doth start with a lively force from its source, and,

gathering strength as it flows, grows into a broad and noble river. It

was ardent but not idolatrous; sudden, as I have said, in its rise,

but not unconsidered. It was founded on high esteem on the one side,

on the other an inexpressible tenderness and kindness. Religion,

honor, and duty were the cements of this love. No blind dotage; but a

deathless bond of true sympathy, making that equal which in itself was

unequal; for, if a vain world should have deemed that on the one side

there did appear some greater brilliancy of parts than showed in the

other, all who could judge of true merit and sound wisdom must needs

have allowed that in true merit Basil was as greatly her superior whom

he honored with his love, as is a pure diamond to the showy setting

which encases it.

Hubert presented to me his brother, who, when he heard my name

mentioned, would not be contented till he had got speech of me; and

straightway, after the first civilities had passed between us, began

to relate to me that he had been staying for a few days before coming

to town at Mr. Roper's house at Richmond, where I had often visited in

the summer. It so befel that I had left in the chamber where I slept

some of my books, on the margins of which were written such notes as I

was wont to make whilst reading, for so Hubert had advised me, and his

counsel in this I found very profitable; for this method teaches one

to reflect on what he reads, and to hold converse as it were with

authors whose friendship and company he thus enjoys, which is a source

of contentment more sufficient and lasting than most other pleasures

in this world.

Basil chanced to inhabit this room, and discovered on an odd by-shelf

these volumes so disfigured, or, as he said, so adorned; and took such

delight in the reading of them, but mostly in the poor reflections an

unknown pen had affixed to these pages, that he rested not until he

had learnt from Mr. Roper the name of the writer. When he found she

was the young girl he had once seen at Bedford, he marvelled at the

strong impulse he had toward her, and pressed the venerable gentleman

with so many questions relating to her that he feared he should have

wearied him but his inquiries met with such gracious answers that he

perceived Mr. Roper to be as well pleased with the theme of his

discourse as himself, and as glad to set {39} forth her excellences (I

be ashamed to write the words which should indeed imply the speaker to

have been in his dotage, but for the excuse of a too great kindness to

an unworthy creature) as he had to listen to them. And here I must

needs interrupt my narrative to admire that one who was no scholar,

yea, no great reader at any time, albeit endowed with excellent good

sense and needful information, should by means of books have been

drawn to the first thoughts of her who was to enjoy his love which

never was given to any other creature but herself. But I pray you,

doth it not happen most often, though it is scarce to be credited,

that dissemblance in certain matters doth attract in the way of love

more than resemblance? That short men do choose tall wives; lovers of

music women who have no ear to discern one tune from another; scholars

witless housewives; retired men ambitious helpmates; and gay ladies

grave husbands? This should seem to be the rule, otherways the

exception; and a notable instance of the same I find in the first

motions which did incline Basil to a good opinion of my poor self.

But to return. "Mistress Sherwood," quoth Basil, "Mr. Roper did not

wholly praise you; he recited your faults as well as your virtues."

I answered, it did very much content me he should have done so, for

that then more credit should be given to his words in that wherein he

did commend me, since he was so true a friend as to note my defects.

"But what," quoth he, archly smiling, "if the faults he named are such

as pleased me as well as virtues?"

"Then," I replied, "methinks, sir, the fault should be rather in you

than in her who doth commit them, for she may be ignorant, or else

subject to some infirmity of temper; but to commend faults should be a

very dangerous error."

"But will you hear," quoth he, "your faults as Mr. Roper recited

them?"

"Yea, willingly," I answered, "and mend them also if I can."

"Oh, I pray you mend them not," he cried.

At which I laughed, and said he should be ashamed to give such wanton

advice. And then he:

"Mr. Roper declares you have so much inability to conceal your

thoughts that albeit your lips should be forcibly closed, your eyes

would speak them so clearly that any one who listed should read them."

"Methinks," I said, willing to excuse myself like the lawyer in the

gospel, "that should not be my fault, who made not mine own eyes."

"Then he also says, that you have so sharp an apprehension of wrongs

done to others, that if you hear of an injustice committed, or some

cruel treatment of any one, you are so moved and troubled, that he has

known you on such occasions to shed tears, which do not flow with a

like ease for your own griefs. Do you cry mercy to this accusation,

Mistress Sherwood?"

"Indeed," I answered, "God knoweth I do, and my ghostly father also.

For the strong passions of resentment touching the evil usage our

Catholics do meet with work in me so mightfully, that I often am in

doubt if I have sinned therein. And concerning mine own griefs, they

have been but few as yet, so that 'tis little praise I deserve for not

overmuch resentment in instances wherein, if others are afflicted, I

have much ado to restrain wrath."

"Ah," he said, "methinks if you answer in so true and grave a manner

my rude catechizing. Mistress Sherwood, I be not bold enough to

continue the inventory of your faults."

"I pray you do," I answered; for I felt in my soul an unusual liking

for his conversation, and the more so when, leaving off jesting, he

said, "The last fault Mr. Roper did charge you with was lack of

prudence in matters wherein prudence is most needed in these days."

{40}

"Alas!" I exclaimed; "for that also do I cry mercy; but indeed, Master

Rookwood, there is in these days so much cowardice and time-serving

which doth style itself prudence, that methinks it might sometimes

happen that a right boldness should be called rashness."

Raising my eyes to his, I thought I saw them clouded by a misty dew;

and he replied, "Yea, Mistress Constance, and if it is so, I had

sooner that myself and such as I have a friendship for should have to

cry mercy on their death-beds for too much rashness in stemming the

tide, than for too much ease in yielding to it. And now," he added,

"shall I repeat what Mr. Roper related of your virtues?"

"No," I answered, smiling. "For if the faults he doth charge me with

be so much smaller than the reality, what hope have I that he should

speak the truth in regard to my poor merits?"

Then some persons moving nearer to where we were sitting, some general

conversation ensued, in which several took part; and none so much to

my liking as Basil, albeit others might possess more ready tongues and

a more sparkling wit. In all the years since I had left my home, I had

not found so much contentment in any one's society. His mind and mine

were like two instruments with various chords, but one key-note, which

maintained them in admirable harmony. The measure of our agreement

stood rather in the drift of our desires and the scope of our

approval, than in any parity of tastes or resemblance of disposition.

Acquaintanceship soon gave way to intimacy, which bred a mutual

friendship that in its turn was not slow to change into a warmer

feeling. We met very often. It seemed so natural to him to affection

me, and to me to reciprocate his affection, that if our love began

not, which methinks it did, on that first day of meeting, I know not

when it had birth. But if it be difficult precisely to note the

earliest buddings of the sweet flower love, it was easy to discern the

moment when the bitter root of jealousy sprang up in Hubert's heart.

He who had been suspicious of every person whose civilities I allowed

of, did not for some time appear to mislike the intimacy which had

arisen betwixt his brother and me. I ween from what he once said, when

on a later occasion anger loosened his tongue, that he held him in

some sort of contempt, even as a fox would despise a nobler animal

than himself. His subtle wit disdained his plainness of speech. His

confiding temper he derided; and he had methinks no apprehension that

a she-wit, as he was wont to call me, should prove herself so witless

as to prefer to one of his brilliant parts a man notable for his

indifferency to book learning, and to his smooth tongue and fine

genius the honest words and unvarnished merits of his brother.

Howsoever, one day he either did himself notice some sort of

particular kindness to exist between us, or he was advertised thereof

by some of the company we frequented, and I saw him fix his eyes on us

with so arrested a persistency, and his frame waxed so rigid, that

methought Lot's wife must have so gazed when she turned toward the

doomed city. I was more frighted at the dull lack of expression in his

face than at a thousand frowns or even scowls. His eyes were reft of

their wonted fire; the color had flown from his lips; his always pale

cheek was of a ghastly whiteness; and his hand, which was thrust in

his bosom, and his feet, which seemed rooted to the ground, were as

motionless as those of a statue. A shudder ran through me as he stood

in this guise, neither moving nor speaking, at a small distance from

me. I rose and went away, for his looks freezed me. But the next time

I met him this strangeness of behavior had vanished, and I almost

misdoubted the truth of what I had seen. He was a daily witness, for

several succeeding weeks, of what neither Basil nor I {41} cared much

to conceal--the mutual confidence and increasing tenderness of

affection, which was visible in all our words and actions at that

time, which was one of greater contentment than can be expressed. That

summer was a rare one for fineness of the weather and its great store

of sun-shiny days. We had often pleasant divertisements in the

neighborhood of London, than which no city is more famous for the

beauty of its near scenery. One while we ascended the noble river

Thames as far as Richmond, England's Arcadia, whose smooth waters,

smiling meads, and hills clad in richest verdure, do equal whatsoever

poets have ever sung or painters pictured. Another time we disported

ourselves in the gardens of Hampton, where, in the season of roses,

the insects weary their wings over the flower-beds--the thrifty bees

with the weight of gathered honey--and the gay butterflies, idlers as

ourselves, with perfume and pleasure. Or we went to Greenwich Park,

and underneath the spreading trees, with England's pride of shipping

in sight, and barges passing to and fro on the broad stream as on a

watery highway, we whiled away the time in many joyous pastimes.

On an occasion of this sort it happened that both brothers went with

us, and we forecasted to spend the day at a house in the village of

Paddington, about two miles from London, where Mr. Congleton's sister,

a lady of fortune, resided. It stood in a very fair garden, the gate

of which opened on the high road; and after dinner we sat with some

other company which had been invited to meet us under the large cedar

trees which lined a broad gravel-walk leading from the house to the

gate. The day was very hot, but now a cooling air had risen, and the

young people there assembled played at pastimes, in which I was

somewhat loth to join; for jesting disputations and framing of

questions and answers, an amusement then greatly in fashion, minded

one of that fatal encounter betwixt Martin Tregony and Thomas

Sherwood, the end of which had been the death of the one and a fatal

injury to the soul of the other. Hubert was urgent with me to join in

the arguments proposed; but I refused, partly for the aforesaid

reason, and methinks, also, because I doubted that Basil should acquit

himself so admirably as his brother in these exercises of wit, wherein

the latter did indeed excel, and I cared not to shine in a sport

wherein he took no part. So I set myself to listen to the disputants,

albeit with an absent mind; for I had grown to be somewhat thoughtful

of late, and to forecast the future with such an admixture of hope and

fear touching the issue of those passages of love I was engaged in,

that the trifles which entertained a disengaged mind lacked ability to

divert me. I ween Polly, if she had been then in London, should have

laughed at me for the symptoms I exhibited of what she styled the

sighing malady.

A little while after the contest had begun, a sound was heard at a

distance as of a trampling on the road, but not discernible as yet

whether of men or horses' feet. There was mixed with it cries of

hooting and shouts, which increased as this sort of procession (for so

it should seem to be) approached. All who were in the garden ran to

the iron railing for to discover the cause. From the houses on both

sides the road persons came out and joined in the clamor. As the crowd

neared the gate where we stood, the words, "Papists--seditious

priests--traitors," were discernible, mixed with oaths, curses, and

such opprobrious epithets as my pen dares not write. At the hearing of

them the blood rushed to my head, and my heart began to beat as if it

should burst from the violence with which it throbbed; for now the mob

was close at hand, and we could see the occasion of their yells and

shoutings. About a dozen persons were riding without bridle or spur or

other furniture, on lean and bare horses, which were fastened {42} one

to the other's tails, marching slowly in a long row, each man's feet

tied under his horse's belly and his arms bound hard and fast behind

him. A pursuivant rode in front and cried aloud that those coming

behind him were certain papists, foes to the gospel and enemies to the

commonwealth, for that they had been seized in the act of saying and

hearing mass in disobedience to the laws. And as he made this

proclamation, the rabble yelled and took up stones and mud to cast at

the prisoners. One man cried out, "Four of them be vile priests." O ye

who read this, have you taken heed how, at some times in your lives,

in a less space than the wink of an eye, thought has outrun sight? So

did mine with lightning speed apprehend lest my father should be one

of these. I scanned the faces of the prisoners as they passed, but he

was not amongst them; however I recognized, with a sharp pain, the

known countenance of the priest who had shriven my mother on her

death-bed. He looked pale and worn to a shadow, and hardly able to sit

on his horse. I sunk down on my knees, with my head against the

railings, feeling very sick. Then the gate opened, and with a strange

joy and trembling fear I saw Basil push through the mob till he stood

close to the horse's feet where the crowd had made a stoppage. He

knelt and took off his hat, and the lips of the priests moved, as they

passed, for to bless him. Murmurs rose from the rabble, but he took no

heed of them. Till the last horseman had gone by he stood with his

head uncovered, and then slowly returned, none daring to touch him.

"Basil, dear Basil!" I cried, and, weeping, gave him my hand. It was

the first time I had called him by his name. Methinks in that moment

as secure a troth-plight was passed between us as if ten thousand

bonds had sealed it. When, some time afterward, we moved toward the

house, I saw Hubert standing at the door with the same stony rigid

look which had frighted me once before. He said not one word as I

passed him. I have since heard that a lady, endowed with more

sharpness than prudence or kindness, had thus addressed him on this

occasion: "Methinks, Master Hubert Rookwood, that you did perform your

part excellently well in that ingenious pastime which procured us so

much good entertainment awhile ago; but beshrew me if your brother did

not exceed you in the scene we have just witnessed, and if Mistress

Sherwood's looks do not belie her, she thought so too. I ween his

tragedy hath outdone your comedy." Then he (well-nigh biting his lips

through, as the person who related it to me observed) made answer: "If

this young gentlewoman's taste be set on tragedy, then will I promise

her so much of it another day as should needs satisfy her."

This malicious lady misliked Hubert, by reason of his having denied

her the praise of wit, which had been reported to her by a third

person. She was minded to be revenged on him, and so the shaft

contained in her piercing jest had likewise hit those she willed not

to injure. It is not to be credited how many persons have been ruined

in fortune, driven into banishment, yea, delivered over to death, by

careless words uttered without so much as a thought of the evil which

should ensue from them.

And now upon the next day Basil was to leave London. Before he went he

said he hoped not to be long absent, and that Mr. Congleton should

receive a letter, if it pleased God, from his father; which, if it

should be favorably received, and I willed it not to be otherwise,

should cause our next meeting to be one of greater contentment than

could be thought of.

I answered, "I should never wish otherwise than that we should meet

with contentment, or will anything that should hinder it." Which he

said did greatly please him to hear, and gave him a comfortable hope

of a happy return.

{43}

He conversed also with Mistress Ward touching the prisoners we had

seen the day before, and left some money with her in case she should

find means to see and assist them, which she strove to do with the

diligence used by her in all such managements. In a few days she

discovered Mr. Watson to be in Bridewell, also one Mr. Richardson in

the Marshalsea, and three laymen in the Clink. Mr. Watson had a sister

who was a Protestant, and by her means she succeeded in relieving his

wants, and dealt with the gaolers at the other prisons so as to convey

some assistance to the poor men therein confined, whose names she had

found out.

One morning when I was at Kate's house Hubert came there; and she, the

whole compass of whose thoughts was now circled in her nursery, not

minding the signs I made she should not leave us alone, rose and said

she must needs go and see if her babe was awake, for Hubert must see

him, and he should not go away without first he had beheld him walk

with his new leading-strings, which were the tastefullest in the world

and fit for a king's son; and that she doubted not we could find good

enough entertainment in each other's company, or in Mr. Lacy's books,

which must be the wittiest ever written, if she judged by her

husband's fondness for them. As soon as the door was shut on her,

Hubert began to speak of his brother, and to insinuate that my

behavior to himself was changed since Basil had come to London, which

I warmly denied.

"If," I said, "I have changed--"

"_If_," he repeated, stopping my speaking with an ironical and

disdainful smile, and throwing into that one little word as he uttered

it more of meaning than it would seem possible it should express.

"Yes!" I continued, angered at his defiant looks. "Yes, if my behavior

to you has changed, which, I must confess, in some respects it has,

the cause did lie in my uncle's commands, laid on me before your

brother's coming to London. You know it, Master Rookwood, by the same

token that you charged me with unkindness for not allowing of your

visits, and refusing to read Italian with you, some weeks before ever

he arrived."

"You have a very obedient disposition, madam," he answered in a

scornful manner, "and I doubt not have attended with a like readiness

to the behest to favor the _elder_ brother's suit as to that which

forbade the receiving of the younger brother's addresses."

"I did not look upon you as a suitor," I replied.

"No!" he exclaimed, "and not as on a lover? Not as on one whose lips,

borrowing words from enamored poets twenty times in a day, did avow

his passion, and was entertained on your side with so much good-nature

and apparent contentment with this mode of disguised worship, as

should lead him to hope for a return of his affection? But why

question of that wherein my belief is unshaken? I know you love me,

Constance Sherwood, albeit you peradventure love more dearly my

brother's heirship of Euston and its wide acres. Your eyes deceived

not, nor did your flushing cheek dissemble, when we read together

those sweet tales and noble poems, wherein are set forth the dear

pains and tormenting joys of a mutual love. No, not if you did take

your oath on it will I believe you love my brother!"

"What warrant have you, sir," I answered with burning cheek, "to

minister such talk to one who, from the moment she found you thought

of marriage, did plainly discountenance your suit?"

"You were content, then, madam, to be worshipped as an idol," he

bitterly replied, "if only not sued for in marriage by a poor man."

My sin found me out then, and the hard taunt awoke dormant pangs in my

conscience for the pleasure I had taken and doubtless showed in the

disguised professions of an undisguised admiration; but anger yet

prevailed, {44} and I cried, "Think you to advance your interest in my

friendship, sir, by such language and reproaches as these?"

"Do you love my brother?" he said again, with an implied contempt

which made me mad.

"Sir," I answered, "I entertain for your brother so great a respect

and esteem as one must needs feel toward one of so much virtue and

goodness. No contract exists between us; nor has he made me the tender

of his hand. More than that it behoves you not to ask, or me to

answer."

"Ah! the offer of marriage is then the condition of your regard, and

love is to follow, not precede, the settlements, I' faith, ladies are

very prudent in these days; and virtue and goodness the new names for

fortune and lands. Beshrew me, if I had not deemed you to be made of

other metal than the common herd. But whatever be the composition of

your heart, Constance Sherwood, be it hard as the gold you set so much

store on, or, like wax, apt to receive each day some new impress, I

will have it; yea, and keep it for my own. No rich fool shall steal it

from me."

"Hubert Rookwood," I cried in anger, "dare not so to speak of one

whose merit is as superior to thine as the sun outshines a

torchlight."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning pale with rage, "if I thought thou didst

love him!" and clenched his hand with a terrible gesture, and ground

his teeth. "But 'tis impossible," he added bitterly smiling. "As soon

would I believe Titania verily to doat on the ass's head as for thee

to love Basil!"

"Oh!" I indignantly replied, "you do almost constrain me to avow that

which no maiden should, unasked, confess. Do you think, sir, that

learning and scholarship, and the poor show of wit that lies in a

ready tongue, should outweigh honor, courage, and kindliness of heart?

Think you that more respect should be paid to one who can speak, and

write also, if you will, fair sounding words, than to him who in his

daily doings shows forth such nobleness as others only inculcate, and

God only knoweth if ever they practise it?"

"Lady!" he exclaimed, "I have served you long; sustained torments in

your presence; endured griefs in your absence; pining thoughts in the

day, and anguished dreams in the night; jealousies often in times

past, and now--"

He drew in his breath; and then not so much speaking the word

"despair" as with a smothered vehemence uttering it, he concluded his

vehement address.

I was so shaken by his speech that I remained silent: for if I had

spoken I must needs have wept. Holding my head with both hands, and so

shielding my eyes from the sight of his pale convulsed face, I sat

like one transfixed. Then he again: "These be not times, Mistress

Sherwood, for women to act as you have done; to lift a man's heart one

while to an earthly heaven, and then, without so much as a thought, to

cast him into a hellish sea of woes. These be the dealings which drive

men to desperation; to attempt things contrary to their own minds, to

religion, and to honesty; to courses once abhorred--"

His violence wrung my heart then with so keen a remorse that I cried

out, "I cry you mercy, Master Rookwood, if I have dealt thus with you;

indeed I thought not to do it. I pray you forgive me, if unwittingly,

albeit peradventure in a heedless manner, I have done you so much

wrong as your words do charge me with." And then tears I could not

stay began to flow; and for awhile no talk ensued. But after a little

time he spoke in a voice so changed and dissimilar in manner, that I

looked up wholly amazed.

"Sweet Constance," he said, "I have played the fool in my customable

fashion, and by such pretended slanders of one I should rather incline

to commend beyond his deserts, if that were possible, than to give him

vile terms, have sought--I cry you {45} mercy for it--to discover your

sentiments, and feigned a resentment and a passion which indeed has

proved an excellent piece of acting, if I judge by your tears. I pray

you pardon and forget my brotherly device. If you love Basil--as I

misdoubt not he loves you--where shall a more suitable match be found,

or one which every one must needs so much approve? Marry, sweet lady;

I will be his best man when he doth ride to church with you, and cry

'Amen' more loudly than the clerk. So now dart no more vengeful

lightnings from thine eyes, sweet one; and wipe away the pearly drops

my unmannerly jesting hath caused to flow. I would not Basil had

wedded a lady in love with his pelf, not with himself."

"I detest tricks," I cried, "and such feigning as you do confess to. I

would I had not answered one word of your false discourse."

Now I wept for vexation to have been so circumvented and befooled as

to own some sort of love for a man who bad not yet openly addressed

me. And albeit reassured in some wise, touching what my conscience had

charged me with when I heard Hubert's vehement reproaches, I

misdoubted his present sincerity. He searched my face with a keen

investigation, for to detect, I ween, if I was most contented or

displeased with his late words. I resolved, if he was false, I would

be true, and leave not so much as a suspicion in his mind that I did

or ever had cared for him. But Kate, who should not have left us

alone, now returned, when her absence would have been most profitable.

She had her babe in her aims, and must needs call on Hubert to praise

its beauty and list to its sweet crowing. In truth, a more winsome,

gracious creature could not be seen; and albeit I had made an

inpatient gesture when she entered, my arms soon eased hers of their

fair burthen, and I set to playing with the boy, and Hubert talking

and laughing in such good cheer, that I began to credit his passion

had been feigning, and his indifferency to be true, which contented me

not a little.

A few days afterward Mr. Congleton received a letter, in the evening,

when we were sitting in my aunt's room, and a sudden fluttering in my

heart whispered it should be from Basil's father. Mine eyes affixed

themselves on the cover, which had fallen on the ground, and then

travelled to my uncle's face, wherein was a smile which seemed to say,

"This is no other than what I did expect." He put it down on the

table, and his hand over it. My aunt said he should tell us the news

he had received, to make us merry; for that the fog had given her the

vapors, and she had need of some good entertainment.

"News!" quoth he. "What news do you look for, good wife?"

"It would not be news, sir," she answered, "if I expected it."

"That is more sharp than true," he replied. "There must needs come

news of the queen of France's lying-in; but I pray you how will it be?

Shall she live and do well? Shall it be a prince or a princess?"

"Prithee, no disputings, Mr. Congleton," she said. "We be not playing

at questions and answers."

"Nay, but thou dost mistake," he cried out, laughing. "Methinks we

have here in hand some game of that sort if I judge by this letter."

Then my heart leapt, I knew not how high or how tumultuously; for I

doubted not now but he had received the tidings I hoped for.

"Constance," he said, "hast a mind to marry?"

"If it should please you, sir," I answered; "for my father charged me

to obey you."

"Good," quoth he. "I see thou art an obedient wench. And thou wilt

marry who I please?"

"Nay, sir; I said not that."

"Oh, oh!" quoth he. "Thou wilt marry so as to please me, and yet--"

"Not so as to displease myself, sir," I answered.

"Come," he said, "another question. {46} Here is a gentleman of

fortune and birth, and excellent good character, somewhat advanced in

years indeed, but the more like to make an indulgent husband, and to

be prudent in the management of his affairs, hath heard so good a

report from two young gentlemen, his sons, of thy abilities and proper

behavior, that he is minded to make thee a tender of marriage, with so

good a settlement on his estate in Suffolk as must needs content any

reasonable woman. Wilt have him, Conny?"

"Who, sir?" I asked, waxing, I ween, as red as a field-poppy.

"Mr. Rookwood, wench--Basil and Hubert's father."

Albeit I knew my uncle's trick of jesting, my folly was so great just

then, hope and fear working in me, that I was seized with fright, and

from crimson turned so white, that he cried out:

"Content thee, child! content thee! 'Tis that tall strapping fellow

Basil must needs make thee an offer of his hand; and by my troth,

wench, I warrant thee thou wouldst go further and fare worse; for the

gentleman is honorably descended, heir-apparent to an estate worth

yearly, to my knowledge, three thousand pounds sterling, well disposed

in religion, and of a personage without exception. Mr. Rookwood

declares he is more contented with his son's choice than if he married

Mistress Spencer, or any other heiress; and beshrew me, if I be not

contented also."

Then he bent his head close to mine ear, and whispered, "And so art

thou, methinks, if those tell-tale eyes of thine should be credited.

Yea, yea, hang down thy head, and stammer 'As you please, sir!' And

never so much as a _Deo gratias_ for thy good fortune! What thankless

creatures women be!" I laughed and ran out of the room before mine

aunt or Mistress Ward had disclosed their lips; for I did long to be

in mine own chamber alone, and, from the depths of a heart over full

of, yea overflowing with, such joy as doth incline the knees to bend

and the eyes to raise themselves to the Giver of all good--he whom

all other goodness doth only mirror and shadow forth--pour out a hymn

of praise for the noble blessing I had received. For, I pray you,

after the gift of faith and grace for to know and love God, is there

aught on earth to be jewelled by a woman like to the affection of a

good man; or a more secure haven for her to anchor in amid the present

billows of life, except that of religion, to which all be not called,

than an honorable contract of marriage, wherein reason, passion, and

duty do bind the soul in a triple cord of love?

And oh! with what a painful tenderness I thought in that moving hour

on mine own dear parents--my mother, now so many years dead; my

father, so parted from his poor child, that in the most weighty

concernment of her life--the disposal of her in marriage--his consent

had to be presumed; his authority, for so he had with forecasting care

ordained, being left in other hands. But albeit a shade of melancholy

from such a retrospect as the mind is wont to take of the past, when

coming events do cast, as it should seem, a new light on what has

preceded them, I could not choose but see, in this good which had

happened to me, a reward to him who had forsaken all things--lands,

home, kindred, yea his only child, for Christ's dear sake. It minded

me of my mother's words concerning me, when she lay dying, "Fear not

for her."

I was somewhat loth to return to mine aunt's chamber, and to appear in

the presence of Kate and Polly, who had come to visit their mother,

and, by their saucy looks when I entered, showed they were privy to

the treaty in hand. Mine aunt said she had been thinking that she

would not go to church when I was married, but give me her blessing at

home; for she had never recovered from the chilling she had when Kate

was married, and {47} had laid abed on Polly' wedding-day, which she

liked better. Mistress Ward had great contentment, she said, that I

should have so good an husband. Kate was glad Basil was not too fond

of books, for that scholars be not as conversable as agreeable

husbands should be. Polly said, for her part, she thought the less wit

a man had, the better for his wife, for she would then be the more

like to have her own way. But that being her opinion, she did not

wholly wish me joy; for she had noticed Basil to be a good thinker,

and a man of so much sense, that he would not be ruled by a wife more

than should be reasonable. I was greatly pleased that she thus

commended him, who was not easily pleased, and rather given to despise

gentlemen than to praise them. I kissed her, and said I had always

thought her the most sensible woman in the world. She laughed, and

cried, "That was small commendation, for that women were the

foolishest creatures in the world, and mostly such as were in love."

Ah me! The days which followed were full of sweet waiting and pleasant

pining for the effects of the letter mine uncle wrote to Mr. Rookwood,

and looking for one Basil should write himself, when licence for to

address me had been yielded to him. When it came, how unforeseen, how

sad were the contents! Albeit love was expressed in every line, sorrow

did so cover its utterance, that my heart overflowed through mine

eyes, and I could only sigh and weep that the beginning of so fair a

day of joy should have set in clouds of so much grief. Basil's father

was dead. The day after he wrote that letter, the cause of all our

joy, he fell sick and never bettered any more, but the contrary: time

was allowed him to prepare his soul for death, by all holy rites and

ghostly comforts. One of his sons was on each side of his bed when he

died; and Basil closed his eyes.

CHAPTER XIV.

Basil came to London after the funeral, and methought his sadness then

did become him as much as his joyfulness heretofore. His grief was

answerable to the affection he had borne unto his father, and to that

gentlemen's most excellent deserts. He informed Mr. Congleton that in

somewhat less than one year he should be of age, and until then his

wardship was committed to Sir Henry Stafford. It was agreed betwixt

them, that in respect of his deep mourning and the greater commodity

his being of age would afford for the drawing up of settlements, our

marriage should be deferred until he returned from the continent in a

year's time. Sir Henry was exceeding urgent he should travel abroad

for the bettering as he affirmed of his knowledge of foreign

languages, and acquirement of such useful information as should

hereafter greatly benefit him; but methinks, from what Basil said, it

was chiefly with the end that he should not be himself troubled during

his term of guardianship with proceedings touching his ward's

recusancy, which was so open and manifest, no persuasions dissuading

him from it, that he apprehended therefrom to meet with difficulties.

So with heavy hearts and some tears on both sides, a short time after

Mr. Rookwood's death, we did part, but withal with so comfortable a

hope of a happy future, and so great a security of mutual affection,

that the pangs of separation were softened, and a not unpleasing

melancholy ensued. We forecasted to hold converse by means of letters,

of which he made me promise I should leastways write two for his one;

for he argued, as I always had a pen in my hand, it should be no

trouble to me to write down my thoughts as they arose, but as for

himself, it would cost him much time and labor for to compose such a

letter as it would content me to receive. But herein he was too

modest; {48} for, indeed, in everything he wrote, albeit short and

mostly devoid of such flowers of the fancy as some are wont to scatter

over their letters, I was always excellently well pleased with his

favors of this kind.

Hubert remained in London for to commence his studies in a house of

the law; but when my engagement with his brother became known, he left

off haunting Mr. Lacy's house, and even Mr. Wells's, as heretofore.

His behavior was very mutable; at one time exceedingly obliging, and

at another more strange and distant than it had yet been; so that I

did dread to meet him, not knowing how to shape mine own conduct in

his regard; for if on the one hand I misliked to appear estranged from

Basil's brother, yet if I dealt graciously toward him I feared to

confirm his apprehension of some sort of unusual liking on my part

toward himself.

One month, or thereabouts, after Basil had gone to France, Lady Surrey

did invite me to stay with her at Kenninghall, which greatly delighted

me, for it was a very long time then since I had seen her. The reports

I heard of her lord's being a continual waiter on her majesty, and

always at court, whereas she did not come to London so much as once in

the year, worked in me a very uneasy apprehension that she should not

be as happy in her retirement as I should wish. I long had desired to

visit this dear lady, but durst not be the first to speak of it. Also

to one bred in the country from her infancy, the long while I had

spent in a city, far from any sights or scents of nature, had created

in me a great desire for pure air and green fields, of which the

neighborhood of London had afforded only such scanty glimpses as

served to whet, not satisfy, the taste for such-like pleasures. So

with much contentment I began my journey into Norfolk, which was the

first I had taken since that long one from Sherwood Hall to London

some years before. A coach of my Lord Surrey's, with two new pairs of

horses, was going from the Charter-house to Kenninghall, and a

chamber-woman of my lady's to be conveyed therein; so for conveniency

I travelled with her. We slept two nights on the road (for the horses

were to rest often), in very comfortable lodgings; and about the

middle of the third day we did arrive at Kenninghall, which is a place

of so great magnitude and magnificence, that to my surprised eyes it

showed more like unto a palace, yea, a cluster of palaces, than the

residence of a private though illustrious nobleman. The gardens which

we passed along-side of, the terraces adorned with majestic trees, the

woods at the back of the building, which then wore a gaudy dress of

crimson and golden hues,--made my heart leap for joy to be once more

in the country. But when we passed through the gateway, and into one

court and then another, methought we left the country behind, and

entered some sort of city, the buildings did so close around us on

every side. At last we stopped at a great door, and many footmen stood

about me, and one led me through long galleries and a store of empty

chambers; I forecasting in my mind the while how far it should be to

the gardens I had seen, and if the birds could be heard to sing in

this great house, in which was so much fine tapestry, and pictures in

high-gilt frames, that the eye was dazzled with their splendor. A

little pebbly brook or a tuft of daisies would then have pleased me

more than these fine hangings, and the grass than the smooth carpets

in some of the rooms, the like of which I had never yet seen. But

these discontented thoughts vanished quickly when my Lady Surrey

appeared; and I had nothing more to desire when I received her

affectionate embrace, and saw how joyful was her welcome. Methought,

too, when she led me into the chamber wherein she said her time was

chiefly spent, that its rich adornment became her, who had verily a

queenly beauty, and a {49} presence so sweetly majestic that it alone

was sufficient to call for a reverent respect from others even in her

young years. There was an admirable simplicity in her dress; so that I

likened her in my mind, as she sat in that gilded room, to a pare fair

diamond enchased in a rich setting. In the next chamber her

gentlewoman and chambermaids were at work--some at frames, and others

making of clothes, or else spinning; and another door opened into her

bed-chamber, which was very large, like unto a hall, and the canopy of

the bed so high and richly adorned that it should have beseemed a

throne. The tapestry on the wall, bedight with fruits and flowers,

very daintily wrought, so that nature itself hath not more fair hues

than therein were to be seen.

"When my lord is not at home, I mislike this grand chamber, and do lie

here," she said, and showed me an inner closet; which I perceived to

be plainly furnished, and in one corner of it, which pleased me most

for to see, a crucifix hung against the wall, over above a

kneeling-stool. Seeing my eyes did rest on it, she colored a little,

and said it had belonged to Lady Mounteagle, who had gifted her with

it on her death-bed; upon which account she did greatly treasure the

possession thereof.

I answered, it did very much content me that she should set store on

what had been her grandmother's, for verily she was greatly indebted

to that good lady for the care she had taken of her young years; "but

methinks," I added, "the likeness of your Saviour which died for you

should not need any other excuse for the prizing of it than what

arises from its being what it is, his own dear image."

She said she thought so too; but that in the eyes of Protestants she

must needs allege some other reason for the keeping of a crucifix in

her room than that good one, which nevertheless in her own thinking

she allowed of.

Then she showed me mine own chamber, which was very commodious and

pleasantly situated, not far from hers. From the window was to be seen

the town of Norwich, and an extensive plain intersected with trees;

and underneath the wall of the house a terrace lined with many fair

shrubs and strips of flower-beds, very pleasing to the eye, but too

far off for a more familiar enjoyment than the eyesight could afford.

When we had dined, and I was sitting with my lady in her dainty

sitting-room, she at her tambour-frame, and I with a piece of

patch-work on my knees which I had brought from London, she began

forthwith to question me touching my intended marriage, Mr. Rookwood's

death, and Basil's going abroad, concerning which she had heard many

reports. I satisfied her thereon; upon which she expressed great

contentment that my prospects of happiness were so good; for all which

knew Basil thought well on him, she said; and mostly his neighbors,

which have the chiefest occasions for to judge of a man's disposition.

And Euston, she thought, should prove a very commendable residence,

albeit the house was small for so good an estate; but capable, she

doubted not, of improvements, which my fine taste would bestow on it;

not indeed by spending large sums on outward show, but by small

adornments and delicate beautifying of a house and gardens, such as

women only do excel in; the which kind of care Mr. Rookwood's seat had

lacked for many years. She also said it pleased her much to think that

Basil and I should agree touching religion, for there was little

happiness to be had in marriage where consent doth not exist in so

important a matter. I answered, that I was of that way of thinking

also. But then this consent must be veritable, not extorted; for in so

weighty a point the least shadow of compulsion on the one side, and

feigning on the other, do end by destroying happiness, and virtue

also, which is more urgent. She made no answer; and I then asked her

if she {50} liked Kenninghall more than London, and had found in a

retired life the contentment she had hoped for. She bent down her head

over her work-frame, so as partly to conceal her face; but how

beautiful what was to be seen of it appeared, as she thus hid the

rest, her snowy neck supporting her small head, and the shape of her

oval cheek just visible beneath the dark tresses of jet-black hair!

When she raised that noble head methought it wore a look of becoming,

not unchristian, pride, or somewhat better than should be titled

pride; and her voice betokened more emotion than her visage betrayed

when she said, "I am more contented, Constance, to inhabit this my

husband's chiefest house than to dwell in London or anywhere else.

Where should a wife abide with so much pleasure as in a place where

she may be sometimes visited by her lord, even though she should not

always be so happy as to enjoy his company? My Lord Arundel hath often

urged me to reside with him in London, and pleaded the comfort my Lady

Lumley and himself, in his declining years, should find in my filial

care; but God helping me--and I think in so doing I fulfill his

will--naught shall tempt me to leave my husband's house till he doth

himself compel me to it; nor by resentment of his absence lose one day

of his dear company I may yet enjoy."

"O my dear lady," I exclaimed, "and is it indeed thus with you? Doth

my lord so forget your love and his duty as to forsake one he should

cherish as his most dear treasure?"

"Nay, nay," she hastily replied; "Philip doth not forsake me; a little

neglectful he is" (this she said with a forced smile), "as all the

queen's courtiers must needs be of their wives; for she is so

exacting, that such as stand in her good graces cannot be stayers at

home, but ever waiters on her pleasure. If Philip doth only leave

London or Richmond for three or four days, she doth suspect the cause

of his absence; her smiles are turned to frowns, and his enemies

immediately do take advantage of it. I tried to stay in London one

while this year, after Bess was married; but he suffered so much in

consequence from the loss of her good graces when she heard I was at

the Charter-house, that I was compelled to return here."

"And hath my lord been to see you since?" I eagerly asked.

"Once," she answered; "for three short days. O Constance, it was a

brief, and, from its briefness, an almost painful joy, to see him in

his own princely home, and at the head of his table, which he doth

grace so nobly; and when he went abroad saluted by every one with so

much reverence, that he should be taken to be a king when he is here;

and himself so contented with this show of love and homage, that his

face beamed with pleasant smiles; and when he observed what my poor

skill had effected in the management of his estates, which do greatly

suffer from the prodigalities of the court, he commended me with so

great kindness as to say he was not worthy of so good a wife."

I could not choose but say amen in mine own soul to this lord's true

estimation of himself, and of her, one hair of whose head did, in my

thinking, outweigh in merit his whole frame; but composed my face lest

she should too plainly read my resentment that the like of her should

be so used by an ungrateful husband.

"Alas," she continued, "this joy should be my constant portion if an

enemy robbed me not of my just rights. 'Tis very hard to be hated by a

queen, and she so great and powerful that none in the compass of her

realm can dare to resent her ill treatment. I had a letter from my

lord last week, in which he says if it be possible he will soon visit

me again; but he doth add that he has so much confidence in my

affection, that he is sure I would not will him to risk that which may

undo him, if the queen should hear of it. 'For, Nan,' he writes, 'I

resemble a man scrambling up unto a slippery rock, who, if he {51}

gaineth not the topmost points, must needs fall backward into a

precipice; for if I lose but an inch of her majesty's favor, I am like

to fall as my fathers have done, and yet lower. So be patient, good

Nan, and bide the time when I shall have so far ascended as to be in

less danger of a rapid descent, in which thine own fortunes would be

involved."

She folded this letter, which she had taken out of her bosom, with a

deep sigh, and I doubt not with the same thought which was in mine own

mind, that the higher the ascent, the greater doth prove the peril of

an overthrow, albeit to the climber's own view the further point doth

seem the most secured. She then said she would not often speak with me

touching her troubles; but we should try to forget absent husbands and

lovers, and enjoy so much pleasure in our mutual good company as was

possible, and go hawking also and riding on fine days, and be as merry

as the days were long. And, verily, at times youthful spirits assumed

the lead, and like two wanton children we laughed sometimes with

hearty cheer at some pleasantry in which my little wit but fanciful

humor did evince itself for her amusement. But the fair sky of these

sunshiny hours was often overcast by sudden clouds; and weighty

thoughts, ill assorting with soaring joylity, wrought sad endings to

merry beginnings. I restrained the expression of mine own sorrow at my

father's uncertain fate and Basil's absence, not to add to her

heaviness; but sometimes, whilst playing in some sort the fool to make

her smile, which smiles so well became her, a sharp aching of the

heart caused me to fail in the effort; which when she perceived, her

arm was straightway thrown round my neck, and she would speak in this

wise:

"O sweet jester! poor dissembler! the heart will have its say, albeit

not aided by the utterance of the tongue. Believe me, good Constance,

I am not unmindful of thy griefs, albeit somewhat silent concerning

them, as also mine own; for that I eschew melancholy themes, having a

well-spring of sorrow in my bosom which doth too readily overflow if

the sluices be once opened."

Thus spake this sweet lady; but her unconscious tongue, following the

current of her thoughts more frequently than she did credit, dwelt on

the theme of her absent husband; and on whichever subject talk was

ministered between us, she was ingenious to procure it should end with

some reference to this worshipped object. But verily, I never

perceived her to express, in speaking of that then unworthy husband,

but what, if he had been present, must needs have moved him to regret

his negligent usage of an incomparable, loving, and virtuous wife,

than to any resentment of her complaints, which were rather of others

who diverted his affections from her than of him, the prime cause of

her grief. One day that we walked in the pleasaunce, she led the way

to a seat which she said during her lord's last visit he had commended

for the fair prospect it did command, and said it should be called "My

Lady's Arbor."

"He sent for the head-gardener," quoth she, "and charged him to plant

about it so many sweet flowers and gay shrubs as should make it in

time a most dainty bower fit for a queen. These last words did, I

ween, unwittingly escape his lips, and, I fear me, I was too shrewish;

for I exclaimed, 'O no, my lord; I pray you let it rather be

_un_fitted for a queen, if so be you would have me to enjoy it!' He

made no answer, and his countenance was overcast and sad when he

returned to the house. I misdoubted my hasty speech had angered him;

but when his horse came to the door for to carry him away to London

and the court, he said very kindly, as he embraced me, 'Farewell, dear

heart! mine own good Nan!' and in a letter he since wrote he inquired

if his orders had been obeyed touching his sweet countess's

pleasure-house."

{52}

I always noticed Lady Surrey to be very eager for the coming of the

messenger which brought letters from London mostly twice in the week,

and that in the untying of the strings which bound them her hand

trembled so much that she often said, "Prithee, Constance, cut this

knot. My fingers be so cold I have not so much patience as should

serve to the undoing thereof."

One morning I perceived she was more sad than usual after the coming

of this messenger. The cloud on her countenance chased away the joy I

had at a letter from Basil, which was written from Paris, and wherein

he said he had sent to Rheims for to inquire if my father was yet

there, for in that case he should not so much fail in his duty as to

omit seeking to see him; and so get at once, he trusted, a father and

a priest's blessing."

"What ails you, sweet lady?" I asked, seeing her lips quiver and her

eyes to fill with tears.

"Nothing should ail me," she answered more bitterly than was her wont.

"It should be, methinks, the part of a wife to rejoice in her

husband's good fortune; and here is one that doth write to me that my

lord's favor with the queen is so great that nothing greater can be

thought of: so that some do say, if he was not married he would be

like to mount, not only to the steps, but on to the throne itself.

Here should be grand news for to rejoice the heart of the Countess of

Surrey. Prithee, good wench, why dost thou not wish thy poor friend

joy?"

I felt so much choler that any one should write to my lady in this

fashion, barbing with cruel malice, or leastways careless lack of

thought, this wanton arrow, that I exclaimed in a passion it should be

a villain had thus written. She smiled in a sad manner and answered:

"Alas, an innocent villain I warrant the writer to be, for the letter

is from my Bess, who has heard others speak of that which she doth

unwittingly repeat, thinking it should be an honor to my lord, and to

me also, that he should be spoken of in this wise. But content thee;

'tis no great matter to hear that said again which I have had hints of

before, and am like to hear more of it, maybe."

Then hastily rising, she prepared to go abroad; and we went to a lodge

in the park, wherein she harbored a great store of poor children which

lacked their parents; and then to a barn she had fitted up for to

afford a night's lodging to travellers; and to tend sick

people--albeit, saving herself, she had no one in her household at

that time one half so skilful in this way as my Lady l'Estrange. I

ween this was the sole place wherein her thoughts were so much

occupied that she did for a while forget her own troubles in curing

those of others. A woman had stopped there the past night, who, when

we went in, craved assistance from her for to carry her to her native

village, which was some fifteen miles north of Norwich. She was

afraid, she said, for to go into the town; for nowadays to be poor was

to be a wicked person in men's eyes; and a traveller without money was

like to be whipt and put into the stocks for a vagabond, which she

should die of if it should happen to her, who had been in the service

of a countess, and had not thought to see herself in such straits,

which she should never have been reduced to if her good lady had not

been foully dealt with. Lady Surrey, wishing, I ween, by some sort of

examination, to detect the truth of her words, inquired in whose

service she had lived.

"Madam," she answered, "I was kitchen maid in the Countess of

Leicester's house, and never left her service till she was murthered

some years back by a black villain in her household, moved by a

villain yet more black than himself."

"Murthered!" my lady exclaimed. "It was bruited at the time that lady

had died of a fall."

"Ay, marry," quoth the beggar, {53} shaking her head, "I warrant you,

ladies, that fall was compassed by more hands than two, and more minds

than one. But it be not safe for to say so; as Mark Hewitt could

witness if he was not dead, who was my sweetheart and a scullion at

Cumnor Place, and was poisoned in prison for that he offered to give

evidence touching his lady's death which would have hanged some which

deserved it better than he did--albeit he had helped to rob a coach in

Wales after he had been discharged, as we all were, from the old

place. Oh, if folks dared to tell all they do know, some which ride at

the queen's side should swing on a gibbet before this day

twelvemonth."

Lady Surrey sat down by this woman; and albeit I pulled her by the

sleeve and whispered in her ear to come away--for methought her talk

was not fitting for her to hear, whose mind ran too much already on

melancholy themes--she would not go, and questioned this person very

much touching the manner of Lady Leicester's life, and what was

reported concerning her death. This recital was given in a homely but

withal moving manner, which lent a greater horror to it than more

studied language should have done. She said her lady bad been ill some

time and never left her room; but that one day, when one of her lord's

gentlemen had come from London, and had been examining of the house

with the steward for to order some repairing of the old walls and

staircases, and the mason had been sent for also late in the evening,

a so horrible shriek was heard from the part of the house wherein the

countess's chamber was, that it frighted every person in the place, so

that they did almost lose their senses; but that she herself had run

to the passage on which the lady's bed-chamber did open, and saw some

planking removed, and many feet below the body of the countess lying

quite still, and by the appearance of her face perceived her to be

gone. And when the steward came to look also (this the woman said,

lowering her voice, with her hollow eyes fixed on Lady Surrey's

countenance, which did express fear and sorrow), "I'll warrant you, my

lady, he did wear a murtherer's visage, and I noticed that the corpse

bled at his approach. But methinketh if that earl which rides by the

queen's side, and treads the world under his feet, had then been nigh,

the mangled form should have raised itself and the cold dead lips

cried out, 'Thou art the man!' Marry, when poor folks do steal a

horse, or a sheep, or shoot the fallow-deer in a nobleman's park, they

straightway do suffer and lose their life; but if a lord which is a

courtier shall one day choose to put his wife out of his way for the

bettering of his fortunes, even though it be by a foul murther, no

more ado is made than if he had shot a pigeon in his woods."

Then changing her theme, she asked Lady Surrey to dress a wound in her

leg, for that she did hear from some in that place that she often did

use such kindness toward poor people. Without such assistance, she

said, to walk the next day would be very painful. My lady straightway

began to loosen the bandages which covered the sore, and inquired how

long a time it should be since it had been dressed.

"Four days ago," the beggar answered, "Lady l'Estrange had done her so

much good as to salve the wound with a rare ointment which had greatly

assuaged the pain, until much walking had inflamed it anew."

We both did smile; and my lady said she feared to show herself less

skilful than her old pupil; but if the beggar should be credited, she

did acquit herself indifferently well of her charitable task; and the

bounty she bestowed upon her afterward, I doubt not, did increase her

patient's esteem of her ability. But I did often wish that evening my

lady had not heard this woman's tale, for I perceived her to harp upon

it with a very notable persistency; and when I urged no credit should

attach itself to her {54} report, and it was most like to be untrue,

she affirmed that some similar surmises had been spoken of at the time

of Lady Leicester's death; and that Lord Sussex and Lord Arundel had

once mentioned, in her hearing, that the gypsy was infamed for his

wife's death, albeit never openly accused thereof. She had not taken

much heed of their discourse at the time, she said; but now it came

back into her mind with a singular distinctness, and it was passing

strange she should have heard from an eye-witness the details of this

tragedy. She should, she thought, write to her husband what the woman

had related; and then she changed her mind, and said she would not.

All my pleadings to her that she should think no more thereon were

vain. She endeavored to speak of other subjects, but still this one

was uppermost in her thoughts. Once, in the midst of an argument

touching the uses of pageants, which she maintained to be folly and

idle waste, but which I defended, for that they sometimes served to

exercise the wit and memory of such as contrive them, carrying on the

dispute in a lively fashion, hoping thus to divert her mind, she broke

forth in these exclamations: "Oh, what baneful influences do exist in

courts, when men, themselves honorable, abhor not to company with such

as be accused of foul crimes never disproved, and if they will only

stretch forth their blood-stained hands to help them to rise, disdain

not to clasp them!"

Then later, when I had persuaded her to play on the guitar, which she

did excellently well, she stopped before the air was ended to ask if I

did know if Lady Leicester was a fair woman, and if her husband was at

any time enamored of her. And when I was unable to resolve these

questions, she must needs begin to argue if it should be worse never

to be loved, or else to lose a husband's affection; and then asked me,

if Basil should alter in his liking of me, which she did not hold to

be possible, except that men be so wayward and inconstant that the

best do sometimes change, if I should still be glad he had once loved

me.

"If he did so much alter," I answered, "as no longer to care for me,

methinks I should at once cast him out of my heart; for then it would

not have been Basil, but a fancied being coined by mine own

imaginings, I should have doted on."

"Tut, tut!" she cried; "thou art too proud. If thou dost speak truly,

I misdoubt that to be love which could so easily discard its object."

"For my part," I replied, somewhat nettled, "I think the highest sort

of passion should be above suspecting change in him which doth inspire

it, or resenting a change which should procure it freedom from an

unworthy thrall."

"I ween," she answered, "we do somewhat misconceive each one the

other's meaning; and moreover, no parallel can exist between a wife's

affection and a maiden's liking." Then she said she hoped the poor

woman would stay another day, so that she might speak with her again;

for she would fain learn from her what was Lady Leicester's behavior

during her sorrowful years, and the temper of her mind before her so

sudden death.

"Indeed, dear lady," I urged, "what likelihood should there be that a

serving-wench in her kitchen should be acquainted with a noble lady's

thoughts?"

"I pray God," my lady said, "our meanest servants do not read in our

countenance, yea in the manner of our common and indifferent actions,

the motions of our souls when we be in such trouble as should only be

known to God and one true friend."

Lady Surrey sent in the morning for to inquire if the beggar was gone.

To my no small content she had departed before break of day. Some days

afterward a messenger from London brought to my lady, from Arundel

House, a letter from my {55} Lady Lumley, wherein she urged her to

repair instantly to London, for that the earl, her grandfather, was

very grievously sick, and desired for to see her. My lady resolved to

go that very day, and straightway gave orders touching the manner of

her journey, and desired her coach to be made ready. She proposed that

the while she was absent I should pay a visit to Lady l'Estrange,

which I had promised for to do before I left Norfolkshire; "and then,"

quoth my lady, "if my good Lord Arundel doth improve in his health, so

that nothing shall detain me at London, I will return to my

banishment, wherein my best comfort shall ever be thy company, good

Constance. But if peradventure my lord should will me to stay with

him" (oh, how her eyes did brighten! and the fluttering of her heart

could be perceived in her quick speech and the heaving of her bosom as

she said these words), "I will then send one of my gentlewomen to

fetch thee from Lynn Court to London; and if that should happen, why

methinks our meeting may prove more merry than our parting."

She then dispatched a messenger on horseback to Sir Hammond

l'Estrange's house, which did return in some hours with a very

obliging answer; for his lady did write that she almost hoped my Lady

Surrey would be detained in London, if so be it would not discontent

her, and so she should herself have the pleasure of my company for a

longer time, which was what she greatly desired.

For some miles, when she started, I rode with my lady in her coach,

and then mounted on a horse she had provided for my commodity, and,

accompanied by two persons of her household, went to Sir Hammond

l'Estrange's seat. It stood in a bleak country without scarce so much

as one tree in its neighborhood, but a store of purple heath, then in

flower, surrounding it on all sides. As we approached unto it, I for

the first time beheld the sea. The heath had minded me of Cannock

Chase and my childhood. I ween not what the sea caused me to think of;

only I know that the waves which I heard break on the shore had, to my

thinking, a wonderful music, so exceeding sweet and pleasant to mine

ears that one only sound of it were able to bring, so it did seem to

me, all the hearts of this world asleep. Yet although I listed

thereunto with a quiet joy, and mine eyes rested on those vasty depths

with so much contentment, as if perceiving therein some image of the

eternity which doth await us, the words which rose in my mind, and

which methinks my lips also framed, were these of Holy Writ: "Great as

the sea is thy destruction." If it be not that some good angel

whispered them in mine ear for to temper, by a sort of forecasting of

what was soon to follow, present gladness, I know not what should have

caused so great a dissimilarity between my then thinking and the words

I did unwittingly utter.

Lady l'Estrange met me on the steps of her house, which was small, but

such as became a gentleman of good fortune, and lacking none of the

commodities habitual to such country habitations. The garden at the

back of it was a true labyrinth of sweets; and an orchard on one side

of it, and a wood of fir-trees beyond the wall, shielded the shrubs

which grew therein from the wild sea-blasts. Milicent was delighted

for to show me every part of this her home. The bettering of her

fortunes had not wrought any change in the gentle humility of this

young lady. The attractive sweetness of her manner was the same,

albeit mistress of a house of her own. She set no greater store on

herself than she had done at the Charter-house, and paid her husband

as much respect and timid obedience as she had ever done her mistress.

Verily, in his presence I soon perceived she scarce held her soul to

be her own; but studied his looks with so much diligence, and framed

each word she uttered to his liking with so much {56} ingenuity, that

I marvelled at the wit she showed therein, which was not very apparent

in other ways. He was a tall man, of haughty carriage and

well-proportioned features. His eyes were large and gray; his nose of

a hawkish shape; his lips very thin. I never in any face did notice

the signs of so set a purpose or such unyielding lineaments as in this

gentleman. Milicent told me he was pious, liberal, an active

magistrate, and an exceeding obliging and indulgent husband; but

methought her testimony on this score carried no great weight with it,

for that her meekness would read the most ordinary kindnesses as rare

instances of goodness. She seemed very contented with her lot; and I

heard from Lady Surrey's waiting-maid (which she had sent with me from

Kenninghall) that all the servants in her house esteemed her to be a

most virtuous and patient lady; and so charitable, that all who knew

her experience her bounty. On the next day she showed me her garden,

her dairy, poultry-yard, and store-room; and also the closet where she

kept the salves and ointments for the dressing of wounds, which she

said she was every morning employed in for several hours. I said, if

she would permit me, I would try to learn this art under her

direction, for that nothing could be thought of more useful for such

as lived in the country, where such assistance was often needed. Then

she asked me if I was like to live in the country, which, from my

words, she hoped should be the case; and I told her, if it pleased

God, in one year I would be married to Mr. Rookwood, of Euston Hall;

which she was greatly rejoiced to learn.

Then, as we walked under the trees, talk ensued between us touching

former days at the Charter-house; and when the sun was setting amidst

gold and purple clouds, and the wind blew freshly from the sea, whilst

the barking of Sir Hammond's dogs, and the report of his gun as he

discharged it behind the house, minded me more than ever of old

country scenes in past time, my thoughts drew also future pictures of

what mine own home should be, and the joy with which I should meet

Basil, when he returned from the field-sports in which he did so much

delight. And a year seemed a long time to wait for so much happiness

as I foresaw should be ours when we were once married. "If Lady

l'Estrange is so contented," I thought, "whose husband is somewhat

churlish and stem, if his countenance and the reports of his neighbors

are to be credited, how much enjoyment in her home shall be the

portion of my dear Basil's wife! than which a more sweet-tempered

gentleman cannot be seen, nor one endued with more admirable qualities

of all sorts, not to speak of youth and beauty, which are perishable

advantages, but not without attractiveness."

Mrs. l'Estrange, an unmarried sister of Sir Hammond, lived in the

house, and some neighbors which had been shooting with him came to

supper. The table was set with an abundance of good cheer; and

Milicent sat at the head of it, and used a sweet cordiality toward all

her guests, so that every one should seem welcome to her hospitality;

but I detected looks of apprehension in her face, coupled with hasty

glances toward her husband, if any one did bring forward subjects of

discourse which Sir Hammond had not first broached, or did appear in

any way to differ with him in what he himself advanced. Once when Lord

Burleigh was mentioned, one of the gentleman said somewhat in

disparagement of this nobleman, as if he should have been to blame in

some of his dealings with the parliament, which brought a dark cloud

on Sir Hammond's brow. Upon which Milicent, the color coming into her

cheeks, and her voice trembling a little, as she seemed to cast about

her for some subject which should turn the current of this talk, began

to tell what a store of patients she had {57} seen that day, and to

describe them, as if seeking to stop the mouths of the disputants.

"One," quoth she, "hath been three times to me this week to have his

hands dressed, and I be verily in doubt what his station should be. He

hath a notable appearance of good breeding, albeit but poorly

apparelled, and his behavior and discourse should show him to be a

gentleman. The wounds of his hands were so grievously galled for want

of proper dressing, when he first came, I feared they should mortify,

and the curing of them to exceed my poor skill. The skin was rubbed

off the whole palms, as if scraped off by handling of ropes. A more

courageous patient could not be met with. Methought the dressing

should have been very painful, but he never so much as once did wince

under it. He is somewhat reserved in giving an account of the manner

in which he came by those wounds, and answered jestingly when I

inquired thereof. But to-morrow I will hear more on it, for I charged

him to come for one more dressing of his poor hands."

"Where doth this fellow lodge?" Sir Hammond asked across the table in

a quick eager manner.

"At Master Rugeley's house, I have heard," quoth his wife.

Then his fist fell on the table so that it shook.

"A lewd recusant, by God!" he cried. "I'll be sworn this is the popish

priest escaped out of Wisbeach, for whom I have this day received

orders to make diligent search. Ah, ah! my lady hath trapped the

Jesuit fox."

I looked at Milicent, and she at me. O my God, what looks those were!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

------

From The Popular Science Review.

MIGRATIONS OF EUROPEAN BIRDS.

The migrations of animals--especially those of the feathered

tribe--constitute one of the most interesting and improving studies

that the admirer of nature can pursue. When naturalists were less

conversant with the movements of birds of passage, and knew little of

their habits and haunts, it used to be a favorite mode of accounting

for the regular disappearance of many species by attributing to them

what is the case with certain animals, namely, a torpid condition

during winter. It was affirmed that certain birds spent the cold

months at the bottom of lakes, and gravely asserted by an authority of

the last century that "swallows sometimes assemble in numbers,

clinging to a reed till it breaks and sinks with them to the bottom;

that their immersion is preceded by a song or dirge, which lasts more

than a quarter of an hour; that sometimes they lay hold of a straw

with their bills, and plunge down in society; and that others form a

large mass by clinging together by the feet, and in this manner commit

themselves to the deep." Irrespective of the ridiculous absurdity of

such assertions, and their want of corroborative evidence, we have the

recorded opinions of John Hunter and Professor Owen as to the

incompatibility of a bird's organism for such a mode of existence. In

all probability, the statement may have in part arisen from the

well-known circumstance that many birds of passage tarry in their

summer retreats until caught by the cold of winter, when individuals

may be found benumbed and senseless; {58} this is a common occurrence,

even with the swallows and other birds of northern India, where in the

cold months the temperature during night falls often to freezing,

whilst at midday it may range as high as 80° Fahr. in the shade. I

have also seen the green bee-eater and small warblers so mach affected

by a temperature of 40° on the banks of the Nile in Nubia as to be

scarcely able to fly from twig to twig. The effects of severe winters

on many of our indigenous as well as migratory birds have been

frequently exemplified by the numbers found dead in sheltered

situations, and especially if the cold sets in early, when

comparatively few birds of passage escape; for instance, the

corn-crake has been found in Britain during the winter months; we know

of one individual that was picked up on Christmas-day, crouching among

furze bushes, almost insensible from cold. The winter homes of

European birds of passage comprehend southern Europe, lower Egypt, and

the countries that lie between the desert and southern shores of the

Mediterranean, including the elevated lands of Tunis, Algeria, and

Morocco, which, although differing in physical features and, in some

respects, in climate, are, strictly speaking, but an extension of

Europe, for their flora and fauna are European. It is only when the

traveller crosses the Sahara, with its salt lakes and moving clouds of

sand, and gains the region of verdure beyond, that he enters on a new

zoological and botanical province. It is curious and instructive to

observe how well this statement accords with late geological

discoveries. From a series of ascertained facts the student of

physical science is enabled to speculate on a time when equatorial

Africa was divided from the northern portion of the continent by a

great sea, of which the Sahara formed the bed; it extended from the

Gulf of Cabes to Senegambia in the west, and was many hundred miles in

breadth. The Mediterranean sea did not then exist; therefore there was

no great obstacle to the southern migrations of animals until they

reached the shores of the great central African sea; but as there was

no desert in those days, there would be no hot winds to temper the

climates northward, and consequently we should expect to find traces

of more rigorous winters in central and southern Europe; and such have

been clearly proven by certain evidences, which were lucidly explained

by Sir Charles Lyell at the last meeting of the British Association.

Thus, although we may wonder at the extraordinary intelligence which

prompts the bird to cross the Mediterranean, we see at the same time

that it is going to no foreign land, where it will not meet friends to

cheer it, or food unsuited to its wants. The two great causes which

bring about the regular migrations of birds are either change of

climate or failure of food--most often both combined. Any ordinary

observer must have often remarked that the first effect of a decrease

in temperature in autumn is the sudden disappearance of many winged

and wingless insects, on which many soft-billed birds of passage

depend. At that season swallows, that seemed so full of life and

vigor, skimming over fields, threading along the lanes, or twittering

from straw-built sheds, are soon seen collecting in flocks, and

flitting about with a marked diminution in their activity--now

huddling together on the eaves of houses, or assembling in long lines

on the telegraph wires; another boreal blast, not yet sufficient to

turn the leaf, sends the whole flock southward, for they soon find

that there is no use facing the north from whence the cold puffs are

coming, whilst by holding in the direction of the sun, with the balmy

southern winds occasionally beckoning them to advance, they soon gain

the object of their desires. Thus flocks may be seen pursuing their

journey, and picking up a livelihood and more companions as they speed

their way over mountain, moor, field, city, or sea to {59} the sunny

climes and eternal sunshine of southern Europe and trans-Mediterranean

lands. The majority of migratory birds cross the latter sea during the

vernal and autumnal equinoxes; whilst a few, such as certain finches

and water birds, make their appearance on the islands and southern

shores throughout the winter; the latter, however, are in a great

measure dependent on the state of the weather, and their numbers

increase or decrease accordingly.

It is evident that such animals as the lapp, lemming, musk-ox, or

reindeer must push southward on the approach of winter. Their

migrations are by no means unexpected; nor would the mere land journey

of birds create amazement when we know the real causes; but to cross

the great inland sea anywhere, save at its entrance, must be

considered a great feat when performed by tiny warblers, and birds not

physically adapted for long flights; for instance, the willow warbler

or the land-rail, crossing the broadest parts of the Mediterranean,

must traverse at least six hundred miles. No doubt the heated winds

from the desert exert a great influence in determining the route to be

taken by migratory birds, especially in the countries that come

directly under their operation; and at no seasons are their presence

more apparent than during the spring and autumn; for not only then do

they blow their greatest violence, but are also most keenly felt by

contrast with the previous hot or cold months. Thus the winds that

beckon the bird in autumn to come southward, drive it back again to

Europe in spring. Much, however, depends on the constitutional powers

of the individual species, which vary greatly in members of the same

family; for instance, the little chiffchaff often makes its appearance

in England as early as the middle of March, whilst its congener, the

willow warbler, is seldom seen before the end of April; the spotted

fly-catcher and night-jar arrive toward the end of May, and depart

again early in September. Bird migrations may be said to be either

complete or partial; some birds totally abandon Europe during winter,

and take up their residence in north Africa; others repair merely to

the more genial climates of the south of Europe; whilst many remain,

but in diminished numbers, throughout the year, the majority resorting

to milder temperatures. For example, the swallow tribe leave Europe

entirely; the wagtails have their winter homes among the oases of the

desert and on the banks of the Nile, whilst a few tarry in southern

Europe, and with their brethren in spring push northward. A good many

stone-chats spend the winter in Britain, whilst the majority move

southward; not so with their close ally, the whin-chat, which

disappears entirely during the cold season, and, with the migratory

portion of the last-named species, seeks the more genial climates of

north Africa. Thus, in all probability, there are individual

stone-chats that have alternately braved the cold of the north and the

more cheerful winter of the Sahara; for we cannot suppose that there

is a set that invariably stop in the north, and another that constancy

leave at the approach of winter. At all events, here is displayed a

flexibility of constitution often considered characteristic of man

alone. Although the regular birds of passage maintain much exactitude

with reference to their arrivals and departures, others seem to err

greatly when compelled by weather or other causes to trust to their

own intelligence in guiding them from place to place; even many

migratory species far exceed the bounds of their usual resorts, and

certain individuals, not known to be migratory, have found their way

across the whole continent of Europe. A good example of the latter is

seen in the late irruption of Pallas's sand-grouse from north-western

Asia, so well illustrated by Messrs. Moore and Newton, in the "Ibis."

The short-toed lark seldom {60} migrates beyond the northern shores of

the Mediterranean, yet finds itself often in Britain, and caught

either in gales, or wandering unknowingly northward; occasional

individuals of the Egyptian vulture from Spain, the Griffon vulture

and spotted eagle from the mountains of central Europe, and the

spotted cuckoo from north Africa. Moreover, several American species

have been recorded, chiefly water birds, which, of course, are better

adapted to brave the dangers of the deep. Certain birds--to wit, the

redbreast, song-thrush, and black-bird--do not leave the north of

Europe, whilst many of their brethren of Italy and the neighboring

countries make regular annual migrations to Africa and the islands. To

account for this remarkable anomaly, it will be observed that the

robin of the south is far less omnivorous than its northern compeer,

and is not nearly so familiar in its habits--like the warblers, it

depends almost entirely on insect food; consequently, when that fails,

it has no alternative but to push southward, and participating, like

other species, in climatic effects, it would doubtless follow a like

route; and much the same with the thrushes, as they depend in a great

measure on fruits for their winter subsistence. When the grapes of the

south are gathered, having no holly-berries, mountain ash, or haws to

draw on for their winter wants, they would naturally disperse;

probably many fly northward as well; for all the thrushes that cross

the Mediterranean during winter are but an infinitesimal part of what

frequent Italy and the south of Europe in summer. No doubt much

depends on the nature of the locality, whether favorable or otherwise;

and wherever a complete or only partial failure of food has taken

place, so accordingly will the species depart or remain. Moreover,

what has just been remarked in connection with the stone-chat, might

be applied again to the robins and thrushes of southern Europe:

supposing one of either hatched in Italy, and after several years'

migrations to the oasis of the desert, should deviate on one occasion

from its accustomed course and fly northward, and spend the winter in

northern Europe,--with the example of the resident individuals before

it, no doubt the robin would soon pick up crumbs at the kitchen door,

and the thrushes crowd with their indigenous brethren on the

holly-trees, and, becoming climatized, remain in their adopted

countries ever afterward. Although we have no direct proof that such

occurrences actually take place, there is nothing in the bird's

constitution to preclude such a supposition; and not only that, but we

know in the case of Pallas's sand-grouse, and many other accidental

visitors, that they have at once adapted themselves to the food

afforded by the country, although perfectly new to them. How far such

influences, acting on generations and for long periods, do effect the

external appearances or internal structure of a species, are points

not yet clearly determined; but doubtless, as the geographical

distribution and migrations of animals become better known, so will

many difficulties of that nature be cleared up. Of the vast hosts of

birds that cross the Mediterranean annually not a few perish on their

way, and their bodies are thrown up on the beach; many arrive only to

die, as we can testify from our own observations along the shores of

Malta, where we have picked up numerous warblers that had been either

drowned on their passage or died on the rocks, or had dashed

themselves at night against the fortifications and light-houses.

"The beacon blaze illures

The bird of passage, till he madly strikes

Against it, and beats out his weary life."

The quail on its way to Europe in spring, or Africa in autumn, is

often borne back by a strong head-wind to the country it had just

left; and we have repeatedly noticed that a strong sirocco in

September scarcely ever fails in throwing abundance of quail {61} on

the southeast coast of Malta, in the same way that a powerful gregale

brings in many that had been bent on an opposite direction. We now

come to observe that extraordinary intelligence whereby swallows, for

instance, are enabled year after year to return to the same nest.

Taking into consideration the long absence, the dangers and

difficulties incident to the voyage, it seems incredible that any

animal not human can be capable, after nearly eight months' sojourn in

central Africa, to return in spring to a farm-yard in the midland

counties of England; and still more wondrous, as recorded in

"Yarrell's British Birds," that several swifts, undeniably marked,

returned not only for three years in succession, but one of the number

was caught in the same locality at the expiration of seven years.

Here, then, are displayed effects of memory and perception--in fine, a

wondrous manifestation of intellect, which, under the vague name of

instinct, has been applied, we think too indiscriminately, to

such-like mental phenomena among the lower animals.

None of the eagles of Europe seem to cross the great inland sea, or

perform regular migrations. The osprey and peregrine falcon wander

over the south of Europe and north Africa in increased numbers during

the winter months. Flocks of honey-buzzards, orange-legged falcons,

and lesser kestrels, together with numbers of marsh harriers,

kestrels, sparrow-hawks, and in a less proportion the hobby, merlin,

and Montagu's and Swainson's harriers, follow the migratory birds to

and from Africa--some in hot pursuit of the warblers and quail, which

they feed on when they cannot procure more choice food. Thus flocks of

hawks may be seen hovering over the fields in spring, and along the

southern shores of the Mediterranean, where the birds of passage are

assembling before they commence their voyage northward,--all driven

hence by the hot blasts of the desert, which, under such local names

as harmattan, sirocco, kamsin, simoom, and samiel, soon wither

verdure, and compel birds of passage to turn their faces northward,

and fly with all speed to more genial climes. A naval officer informed

us that one spring evening, when a hundred miles off the coast of

Africa, the rigging of his vessel was covered by small birds, which

were seen arriving in scattered flocks from the south; among them were

many hawks and a few small-sized owls, possibly the Scop's eared owl,

which migrates in great numbers at that season. No sooner had the

little birds settled down on the yards than the hawks commenced to

prey on them, and were seen actually devouring their captives within a

few yards of the officers, who attempted to put a stop to the

slaughter by shooting the depredators, but in vain; they continued

pursuing the unfortunate small birds from rope to yard-arm and around

the vessel, until night put an end to the scene, when friend and foe

went to roost, and at break of day all sped their way northward.

The short-eared and Scop's owls are migratory species; both pass and

repass the Mediterranean in great numbers every spring and autumn, not

in flocks, but singly; the latter is much in request as an article of

food, and killed in several of the islands in large numbers; during

its passage through Malta dozens of this handsome little owl may be

seen in the poultry market. As beetles, moths, and the larger insects

constitute the favorite food of the Scop's owl, and bats enter largely

into the fare of its short-eared congener, it may be supposed neither

can have much inducement to prolong its stay in Europe after

September.

The night-jar, although late in arriving in the north of Europe,

crosses the Mediterranean in March; the nocturnal habits of the bird,

by restricting its movements to night and twilight, will account for

its slow progress; it is also much esteemed by the natives {62} of the

south as an article of food. None of the swallow tribe are more exact

in their times of arrival and departure than the swifts, which seem to

proceed further southward than any of the others; whether from sudden

failure of food or change of climate, or both, it is seldom the black

swift tarries on its way; for, not content with the climate of the

southern shores of the great inland sea, it pushes on with little

delay to Abyssinia, Nubia, and even Timbuctoo. The Alpine swift passes

to and from Europe in small numbers; compared with the last-named

species, this is a hardy bird; we have seen it and the house marten

sporting around Alpine glaciers at the latter end of August, when

there was a hoar frost every night, and occasional heavy falls of

snow; many Alpine swifts spend the entire year on the Himalayan

ranges. The chimney, house, and sand swallows make their first

appearance in spring, and leave Europe in the order here given; none

seem to pass the winter in any of the islands, and on their arrival in

Africa move steadily southward to more genial regions. The rock

swallow and rufous swallow make regular migrations from Asia Minor to

south-eastern Europe, few venturing westward of Greece. Owing to the

strong N.E. winds that prevail during the cold months, and sweep along

the Mediterranean basin with great violence, many birds are blown from

one coast to another, and turn up in districts in every way

uncongenial to their habits and wants: thus are recorded by C. A.

Wright, Esq., in his admirable catalogue of "Birds observed in Malta,"

the appearance of the diminutive golden and fire-crested wrens among

the woodless tracts of these bare islands; supposing them to have come

from the nearest point of Sicily, they must have flown at least fifty

miles! Along the shores of the Mediterranean the approach of spring is

heralded by flocks of gaudy bee-eaters, which may be seen advancing

northward in scattered hosts emitting their characteristic call-note.

We have watched them approaching Malta during the calm and delightful

weather at that season, when a few, attracted by the verdure, would

break off from the rest and descend, whilst the majority continued

steering their course in a northerly direction. Luckless is the bird

wanderer that makes a temporary resting-place of Malta at any time,

especially on Sunday, for no sooner is an individual recognized than a

dozen guns are put in requisition, and soon the fair forms of the

bee-eater, oriole, etc., are seen stretched in rows on the benches of

the poulterer. The weird-like form of the hoopoe may constantly be

seen drifting before a south wind in spring, or hastening southward in

August, seldom in flocks, but so numerous that on one occasion, on a

projecting rock in the island of Gozo, we saw in the course of half an

hour no less than ten hoopoes arrive, one after another. None of the

woodpeckers, neither the creeper, nuthatch, nor the wren, seem to

migrate. The warblers no doubt constitute by far the greatest minority

of the birds of passage, and may be said to be most punctual in their

time of arrival and departure. As with other groups, many entirely

abandon their summer or winter residences at the migratory seasons,

whilst others leave a few stragglers behind. The sedge, willow,

garden, the chiffchaff, whitethroat, Sardinian, Dartford, subalpine,

Vieillot's warblers, and the blackcap annually cross and recross the

Mediterranean with undeviating regularity, some in enormous numbers,

especially the garden warbler and whitethroat, which being then plump

and in good condition are in great request, and constitute the

Italian's much relished _beccafico_. The nightingale appears in

considerable numbers and shares the same fate with the last-named

species. The two redstarts, wheatear, whin, and stone-chats, with the

redbreast, come and go to Africa regularly, leaving a few stragglers

on the islands during winter, which, {63} however, unite with their

brethren from north Africa in spring, when all proceed to Europe. The

blue-throated warbler repairs to Egypt in winter, from the

south-eastern countries of Europe and western Asia. A small migration

takes place of the russet and eared wheat-ears annually to southern

Europe in summer, and back again to the African deserts in autumn. As

the song thrush and blackbird are plentiful throughout the year along

the Atlas range, it is probable few of them return in spring, and

whatever do cross in autumn and winter remain with the residents. The

golden oriole passes through Malta regularly on its way northward, and

in small flocks returns to Africa immediately after the harvest and

fruit are collected in autumn. The ring ousel is also migratory; and

although a few missal thrushes and redwings appear on the islands and

southern shores during the cold season, neither can strictly speaking

be called birds of passage, as their numbers seem entirely dependent

on the state of the weather in Europe and local gales. The tree,

meadow, red-throated and tawny pipits cross and recross regularly, and

often in large flocks. The meadow pipit is another illustration of a

bird which remains all the year in northern Europe, but is migratory

in the southern parts. As soon as the hot weather has fairly set in in

Africa, flocks of the short-toed lark proceed to southern Europe and

distribute themselves over wastes; like other desert-living birds, it

is very sensible of cold, and accordingly quits Europe before the

regular migratory season. The sky, crested, and Calandral arks go

southward late in October and the following month; the two last-named

are extremely abundant in north Africa during winter. The woodlark

repairs to southern Europe during the winter, but a few also regularly

push further southward, and cross again in spring. The pied wagtail

and its northern variety, called after the late Mr. Yarrell, repair to

southern Europe on the approach of winter, and many also cross the

great inland sea and proceed a long way into Africa; we found the

former very common up the Nile to the second cataract. The grey

wagtail, although nowhere so common, follows the same course and

pushes northward at the same time with its congener in spring. The

yellow wagtails of Europe have been so frequently confounded and

misnamed, that until the student has carefully examined specimens of

each he will be almost sure to become confused. There is, first, the

yellow wagtail of the British islands, called also Ray's wagtail, that

migrates to the continent in winter, but we opine not to southern

Europe; this bird has been mistaken for the yellow wagtail of the

continent, first described by Linnaeus. Enormous flocks of the

last-named bird cross regularly to and from Africa annually: probably

not a straggler remains in either country after the migratory seasons

are over. We have repeatedly noticed varieties of this wagtail with

grey and black-colored heads, which many naturalists consider as

specific differences, whilst others appear to class them under the

head of a race or variety of the _Motacilla flava_ of Linnaeus. We are

enabled so far to strengthen the latter opinion, by the fact that in a

large series of skins collected from flocks of yellow wagtails during

their migrations across the Mediterranean, we could make out a gradual

transition from the one state of plumage to the other, and we

frequently found the grey, black, and olive-headed (or yellow wagtail

proper) all in one flock and constantly associating together, and with

the same call-note; the only difference was the call-note in autumn in

some was noticed to be harsher; these, however, we ascertained to be

birds of the year. The rook is migratory in south-eastern Europe, and

repairs to the delta of the Nile in large flocks; sometimes it is

driven by stress of weather to the islands of the mid and western

Mediterranean. {64} The northern portion of Africa is a favorite

resort for the starling in winter, when flocks may be constantly seen

all over the south of Europe; they quit, however, in spring and go

northward. The jay has been recorded as migratory, and said to

frequent north Africa, Malta, and Egypt. We cannot, however, find any

authentic confirmation of this statement. All the European flycatchers

cross the Mediterranean very punctually. The spotted bird is by far

the most numerous, next the pied, and in a much less proportion, the

white-necked flycatcher. The first has a very extensive geographical

range, embracing the whole continent of Africa and Europe, and breeds

in great numbers even in North Britain, where we have seen large

flocks in autumn pursuing their retrograde coarse southward. The

woodchat shrike seems to be the only representative of the family that

regularly leaves Europe in winter; its red-backed congener has been

said to migrate to north Africa. The finches are always late in

migrating in autumn, and leave north Africa long before the other

birds of passage; at all times much depends on the severity of the

weather, their numbers increasing or diminishing accordingly. No

doubt, like the thrushes and other species indigenous to temperate

climes, many individuals extend their range during the winter months,

not so much from failure of food, as the cold weather allows them to

wander over regions inimical to their constitutions and wants in

summer; from this cause and the state of the climate in north and mid

Europe, together with the transporting power of gales, may be

attributed the pretty regular appearance of flocks of the following

finches on the islands and southern shores of the great inland ocean.

The linnet is plentiful in Egypt and north Africa in winter; small

flocks of the chaffinch, greenfinch, goldfinch, common buntings,

sirinfinch, grosbeak, and ortolan may be seen among the tamarisk and

olive groves of north Africa at the same season, whilst a few solitary

individuals of the crossbill, scarlet grosbeak, reed and meadow

buntings, cirl and bramble finches, tree and rock sparrows, find their

way in winter to the islands and southern shores of the Mediterranean.

The cuckoo and wryneck are among the foremost birds of passage that

cross to and from Africa, and both seem to have much the same

geographical distribution. We have heard the cuckoo's welcome note

among the carol trees of Malta in March; in the north of Europe in

May; among the stunted birch trees on the confines of perpetual snow

on the Himalayan mountains in July; and often recognized its handsome

form among the orange groves on the torrid plains of India as late as

November.

Many wood and stock pigeons migrate to Africa in winter; their

headquarters, however, would seem to be located in the south of

Europe; not so with the turtle dove, of which flocks of thousands may

be seen steering their course southward in autumn and _vice versa_ in

spring; very few, if any, remaining in Europe or in Africa at the

termination of their migrations. At these seasons they are caught in

great numbers, by means of clapnets and decoy birds. The quail

invariably flies within a few feet of the sea when crossing.

As soon as the cold weather has fairly set in along the shores of the

Mediterranean, a partial migration of the following plovers takes

place. The Norfolk plover disperses in winter over the islands, and

penetrates far south to central Africa. During November flights of

golden plovers arrive on the northern exposures of the Maltese

islands; also a few of the grey and a good many of the lapwing

plovers, all of which go to Africa. The dotterel, with its two-winged

allies, and the Kentish plover, pursue much the same course, perhaps

if anything more of all these pass in autumn than recross in spring,

for the reason that several of the species are resident {65} in

Africa, and extensively distributed over the entire continent. The

common heron and crane repair southward to the African lakes and

rivers, and may be seen during the winter months flying at great

heights; neither is attracted by the mere appearance of land, whist

the purple heron Egret squacco, night heron, little bittern, glossy

ibis, whimbrel, common and slender-billed curlews, fly at lower

levels, and tarry on the islands on their way.

The frosts of October and the following months drive across the inland

sea myriads of greenshanks, wood, the common and little sandpipers,

stilts, water-rails, the common, spotted Baillons, and little crakes,

and the coot. In smaller numbers come black-tailed godwits, common and

jack-snipes, common and spotted redshanks, marsh and green sandpipers,

with ruffs, the great snipe, knot, curlew sandpiper, dunlin turnstone.

Now and then the woodcock wanders across, but as a rule its migration

is mostly confined to the south of Europe. The Adriatic gull extends

its range over the western Mediterranean in winter. Many northern

gulls and terns, to wit, the herring, lesser, and black-backed gulls,

Sandwich, common, the little, the black, the white-winged, and the

whiskered terns, spread themselves over the sea, and wander up the

Nile and to the lakes of north Africa. Of the duck tribe nearly all go

north in spring. Among others, we have noticed the bean goose,

shoveller, shelldrake, mallard, pintail, gadwall, widgeon, teal,

gargany, and castaneous ducks; the red-breasted merganser, and the

cormorant; the crested, horned, eared, and little grebes.

------

Translated from Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires, par

des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.

ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT UNION BETWEEN

THE ANGLICAN AND GREEK CHURCHES.

It is remarkable with what perseverance Protestants have ever labored

to bring about a reconciliation and union between themselves and the

schismatical churches of the East.

When one compares the terms between which it is desired to effect this

union, it is difficult to conceive of two which are more opposed, and

between which there is a more complete contrast. Protestants reject

the authority both of tradition and of the hierarchy; the veneration

of saints, images, and relics; outward ceremonial, and all that which

may be considered as composing the external side of religion. The

Greeks, on the contrary, so far from rejecting these, have rather

exaggerated their importance. It seems impossible that they should

ever reach a uniformity of sentiment; but yet the endeavor to effect

it has been steadily persevered in.

As far back as 1559 Melancthon tried to bring about an understanding

with Joseph II., the patriarch of Constantinople; and on sending him

the confession of Augsburg, he wrote, with rather more cunning than

fairness, "that the Protestants had remained {66} faithful to the Holy

Scriptures, to the dogmatic decisions of holy councils, and to the

teaching of Athanasius, Basil, Gregory, Epiphanius, etc., the fathers

of the Greek Church; that they rejected the errors of Paul of

Samosata, of the Manichees, and of all the heresiarchs condemned by

the Holy Church, as well as the superstitious practices introduced by

ignorant monks into the Latin Church, wherefore he besought the

patriarch to give no heed to the evil reports which were in

circulation against Protestants."

It seems the patriarch was not to be caught by these plausible

professions, for he made no reply. The Protestants were not

discouraged, and fifteen years later a fresh attempt was made by the

Lutheran university of Tübingen. The ambassador of the German emperor

at Constantinople was a Protestant, and had brought with him a

minister of his own denomination, named Gerlach. It was he who carried

on the negotiations between the university of Tübingen and the

Patriarch Jeremias. The whole of this correspondence is before the

public. The patriarch refutes the Protestant doctrines with great

ability and clearness, and concludes by requesting the professors of

Tübingen to trouble him no longer and to send him no more letters.

They were not to be discouraged by a trifle like this; but write what

they would, the patriarch made them no further reply. This negotiation

began in 1573 and lasted until 1581, but nothing came of it.

Fifty years after the Lutherans had failed, in their turn the

Calvinists made another effort, which seemed to promise better

success. The ambassadors of Holland, England, and Sweden took the most

active and energetic part in the matter. The patriarch, of

Constantinople, Cyril Lucar, himself a Calvinist at heart, so far from

opposing their designs, favored them with all his power. Success

seemed certain. After various vicissitudes Cyril Lucar died in 1638.

[Footnote 2] A few weeks after his death the synod of Constantinople

pronounced sentence of censure upon his propositions, and anathema

upon himself. In 1642 a second council was held under the Patriarch

Parthenius, who was very hostile both to Rome and to Catholics, which

confirmed the previous condemnation of Cyril. Among others, Peter

Mogila, metropolitan of Kief, signed this fresh censure. Last of all,

these condemnations of 1638 and 1642 were confirmed by a council held

at Jerusalem in 1672, over which the Patriarch Dositheus presided.

[Footnote 2: He was thrown into the Bosphorus by the sultan, at the

request of his brother bishops.--Ed. C.W.]

The creation of a bishopric at Jerusalem may be regarded, also, as an

attempt at reunion between the Protestants and the schismatic churches

of the East. Frederick William IV., king of Prussia, assisted by M. de

Bunsen, was the promoter of this idea, but it was too ingenious and

too complicated to be practical. It proposed to labor for the

conversion of the Jews; to prepare the way for the union of the

schismatical churches of the East with, the Anglican; and, by means of

the evangelical church of Prussia, to induce the various sects of

Protestantism to conform in matters of doctrine and discipline to the

Church of England. The archbishop of Canterbury favored the plan; but,

as was to be expected, there were many Protestants who were very far

from giving it their approbation. As to the Oriental Christians, they

were exceedingly astonished, as Dr. Bowring humorously related before

Parliament, at the arrival, not only of a bishop (_un vescovo_), but

of a lady-bishop (_una vescova_) and baby-bishops (_vescovini_). After

an existence of twenty years, no pretence is yet made that the

bishopric of Jerusalem has succeeded in effecting any reconciliation

whatever with the Oriental churches, or that it has in any measure

prepared the way for the uniting of {67} Protestantism itself. The

Anglican Church is herself more divided than ever, and demonstrates

more conclusively from year to year how impossible it is for her to

keep fast hold upon any creed whatever. Perhaps this manifestation of

internal division and doctrinal anarchy may contribute somewhat to

turn the eyes of Anglicans toward the ancient and immovable Church of

the East.

However this may be, we have before us in our own day a fresh attempt

at reunion about which we must say a few words. The facts are as

follows: Three or four years ago Dr. Troll, [Footnote 3] bishop of

the Episcopalian Church in San Francisco, discovered that there were

in his diocese some four hundred persons belonging to the Greek

Church, who, while they recognized his authority up to a certain

point, yet refused to receive communion from his hands. Dr. Troll

referred the matter to the convention of the Episcopal Church in the

United States, who appointed a committee to examine and report on the

relation in which the two churches stood toward one another. The

Church of England took part in the investigation, and convocation met

at Canterbury in 1863, appointing a commission whose duty it should be

to have an understanding with the Episcopal Church in America and

co-operate with her. In the month of February, 1865, this commission

presented their report before convocation at Canterbury. The American

committee published a series of works designed to prepare the way for

union by making known the dogmas and rites of the Greco-Russian

Church. The English commission formed an association whose object it

was to make the Oriental churches known to Englishmen, and in turn to

make the Anglican Church understood by the Christians of the East. The

Anglican archbishop of Dublin, many other bishops of the same church,

and the archbishop of Belgrade, were among the patrons of this

association.

[Footnote 3: There is some mistake here. Dr. Kip is the Protestant

Bishop of California.--Ed. C.W.]

In 1864, Dr. Young of New York made a visit to Russia, where he put

himself in communication with the more prominent members of the

Russian episcopate. The Episcopalian bishop of San Francisco visited

Georgia, Servia, and Bulgaria, and more recently Nice, where he

frequented the Russian chapel.

Messrs. Popof and Wassilief, chaplains of the Russian ambassadors at

London and Paris, were present at the sittings of the English

commission and took part in its deliberations. By the very last news

from America we are informed that _divine service_ [_i.e.,_mass.--Ed.]

was solemnly celebrated, according to the Oriental rite and in the

Sclavonic language, in one of the principal Episcopalian churches of

New York city. According to the American newspapers, the celebrant was

F. Agapius, recently come to America, having been appointed by the

Russian Church to the spiritual charge of his co-religionists in the

United States. The "Union Chrétienne," Paris paper, informs us that

Father Agapius Honcharenko is a deacon of the Russian Church who was

ordained priest by a bishop of the Greek Church, which ordination was

irregular; and that F. Agapius acted without any authority from the

Russian Church; and lastly, that he was associated with M. Alexander

Herzen at London and took part in the publication of the "Kolokol"

(the "Clock"). This last fact is of a character to make a deep

impression upon the members of the synod of St. Petersburg, but it is

not so clear that it exercised the same influence upon the mind of the

Americans. The "Union Chrétienne" appears to think that when this

valuable information about Agapius Honcharenko reaches New York, the

Episcopal Church will have nothing more to do with him. This is

possible, but as yet it is mere conjecture. However this may be, this

little incident is not calculated to {68} kindle in the synod of

Russia any great zeal for the proposed reunion.

The "Den" (Day), a periodical in Moscow, has also an account of the

celebration of this mass in New York, in its fourteenth number, 1865.

Evidently the Moscovite journal has none of the information as to this

individual, P. Honcharenko, which was given by the "Union Chrétienne;"

but it makes up for this by the important fact that although this

priest may have received no mission from the Russian Church, he was

endowed with at least equal power and authorization by the

metropolitan of Athens and the synod of the kingdom of Greece, which

is easy of explanation, since from Athens he embarked for America.

The April number, 1865, of the "Otetchestrennyja Sapiski," or

"Patriotic Annals," also speaks of the attempt at reunion, and it

repeats the conditions proposed by the theologians of the Episcopal

churches of England and America. These conditions no doubt constitute

matter of much interest, but as we have not been able to procure this

number of the St. Petersburg review, we can say nothing about them.

On the whole, up to the present time but one bishop of the Oriental

schismatic church has shown himself favorable to this project, viz.,

Monsignor Michel, archbishop of Belgrade, or, rather, metropolitan of

Servia, under which title he presides over the church in Servia. This

prelate made his theological studies at Kief, has held the see of

Belgrade since 1859, and is not yet forty years of age. Those persons

whose privilege it has been to have access to him, represent him as a

man of a high order of intelligence, very pleasing and attractive in

his personal appearance, dignified in his manners, and very exemplary

in his life. If one may rely upon the testimony of Protestant

travellers who have been in communication with him, it would appear

that he has shown himself very favorable to a reconciliation between

the Church of England and the schismatical churches of the East, and

that for his own part he would not hesitate to express in warm terms

his gratitude to the Protestants for their profitable investigations

regarding the Greek Church. In fine, it is possible that Monsignor

Michel might allow himself to be induced to take up again, in an

underhand way, the scheme of Cyril Lucar. This is no small

undertaking. Before it is possible to blend these two churches into

one, a perfect understanding must be had on a great number of points

which are of the highest importance. It will suffice to mention such,

_e.g._, as the mass, the sacraments, the procession of the Holy Ghost,

devotion to the Blessed Virgin and the saints, and the honor to be

paid to relics and images. In addition to these must be settled the

question as to the validity of the Anglican orders. As to Monsignor

Michel personally, he would have an additional difficulty to contend

with. Everybody knows that the people of Servia have very little

sympathy with the people of England, and they would undoubtedly

manifest very little inclination to follow their metropolitan should

he try to induce them to do so.

It must be admitted, however, that the endeavor to reunite the two

churches has far more hope of success in the nineteenth than it had

either in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. On the one hand, the

teaching of the Puseyites has spread widely among the Anglican clergy.

Men of distinction who have made their studies at Oxford and Cambridge

are beginning more and more to suspect that apostolicity is an

essential note of the church of Jesus Christ, and that it is very

difficult to discover this in a church which dates only from the time

of Henry VIII.; they are gradually giving up the principle of private

judgment, and are learning to appreciate more and more the value of

tradition, of the fathers, and of the general councils of the Church.

On the other hand, adherence to {69} orthodoxy has, in the East, lost

somewhat of its deep, sincere, and inflexible character. Some years

since we had occasion to show, in the pages of this review, that in

her theological teaching the Russian Church had been materially

affected by Protestant influence. This is no longer so in our own day,

if we may judge by the public writings of the Russian bishops, and

there has been a very general return to doctrines much more in harmony

with the traditions of the churches of the East. But at the same time

one must admit that rationalism and infidelity have made fearful

ravages in the East as well as in the West. Talk with young men from

Russia, Greece, Romania, and Servia who have made their studies in

either Russian or German universities, who have attended the course of

lectures given by professors from either Athens or Paris, and you will

see how feeble, cold, and wavering their faith has become. The result

has been a prevailing atmosphere, both intellectual and moral, which

enervates the firmness of convictions, and generates a certain laxity

in one's hold on the teachings of the faith. People have become more

ready to conform to public opinion, and I should be greatly surprised

if an attempt similar to that made by Cyril Lucar should find in the

East of to-day an equally universal and prompt condemnation.

Moreover, the working of Protestant missions in the East has not been

so completely unsuccessful as many persons are pleased to report As a

general thing Protestant missionaries are men of intelligence,

education, and good breeding; they make a thorough study of the

country in which they reside; they erect schools and printing presses,

and put in circulation a large number of books. It is impossible to

admit that all this can be absolutely without effect. These schools

and those books must be the germ of an influence which time cannot

fail to develop. I am very well assured that Protestantism has very

few attractions for the people of the East in any point of view, least

of all on the side of externals, and that the difficulty of making

Protestants of the people of the East would be very great; still, one

must not conclude from this that it would be impossible to bring about

a certain kind of union; that an arrangement might not be made which

would introduce a different spirit into the schismatical churches of

the East while they yet preserved their external form. I grant you the

liturgy of the East, eminently dogmatical as it is, would contrast

most singularly with Protestant notions; but remember, we are not now

speaking of Protestantism in its pure development, but of the Anglican

phase of it, and of Anglicanism leavened by Puseyism.

In conclusion, I have no faith myself in this attempt; but still a

person would have a false idea of the state of the case who should

regard the move as a purely fanciful one, and one unworthy the

attention of serious-minded men.

But, now, supposing this effort should be successful, have we

Catholics any cause for alarm? I think rather the contrary. The Church

of England is as clearly wanting in apostolicity as the Greek Church

is in catholicity. The one has need to link herself on to the chain of

past time; the other to extend her boundaries, that she may no longer

feel herself to be enclosed within a part of the world; that she may

not have the appearance of identifying herself with only a few of the

many races of men. Even admitting that by means of this alliance the

English could congratulate themselves upon having won back their title

to apostolicity, and the Greeks in turn theirs to catholicity, the

need of unity would be felt all the more, which neither can ever

attain to, apart from that rock upon which our Lord and Saviour Jesus

Christ has built his Church, and against which the gates of hell shall

never prevail.

J. GAGARIN. [Footnote 4]

[Footnote 4: F. Gagarin is a Russian prince, a convert from the

Greek schism, and a member of the Society of Jesus.--Ed.]

------

{70}

From The Sixpenny Magazine.

THE CHILDREN.

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed,

The little ones gather around me

To bid me "good night," and be kissed.

Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace;

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face.

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood--too lovely to last--

Of joy that my heart will remember

While it wakes to the pulse of the past:

Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,

When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

I ask not a life for the dear ones

All radiant, as others have done;

But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil;

But my prayer would bound back to myself:

Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner.

But a sinner must pray for himself^

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more;

Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door;

I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee;

The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.

----------

{71}

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER XIII.

The next morning Winny presented herself at the breakfast-table,

looking more attractive and more tidily dressed, her rich glossy hair

better brushed and smoothed down more carefully than was usual at that

hour of the day. Her daily custom, like all other country girls who

had household concerns to look after, was not to "tidy herself up"

until they had been completed. She was not ignorant, however, of the

great advantage which personal neatness added to beauty gave a young

girl who had a cause to plead. And although the man upon whom she

might have to throw herself for mercy was her father, she was not slow

on this occasion to claim their advocacy for what they might be worth.

But she had also prayed to God to guide her in all her replies to the

parent whom she was bound to honor and obey, as well as to Love. She

had not contented herself with having set out her own appearance to

the best advantage, but she had also set out the breakfast-table in

the same way. The old blue-and-white teapot had been left on the

dresser, and a dark-brown one, with a figured plated lid, taken out of

the cupboard of Sunday china. Two cups and saucers, and plates "to

match," with two real ivory-hafted knives laid beside them. There was

also some white _broken_ sugar in a glass bowl, which Winny had won in

a lottery at Carrick-on-Shannon from a "bazaar-man." There was nothing

extraordinary in all this for persons of their means, though, to tell

the truth, it was not the every-day paraphernalia of their

breakfast-table. Winny had not been idle either in furnishing the

plates with a piping hot potato-cake, a thing of which her father was

particularly fond, and which she often gave him; but this one had a

few carraway-seeds through it, and was supposed to be better than

usual. Then she had a couple of slices of nice thin bacon fried with

an egg, which she knew he liked too. All this was prepared, and

waiting for her father, whose fatigue of the day before had caused him

to sleep over-long.

While waiting for him, it struck Winny that he must think such

preparations out of the common, and perhaps done for a purpose. Upon

reflection she was almost sorry she had not confined her

embellishments to her own personal appearance, and even that, she

began to feel, might have been as well let alone also. But she had

little time now for reflection, for she heard her father's step, as he

came down stairs.

She met him at the door, opening it for him.

"Good morrow, father," she said; "how do you find yourself to-day? I

hope you rested well after your long walk yesterday."

"After a while I did, Winny; but the tea you made was very strong, an'

I didn't sleep for a long time after I went to bed."

"Well, 'a hair of the hound,' you know, father dear. I have a good cup

for you now, too; it will not do you any harm in the morning when you

have the whole day before you. And I have a nice potato-cake for you,

for I know you like it."

"Troth I b'lieve you have, Winny; an' I smell the carraways that I

like. But, Winny, sure the ould blue teapot's not broken, is it?"

{72}

"No, father; but I was busy with the potato-cake this morning, and had

not time to wash it out last night, so I took out number one to give

it an airing; and I put down the other things to match."

The portion of this excuse which was true was far greater than that

which was not; and Winny, who as a general rule was truthful, was

satisfied with it--and, reader, so must you be.

"Never mind, Winny, you are mistress here, an' I don't want any

explanation; it wasn't that made me spake; but I'd be sorry th' ould

blue teapot was bruck, for we have it since afore you were well in

your teens. You're lookin' very well this mornin', Winny agra."

"Hush, father; eat your cake, and don't talk nonsense. There's an egg

that black Poll laid this morning, and here's some butter I finished

not five minutes before you came in yesterday evening. Shall I give

you some tea?"

"If you please, Winny dear." And the old man looked at his daughter

with undeniable admiration.

They then enjoyed a neat and comfortable breakfast, which indeed

neither of them seemed in a hurry to bring to an end. The old man was

constrained and silent, and left all the talk to Winny, who, it must

be admitted, never felt it more difficult to furnish conversation. Old

Ned looked at her once or twice intently, as if wondering at her being

much finer than usual; and then he looked at the breakfast gear; and

the expression of his face was as if he suspected something. These

looks, both at herself and the table, did not escape Winny's notice,

but she never met them, always interrupting any exclamation which was

likely to follow them with some question or remark of her own, such

as, "Do you like that cake, father?" "That is the muil cow's butter; I

always keep her milk by itself, and churn it in the small chum for

you, father; you said you liked it." "Here, Bully-dhu, is a piece of

cake for you."

With some such heterogeneous questions or remarks as these, she

managed to parry his looks, or at all events the observations which

were likely to follow them, and direct for the moment--ah, Winny, it

was only for the moment!--his thoughts from whatever was upon them,

and which Winny believed she knew right well.

But this suspense on both sides must come to an end. Old Ned, from his

conversation with Mick Murdock, had determined not to speak to his

daughter until he knew Tom had done so. But Winny did not know this,

and dreaded every moment a thunder-clap would come which she was

herself preparing for her father, and she was anxious, if it was only

for the sake of propriety, to tell her story unprovoked.

The old man now stood up from the table, saying he would be likely to

be out all day, as he was preparing to get down some wheat. But Winny,

when it came to the point, could only stammer out in a feeble voice,

that she wanted to speak to him before he went.

"Now's your time, Winny dear, for I have a great dale to do before

dinner-time; an' I must be off to the men."

"Father dear, I may as well tell you at once--I'm in trouble--about

--about--about--Tom--Murdock." And she threw her arms round his neck,

and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.

"An' is that all, mavourneen? Ah, Winny, Winny, I knew it would come

to this!--mavourneen macree, I knew it would. But there, Winny jewel,

don't be crying--don't be crying; sure you know I'm not the man to

cross your wishes; no--no, my own girl, I'd neither oppose you nor

force you for 'the world; aren't you the only one I have on airth? an'

sure isn't your happiness mine, Winny dear? There, Winny, don't cry;

sure you may do as you like, mavourneen macree, you may."

Winny knew that all this was uttered under a misconception, and it

gave her but little comfort. There was {73} _one_ part of it, however,

she would not forget.

"Oh, father," she sobbed out upon his breast, "Tom Murdock has asked

me to marry him." And the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Why then, Winny dear, dhry up them tears; sure I know they're on my

account, at the thoughts of partin' me; but won't you be livin' at the

doore with me while I last? Isn't it what I always hoped an' prayed

for?--och, Winny, Winny, but you're the lucky girl this day, an' I'm

the lucky man, for it will add ten years to my life."

And he kissed her yielding lips over and over again. But she did not

speak; while the big tears continued to course themselves down her

pale but beautiful cheeks.

"Don't--don't, Winny asthore; don't be crying on my account; sure I

may say we'll not have to part at all. Mick an' I have it all settled,

mavourneen; he's to build you a grand new house where th' ould one

stan's, an' I'm to furnish it from top to toe; and Mick an' I will

live here, not three hundred yards from the pair of you. Oh, Winny,

Winny, but it's I is the happy man this day! There, don't be cryin', I

tell you; sure I would not gainsay you for the world;" and he kissed

her again. But still she did not speak.

"There, Winny, there; don't be sobbin' an' cryin', I tell you. Why,

what's the matther with you, Winny mavrone?"

"Oh, father, father, it never can be!" she exclaimed in broken sobs,

and clinging to his neck closer than ever.

"Nonsense, Winny! what's the matther, I say? why can't it be? Of

course you did not refuse Tom's offer?"

"I'd, father--indeed I did. I never can care for Tom Murdock; father,

I could never be happy with that man. Don't ask me to marry him."

"Is the girl mad? To be sure I will, Winny. There's but the two of you

in it an' with Mick's farm an' mine joined,--the leases are all as one

as 'free simple,'--you'd be as grand as many ladies an' gentlemen in

the county;" and he disengaged himself from her arms, and strode

toward the door.

Winny thought he was going; but he had no notion of it at so unsettled

a point. She rushed between him and the door.

"Father, don't go!" she cried; "for God's sake don't leave me that

way!"

"Winny, it's what I'm greatly surprised at you, so I am. My whole life

has been spent in puttin' together a dacent little fortun' for you; I

never had one on airth I loved but yourself an' your poor mother--God

rest her sowl! I never spoke a cross word to you, Winny jewel, since I

followed her to the grave, four days after you were born; an' now, in

my old days, when I haven't long to last, you're goin' to break my

heart, an' shorten them same. Oh, Winny, Winny, say it's only jokin'

you are, an' I'll forgive you, cruel as it was."

"No, father, I'm telling you the real truth; people seldom joke with

the tears running down their cheeks; look at them, father. I know all

you say is true; and indeed it will break my own heart to oppose you,

if you do not yield. But listen here, father dear; sure after all your

love and kindness to me for the last eighteen or twenty years, I may

say, you won't go now and spoil it all by crossing my happiness

without any necessity for it. Tom put all the grandeur and wealth

before me himself, that the joining of the two farms and marrying him

would bring to me. But it is no use, father; I never liked that man,

and I never can. Oh, don't ask me, father asthore; I'm contented and

happy as I am."

"Winny, I never found you out in a lie since you could first spake,

an' I'm sure you won't tell me one now. Listen to me, Winny. Tom

Murdock is a fine, handsome young fellow, an' {74} well to do in the

world, with a grand education, an' fit to hould his own anywhere; and

I say he's any young girl's fancy, or ought to be, at any rate. You

an' he have been reared at the doore with each other. What you are

yourself, Winny asthore, I need not say, for every one that sees you

knows it; and well they may, for sure you spake for yourself. It

seldom happens--indeed, Winny, I never knew it--that a boy an' girl

like you an' Tom, reared at the doore that way, fail but what they

take a likin' to each other. It seems Tom done his part, both as to

the likin' an' spakin', as he ought to do in both; but you, Winny,

have done neither. Now, Winny, I can't but think that's very strange,

an' I have but the one way to riddle it. Tell me now, honestly and

plainly, is there any one that cum afore Tom in his request? Answer me

that, Winny?"

"I win, father, honestly and truly. It is not that any one has come

between me and Tom that made me refuse him. The very thing that you

say, of our being reared at the door with one another, has made me

dislike him. I have seen too much of his ways, and heard too many of

his words, ever to like him, father; there is no use in trying to make

me, for I never can."

"But, Winny jewel, you have hardly answered my question yet. Are you

secretly promised, Winny, to any other young man that you're afeard I

wouldn't like? that's the plain question. The truth now, Winny,--the

truth, Winny!"

"No, father, certainly not. Tom Murdock is the only man that ever

asked me."

"Was there ever anything betune you an' young Lennon, Emon-a-knock, as

I have heard you call him myself?"

"Never, father; Emon never spoke to me upon such a subject, and

further than that, he has paid me less compliments and spoken less to

me upon any subject than fifty young men in the parish."

It so happened, however, that the name had hightened Winny's color,

and her father, looking at her with an admiring and affectionate

smile, said:

"Fifty, Winny! well, in throth, I don't wonder at it, or a hundred an'

fifty, if they were in the parish."

Winny took advantage of his smile.

"There, father dear, don't be angry with your poor colleen; she'll do

better than to marry riches with misery. Thank God, and you, father,

she will have more than enough without coveting Tom Murdock's share."

And she held up her beautiful lips, and looked in the old man's face

with eyes swimming in tears.

Old Ned had fought the battle badly, and lost it. He bent down his

head to meet his daughter's caress, and pressed her to his heart.

"There, Winny mavourneen," he exclaimed; "I have not loved you as the

apple of my eye, since your poor mother died, for me to thwart you

now. You shall never marry Tom Murdock except with your own free will

and consent, asthore. As you say, Winny dear, we neither want nor

covet his share. But sure, Winny dear, I thought you were for him all

along."

"Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times, father dear; that is so

like you. I knew you would not break your Winny's heart."

But Winny Cavana was too honorable, even toward the man she hated, to

tell her father of the conversation she had overheard between old

Murdock and his son at the gate. She had gained her cause without

that.

CHAPTER XIV.

Tom Murdock had no fixed purpose in anywhere he went after Winny

Cavana left him discomfited upon the road. He wandered on past Kate

Mulvey's, on toward Shanvilla, but not with any hope or wish to come

{75} across Edward Lennon. His intentions of "dealing with him" were

yet distant and undefined. What naturally occupied his thoughts was

the humiliation he felt at Winny Cavana having refused him. Although

he had complained to his father "that he did not think she was for

him," yet upon a due consideration of his personal appearance, and his

position in the country, he felt persuaded in his own mind that his

father was right, and that nothing was required to secure success but

to go boldly and straightforward to work. Tom had hinted to his

father, although the old man had not observed it, or if so, had taken

no notice of it, that there were more reasons than he was aware of for

his wishing to secure Winny Cavana's ready money at all events; and

his exclamation when his father spoke of only the interest, might have

awakened him to the dread, at least, that there really was some cause,

with which he was unacquainted, why he dwelt so much more on the

subject of her fortune than the land. The fact was so. Tom Murdock was

a worse young man than any one--except his immediate associates--was

aware of. In addition to his other accomplishments, perhaps I should

rather say his attributes, he possessed a degree of worldly cunning

which would have sufficed to keep any four ordinary young men out of

trouble. But he required it all, for he had four times more

villany--not to answer for, for it was unknown, but on his

conscience--than any young man of like age in the parish.

One great keeper of a secret--for the time being, at least--is plenty

of money. With plenty of money you can keep people in the dark, or

blind them with the brightness of the glare. You can keep them in the

country, or you can send them out of it, as circumstances require. You

can bribe people to be silent, or to tell lies, as you like. But a

villain who has not plenty of money cannot thrive long in his villany.

When his money fails, his character oozes out, until he becomes

finally exposed.

Tom Murdock had practically learned some of the above truths by his

experience in life, short as it was, better than anything he had

learned at Rathcash national school. The later part of it was what he

now feared, but did not wish to learn.

Tom could not have been in the habit of going to Dublin, to Armagh,

and Sligo (no one knew in what capacity), three or four times a year,

where he played cards and bet high, without money of his own;

supposing even that his expenses of the road (which was shrewdly

suspected) had been paid. He could not have sent half-a-dozen young

_friends_ to America, and compromised scores of actions ere they came

before a court of law, without money. He could not have kept a brace

of greyhounds, and a race-mare, at Church's hotel in

Carrick-on-Shannon, as "Mr. Marsden's," without money; and more money

in all these cases, from the secrecy which was required, than almost

the actual cost might involve. There were other smaller matters, too,

which increased the necessity for Tom Murdock to be always in

possession of some ready cash. This, from his position as heir to

Rathcashmore, and heir presumptive, if not apparent, to Rathcash

alongside of it, he had as yet found no difficulty in procuring upon

his own personal security; and to do him justice, he had hitherto

avoided mixing up his father's name or responsibility in any of his

borrowing transactions. Then there was the usurious interest which

these money-lenders, be they private or public, charge upon loans, to

be added to Tom's liabilities. If he was pressed by Paul, he robbed

Peter to pay him; and when (after long forbearance) he was pressed by

Peter, he robbed Paul back again. Upon all these and such-like

occasions, Winny Cavana's fortune, which he said would be paid down,

was the promptest guarantee he could hold out for payment; for {76}

ultimately, he said, they could not lose, as he must some day or other

"pop into the old chap's shoes," and in the meantime he was paying the

interest regularly.

Winny Cavana's instinct had not deceived her; but had she known

one-half as much as some of Tom Murdock's bosom friends could tell

her, she would have openly spurned him, and not have treated his

advances with even the forced consideration she had done.

He wandered on now toward Shanvilla, without, as we have seen, any

fixed purpose. Personally humiliated as he had been by Winny's refusal

of him, his thoughts dwelt more upon the fact that he could no longer

reckon upon her fortune to pay off the tormenting debts which were

every day pressing more heavily upon him; for he could not but believe

that her refusal of him would get abroad. The Peters had been robbed

often enough, and they would now let the Pauls fight their battle the

best way they could with Tom Murdock himself; they were safe now, and

they would keep themselves so. They had told Tom this,--"not that they

doubted him, but their money was now otherwise employed." Tom began to

fear, therefore, that an exposure must soon break out.

How could he face his father, too? He would undoubtedly lay his

failure to the score of his own impetuous and uncouth manner of

seeking her favor; for he had often charged him with both,

particularly toward Winny Cavana. One or two of his creditors had

given up even the pretence of being civil, and had sworn "they would

go to his father for payment, if not promptly settled with."

It was no great wonder if Tom wandered through the country with no

fixed purpose, and finally arrived, tired and ill-humored, at his

father's house.

The old man had missed him "from about the place" all the forenoon,

and had naturally set down his absence to the right cause. He had been

candid in his advice to his son, "to spake up bowldly, and at wanst,

to Winny;" and he was sincere in his belief that she would "take him

hoppin." This day, suspecting he was on the mission, he had "kep'

himself starvin'," and delayed the dinner for his return. He had

ordered Nancy Feehily to have "a young roast goose, an' a square of

bacon, an' greens, for dinner agen misther Tom cem home." He

anticipated "grand chuckling" over Tom's success, of which he made no

more doubt than he did of his own existence.

"At last, Tom a wochal, you're cum," he said, as his son entered the

door. "But where the sorra have you been? I think Winny's at home this

betther nor two hours, for I seen her going in. Well, Tom, you devil!

didn't I tell you how it id be?--_dhitidtch!_" he added, making an

extraordinary noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and

giving his son a poke in the ribs with his forefinger.

"No, but did not I tell you how it would be? There, father! that

bubble's burst, and I'm sorry I ever made an _onshiough_ of myself."

"Faix, an', Tom, you must be an _onshiough_ if that bubble burst,

unless it's what you blew it out yourself. Di ye mane to say you spoke

to her plain, as I tould you to do, Tom avic?"

"As plain as the palm of my hand, father. I put the whole thing before

her in the kindest and fondest manner ever a man spoke. I told her how

my whole heart and soul was waiting for her this three or four years

past--God forgive me for the lie."

"Amen, Tom, if it was one; but maybe it wasn't, man. You're vexed now,

Tom agra; but it won't be so. I tell you she only wants to see if

you'll folly her up afther she giving you one refusal. What did she

say, agra?"

Here Nancy Feehily brought in the roast goose and square of bacon,

with a dish of smoking "Brown's fancies" {77} in their jackets, and a

check was given to the conversation. The old man, as he had said, had

"kep' himself starvin'," and Tom could not keep himself from a like

infirmity in his ramble through the country. He was not one of those

who permitted a mental annoyance to produce a physical _spite_ in

return; he did not, as they say, cut his nose to vex his face, nor

quarrel with his bread and butter; so, between them, they did ample

justice to Nancy Feehily's abilities as a cook.

"You don't mane to say she refused you, Tom?" said the old man, after

the girl had left, and while he was waiting for his son to cut him

another slice of bacon.

"She did, father; but let me alone about her now: I'll tell you no

more until I make myself a rousing tumbler of punch after dinner. She

shall not take away my appetite, at all events."

Nor did she. Tom never ate a better dinner in his life, and his father

followed his example. Old Mick had taken the hint, and said no more

upon the subject. There was nothing but helping of goose, and slices

of bacon, and cutting large smiling potatoes through the middle, with

a dangerous sound of the knife upon the cloth, until the meal was

ended.

Then, when the things had been removed, and Tom had made his rouser to

his satisfaction, and his father had done the same, Tom told him

precisely what had taken place between him and Winny Cavana.

Old Murdock listened with an attentive stare until his son had told

him all. He then put out his tongue and made another extraordinary

sound, but very different from the one already alluded to; and

exclaimed, "Bad luck to her impidence, say I!"

"And I say amen, father."

"Tell me, Tom, do you think that fellow Lennon is at the bottom of all

this? Did you put that to her?"

"I did, father, and she was not a bit puzzled or flustrificated about

him. She spoke of him free and easy; but she denied that there was

ever a word between them but common civility."

"An' maybe it's the thruth, Tom avic. You'll find anyhow that she'll

change her tune afther her father gets spakin' to her on the subject.

He'll be as stout as a bull, Tom; I know he will. He tould me he'd

never give in, and that he'd threaten to cut her fortun' off, and make

over his interest in the land to the church for charitable purposes,

if she tuck up the smallest notion of that pauper,--that scullion, he

called him. Don't be down about it, Tom. They say that wan swallow

makes no summer; an' I say, wan wild goose makes no winter. My advice

to you now, Tom, is, to wait a while; don't be goin' out at all,

neither here nor there for some time. I'll let on I don't know what

can be the matther with you; an' you'll see she'll come an' be hoppin'

round you like a pet robin."

"I hope you are right, father, but I don't think so; I never saw a

woman more determined in my life--she took her oath."

"Pshaw, Tom, that's nothin'. Don't torment yourself about it now; mark

my words, her father will soon bring her to her senses."

"I do not much care whether he does or does not as to herself; only

for that six hundred pounds, the most of which I want badly. I would

not envy any man that was tied to the like of her."

"Arra, Tom jewel, what would you want wid the most of six hundred

pounds; sure if you got it itself, you oughtn't to touch a penny of

it."

Tom had not intended to say what he had said; it slipped out in his

vexation. But here his worldly cunning and self-possession came to his

aid, and he replied.

"Perhaps not, indeed, father; but there is a spot of land not far off

which will soon be in the market, I hear, and it would be no bad

speculation to buy it. I think it would pay six or seven per cent

interest." Tom knew his father's weakness for {78} a bit of land, and

was ready enough.

"Oh, that's a horse of another color, Tom. Arra, where is it? I didn't

hear of it."

"No matter now, father. I cannot get the money, so let me alone about

it. I wish the d--l had the pair of them."

"Whist, whist, Tom avic; don't be talking in that way. Sure af it's a

safe purchase for six per cent., the money might be to be had. Thanks

be to God, we're not behouldin' to that hussey's dirty drib for

money."

Here a new light dawned upon Tom. Might he not work a few hundreds out

of his father in some way or other for this pretended purchase, and

then say that it would not be sold after all; and that he had relodged

the money, or lost it, or was robbed--or--or--something? The thought

was too vague as yet to take any satisfactory shape; but the result

upon his mind at the moment was, that his father was too wide awake to

be dealt with in that way.

"Well, father," he said, "I shall be guided by your advice in this

business still, although I have done no good by taking it to-day; but

listen to me now, father."

"An' welcome, Tom. I like a young man to have a mind of his own, an'

to be able to strike out a good plan; an' then, if my experience isn't

able to back it up, why I spake plainly an' tell him what I think."

"My opinion is, father, that I ought to go away out of this place

altogether for a while. You know I am not one that moping about the

house and garden would answer at all. I must be out and going about,

father, or I'd lose my senses."

This was well put, both in matter and manner, and the closing words

told with crowning effect. Tom had said nothing but the fact; such

were his disposition and habits that he had scarcely exaggerated the

effects of a close confinement to the premises, while of sound bodily

health.

"Begorra, Tom, what you say is the rale thruth; What would you think

of going down to your aunt in Armagh for a start?"

"No use, father,--no use; I could be no better there than where I am.

Dublin, father, or the continent, for a month or six weeks, might do

me some good."

"Bedads, Tom, that id take a power of money, wouldn't it?"

"Whether you might think so or not, father, would depend upon what you

thought my health and happiness would be worth; here I cannot and will

not stay, that is one sure thing."

"Well, Tom, af she doesn't cum round in short, afther her father opens

out upon her, we'll talk it over, and see what you would want; but my

opinion is, you won't have to make yourself scarce at all--mind my

words."

Here Tom fell into such a silent train of thought, that all further

conversation was brought to an end. Old Mick believed his son to be

really unhappy "about that impideut hussey;" and having made one or

two ineffectual efforts "to rouse him," he left him to his

meditations.

At the moment they were fixed upon a few of his father's closing

words, "see what you'll want." "Want--want!" he repeated to himself.

"A dam' sight more than you'll fork out, old cock."

Old Mick busied himself about the house, fidgeting in and out of the

room--upstairs and downstairs; while Tom was silently arranging more

than one programme of matters which must come off if he would save

himself from ruin and disgrace.

His father had ceased to come into the room; indeed his step had not

been heard through the house or on the stairs for some time, and it

was evident he had gone to bed. But Tom sat for a full hour longer,

with scarcely a change of position of even hand or foot. At length,

with a sudden sort of snorting sigh, he stood up, stretched himself,

with a loud and weary moan, and went to his room.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

--------

{79}

From The Dublin Review.

MADAME RÉCAMIER AND HER FRIENDS.

_Souvenirs et Correspondance tirés des Papiers de Madame Récamier,_

Paris: Michel Lévy Frères. 1859.

We took occasion in our number of last January to trace the fortunes

of that distinguished lady who became consort of the greatest, though

not the best, of the kings of France. We saw her rise from obscurity

to eminence, without being giddy through her elevation; resisting the

fascinations of a licentious court; imbibing celestial wisdom from

hidden sources in proportion to the difficulties of her position;

exerting great influence without abusing the delicate trust; and at

length, bowed with age, retiring into the conventual seclusion of the

establishment her piety had reared, and there breathing her last amid

the love and admiration, the prayers and blessings, of a thousand

friends.

We have now another portrait to hang beside that of Frances de

Maintenon--the portrait of one who in some respects resembled her;

who, rising, like her, from an inferior condition, was courted by an

emperor, and betrothed, or all but betrothed, to a royal prince;

withstood innumerable temptations at a period of boundless corruption;

conciliated the esteem and friendship of the best and wisest men, and

then glided into the vale of years through the peaceful shade of the

Abbaye-aux-Bois. The first of these ladies was resplendent in talents,

the second in beauty; the one excelled in tact, the other in sweetness

and grace; the one in the sphere of politics and public life, the

other in the realm of letters and the private circle. If Madame de

Maintenon was the most admired, Madame Récamier was the most loved.

Each appeared under a sort of disguise, for one spoke and acted as if

she were not the wife of her own husband, and the other as if she were

the wife of him who was her husband only in name. Both have had

violent detractors; both are best known by their letters; and thus,

where they agreed and where they differed, they remind us of each

other. Of both France is proud, and both, as years pass on, are rising

into purer and brighter fame. At the same time it can by no means be

said of Madame Récamier, as it may most truly of Madame de Maintenon,

that religion was the one animating principle of her life; yet the

facts which we have to recount will show--not, indeed, that religion

supplied her with the main ends of her existence, but that it enabled

her in a corrupt age to follow the objects of her choice in habitual

submission to God's actual commandments.

Julie Bernard, the subject of the present memoir, was born at Lyons,

on the 4th of December, 1777. Her father, a notary of that city, was

remarkable for his handsome face and fine figure, and Madame Bernard

was a noted beauty. She had a passion for show, and during the long

illness which ended in her death in 1807, found her chief amusement in

dress and ornaments. When Julie was seven years old, her father was

appointed to a lucrative post in Paris, and left his little daughter

at Villefranche, under the care of an aunt. Here the first of her

numberless admirers, a boy of her own age, made a deep impression on

her susceptible mind, and here, too, she received her earliest

education in the convent of La Déserte. The memory of that hallowed

spot, its clouds of incense, its processions in the garden, its hymns

and flowers, abode with her, {80} she said, through life like a sweet

dream, and to the lessons there taught she ascribed her retention of

the faith amid the host of sceptical opinions she encountered in after

years. It was not without regret and tears that she bade farewell to

the abbess and sisters, and turned her face toward Paris and the

attractions of her parents' home. Nothing but accomplishments were

thought of to complete her education. The brilliant capital was to

supersede the "Déserte" in her affections, and her mother took great

pains to make Juliette as frivolous as herself. Her chief attention

was given to music, she was taught to play the harp and piano by the

first artists, and took lessons in singing from Boïeldieu. This was a

real gain, though in a different way from that which was intended. We

shall see further on how the skill thus acquired was afterward

employed in the service of religion, and how the habit of playing

pathetic airs and pieces soothed many a sad moment when she was old

and blind.

Her first contact with royalty was by accident. Her mother had taken

her to see a grand banquet at Versailles, to which, as in the days of

Louis XIV., the public were admitted as spectators. Juliette was very

beautiful, and the queen, struck by her appearance, sent one of her

ladies to ask that she might retire with the royal family. Madame

Royale was just of the same age as Juliette, and the two children were

measured together. Madame Royale also was a beauty, and not

over-pleased, it seems, by this close comparison with a girl taken out

of a crowd. How little could either foresee the strange fortunes that

awaited the other!

Madame Bernard, with her love of display, took a pride also in

gathering clever men around her. Laharpe, Lemontey, Barrère, and other

members of the legislative assembly, frequented her drawing-room, and

M. Jacques Récamier, an eminent banker of Paris, and son of a merchant

at Lyons, was a constant guest. His character was easy and jovial; he

wrote capital letters, spouted Latin, made plenty of money, spent it

fast, and was often the dupe of his generosity and good humor. He had

always been kind to Juliette, and had given her heaps of playthings.

When, therefore, in 1793, he asked her hand in marriage, she consented

without any repugnance, though Madame Bernard explained to her the

inconveniences which might arise from their disparity of age, habits,

and tastes--M. Récamier being forty-two and Juliette only fifteen. The

wedding took place; but their union is a mystery which has never been

solved with certainty. To her nominal husband she was never anything

but a daughter. Her niece, Madame Lenormant, says she can only attest

the fact, which was well known to all intimate friends, but that she

is not bound (_chargée_) to explain it. Madame M----, another

biographer, believes, as did many beside, that she was in reality M.

Récamier's daughter; that, living, as every one did during the reign

of terror, in fear of the guillotine, he wished to be able to leave

her his fortune in case of his death, and, in the meantime, to place

her in a splendid position; that Madame Récamier, made aware of her

real parentage, would of course be the last to reveal and publish her

mother's shame; and that this story, carefully borne in mind, explains

all the anomalies of her life.

To this strange alliance, however, is due the formation of the most

remarkable literary salon of the present age. It represented more

perfectly than any other those of the Hôtel Rambouillet and of Madame

de Sablé in the seventeenth century; of Madame Geoffrin, Madame

d'Houdetot, and Madame Suard, in the eighteenth; [Footnote 5] and it

surpassed in solid attractions those of Madame de Staël at Coppet, and

of Madame d'Albany of {81} Florence, of which it was the contemporary.

She was herself its life, and diffused over it a charm no biographer

can seize. So young and fair, so fascinating yet so innocent, she

riveted every gaze, and attracted all hearts without yielding to any.

Like the coloring of a landscape which changes every hour, she defied

description, and found no adequate reflex save in the fond esteem and

faithful memory of those who knew her. Yet her nearest and dearest

friends felt that she was above them; and it might be said of her, as

Saint-Simon said of the Duchess de Bourgogne, that she walked like a

goddess on clouds. Her beauty made her popular, and she was talked of

everywhere; for the Parisians at this time, like refined pagans,

affected the worship of beauty under every form. She seemed,

therefore, by general consent, to have a natural mission to restore

society, which a series of revolutions had completely disorganized,

and her power of drawing people together and harmonizing what party

politics had unstrung, became more apparent every day. By birth she

belonged to the people, by tastes and manners to the aristocracy, and

had thus a double hold over those who, with republican principles,

were fast returning to early associations of rank and order.

[Footnote 5: _"Causeries du Lundi,"_ par Sainte-Beuve. Tome i, pp.

114, 115.]

It was a happy day when the churches were re-opened in Paris, and the

soft swelling notes of the _O Salutaris Hostia_ filled the crowded

fanes once more. It was as the paean of the faithful over the

scattered army of unbelief. Madame Récamier was in request. She held

the plate for some charitable object at Saint-Roch, and collected the

extraordinary sum of 20,000f. The two gentlemen who attended her could

scarcely cleave a way for her through the crowd. People mounted on

chairs, on pillars, and the altars of the side chapels, to see her. In

these days, dancing was her delight. She was the first to enter the

ball-room, and the last to quit it. But this did not last long. She

soon gave up the shawl-dance, for which she was famous, though nothing

could be more correct and picturesque than the movements she executed

while, with a long scarf in her hands, she made it by turns a sash, a

veil, and a drapery--drooping, fluctuating, gliding, attitudinizing,

with matchless taste. Her reign was absolute. In the promenades of

Longchamps, no carriage was watched like hers; and every voice

pronounced her the fairest.

Twice only in her life did she meet Bonaparte, and to most persons in

her position and at that period those moments would have proved fatal.

His eye was as keen for female charms as for weak points in the

enemy's line. He saw her first in 1797, during a triumphal fête given

at the Luxembourg palace in his honor. He had just returned from his

marvellous campaign in Italy and genius was reaping the laurels too

seldom bestowed on solid worth. Madame Récamier was not insensible to

his military prowess. She stood up to observe his features more

plainly, and a long murmur of admiration filled the hall. The young

conqueror turned his head impatiently. Who dared to divide public

attention with the hero of Castiglione and Rivoli? He darted a harsh

glance at his rival, and she sank into her seat. But the beautiful

vision rested in his memory. He saw her once again, about two years

later, and spoke with her. It was at a banquet given by his brother

Lucien, then minister of the interior. Madame Récamier as usual was

all in white, with a necklace and bracelets of pearls. The First

Consul paid her marked attention, and his words, though insignificant

in themselves, meant more than met the ear. His manners, however, were

simple and pleasing, and he held a little girl of four years old, his

niece, by the hand. He chid Madame Récamier for not sitting next him

at dinner, fixed his gaze on her during the music, sent Fouché to

express to her his admiring regard, and told her himself that he {82}

should like to visit her at Clichy. But Juliette, though respectful,

was discreet. Time flowed on; Napoleon became emperor, and from the

giddy height of the imperial throne bethought him of the incomparable

lady in white. He had a double conquest to make. Her château was the

resort of emigrant nobles who had returned to France, and whose

sympathies were all with the past. To break up her circle, to gain her

over to his interests, to enhance by her presence the splendor of his

dissolute court, were objects well worthy of his plotting, ambitious,

and unscrupulous nature. Fouché was again employed as tempter. He

remonstrated with her on the species of opposition to the emperor's

policy which was fostered in her salons, but found her little disposed

to make concessions, or avow any liking for the despot. His genius and

exploits, she admitted, had dazzled her at first, but her sentiments

had entirely changed since her friends had been persecuted, the Duc

d'Enghein put to death, and Madame de Staël driven into exile. In

spite of these frank avowals, which were equally respectful and

fearless, Fouché persisted in his design, and in the park around

Madame Récamier's elegant retreat, urged her, in the emperor's name,

to accept the post of _dame du palais_ to the empress. His majesty had

never yet found a woman worthy of him, and it was impossible to say

how deep might be his affection for one like her; how wholesome an

influence she might exert over him; what services she might render to

the oppressed of all classes; and how much she might "enlighten the

emperor's religion!" Madame Murat, to her shame, seconded these

proposals, and expressed her earnest desire that Madame Récamier

should be attached to her household, which was now put on the same

footing as that of the empress. To these reiterated advances, Madame

Récamier returned the most decided refusal, alleging, by way of

courtesy, her love of independence as the cause. At last, foiled and

irritated, Fouché--the Mephistopheles of the piece--quitted Clichy,

never to return.

The consular episode in Madame Récamier's life has made us anticipate

some important events. We must return to the first years of her

marriage. It was in 1798 that some negotiations between her husband

and M. Necker, the ex-minister of Louis XVI., brought her in contact

with that statesman's celebrated daughter, Madame de Staël. At their

first interview a sympathy sprung up between the two ladies, which

ended in a lasting friendship. Madame Récamier lived in her friends,

and her circle was a host ever increasing, for she always talked much

and fondly of the friends of former years. She could say, like the

Cid, "five hundred of my friends." Yet she had her degrees of

attachment. They were, to use the beautiful simile of Hafiz, like the

pearls of a necklace, and she the silken cord on which they lay. The

chief of this favored circle were four--Madame de Staël among

womankind, and for the rest Chateaubriand, Ballanche, and Montmorency.

M. Necker's hôtel in the Rue du Mont-Blanc having been purchased by M.

Récamier, no cost was spared in its decoration. It was a model of

elegance, and every object of furniture down to the minutest ornament

was designed and executed expressly for it. Here the opulent husband

was installed, while the fair hostess held her court at the château of

Clichy. M. Récamier dined with her daily, and in the evening returned

to Paris. No political distinction prevailed in her assemblies, but

the restored emigrants were peculiarly welcome. Like Madame de Staël,

Chateaubriand, and almost all reflective persons in our age, she

thought monarchy had better be limited by a parliament than, as

Talleyrand said, by assassination. Yet revolutionary generals and

military dukes gathered round her, side by side with the Duc de

Guignes, Adrien and {83} Mathieu de Montmorency, and other

representatives of the fallen aristocracy. In her presence they forgot

their difference at least for awhile, and lost insensibly the asperity

of party prejudice.

Duc Mathieu de Montmorency was Madame Récamier's senior by seventeen

years. He had served in America in the regiment of Anvergne, of which

his father was colonel, and on his return to France abandoned himself

to all the pleasures and fashions of the world. His residence in the

land of Penn and Washington had imbued him with republican notions,

which he shared with a clique of young noblemen like himself. Such

persons, as is well known, were among the earliest victims of the

revolution they hurried on. Duc Mathieu emigrated in 1792, and soon

afterward learned in Switzerland that his brother, the Abbé de Laval,

whom he tenderly loved, had been beheaded. Remorse filled his breast,

and drove him almost to madness. He charged himself with his brother's

death. It was he who had proposed in the states general the abolition

of the privileges of nobility, approved the sequestration of church

property, and strengthened the hands of Mirabeau and the power of that

assembly which paved the way for regicide and the reign of terror.

Madame de Staël was his intimate friend. She had shared his political

enthusiasm, and did all in her power to soothe him. But religion alone

could pour balm into his smarting wounds. His conversion was complete

and lasting. The impetuous, seductive, and frivolous young man became

known to all as a fervent and strict Christian. Sainte-Beuve speaks of

him as a "saint." Extreme delicacy of language indicated the inward

discipline he underwent; while the warmth of his feelings and the

solidity of his judgment inspired at the same time confidence and

regard. His friendship for Madame de Staël continued, though their

religious convictions differed, and he was alive to the imperfections

of her character. He hoped one day to see her triumph over herself,

and his solicitude for Madame Récamier was equal, though in another

way. Over her he watched continually like a loving parent. He trembled

lest she should at last fall a victim to the gay world which so much

admired her, and which she sought to please. To shine without sinning

is difficult indeed. Montmorency's letters prove the depth and purity

of his affection. His intimacy with his _amiable amie_ lasted unbroken

during seven-and-twenty years, and ended only with his death.

Montmorency's death was the fitting sequel of a holy and useful life.

It happened in 1826. He had recently been elected one of the forty of

the French Academy, and had also been appointed governor to the Duc de

Bordeaux, the grandson and heir of Charles X. He had gone to the

church of St. Thomas d'Aquin on Good Friday, apparently in perfect

health, and was kneeling before the altar and the "faithful cross on

which the world's salvation hung," when his head bowed lower, and in a

moment the bitterness of death was past.

Laharpe was another distinguished man to be numbered among the lovers

of Madame Récamier's society. He had known her from a child, and when

his exquisite taste in literature had obtained for him the title of

the French with his regard was not lessened for one whose reputation

was as flourishing as his own. He passed weeks at Clichy, and when he

reopened his course of lectures on French literature at the Atheneum

she had a place reserved for her near his chair. The letters she

received from him are equally affectionate and respectful. He too had

been converted through the excesses of that revolution which he had in

the first instance encouraged. After suffering imprisonment in 1794,

his ideas and conduct underwent a total change, and he resolved to

devote his pen for the rest of his days to the service of religion.

{84} The energy with which he denounced "philosophers" and demagogues

drew upon him proscription, and it was only by concealing himself that

he escaped being transported. Of all revolutions, that of France in

the last century has, by the horror it excited and the reaction it

produced, tended more than any other to consolidate monarchy,

discredit scepticism, and promote the salvation of souls. It is a

beacon-fire kindled to warn nations of the rocks and shoals--the

faults of rule and the crimes of misrule--by which society may

suddenly be broken up and civilization retarded.

Montmorency was a statesman, Laharpe a man of letters; let us now turn

to another friend of Madame Récamier's, who from a private soldier

rose to be a king and leave a dynasty behind him. This was Bernadotte.

In 1802, M. Bernard was postmaster-general, and suspected of

complicity in a royalist correspondence that menaced the government.

Madame Récamier was one day entertaining a few guests at dinner, and

Eliza Bonaparte, afterward Grand Duchess of Tuscany, was present by

her own invitation. On rising from table a note was placed in the

hands of the hostess announcing the arrest and imprisonment of M.

Bernard. To whom should she have recourse at such a moment but to the

First Consul's sister? She must see him, she said, that very evening.

Would Madame Bacciocchi procure her an interview? The princess was

cold. She would advise Madame Récamier to see Fouché first. "And where

shall I find you again, madam, if I do not succeed?" asked Madame

Récamier. "At the Théâtre Français," was the reply; "in my box with my

sister."

Nothing could be gained from Fouché except the alarming information

that the affair was a very serious one, and that unless Madame

Récamier could see the First Consul that night it would be too late.

In the utmost consternation she drove to the Théâtre to remind Madame

Bacciochi of her promise. "My father is lost," she said, "unless I can

speak with the First Consul to-night." "Well, wait till the tragedy is

over," replied the princess, with an air of indifference, "and then I

shall be at your service." Happily there was one in the box whose dark

eyes, fixed on the agonized daughter, expressed clearly the interest

he felt in her position. He leant forward, and explaining to the

princess that Madame Récamier appeared quite ill, offered to conduct

her to the chief of the government. Madame Bacciocchi readily

assented, and gladly resigned the suppliant to Bernadotte's charge.

Again and again he promised to obtain that the proceedings against M.

Bernard should be stopped, and repaired immediately to the Tuileries.

The same night he returned to Madame Récamier, who was counting the

moments till he re-appeared. His suit had been successful, and he soon

after procured the prisoner's release. Madame Récamier accompanied him

to the Temple on the day M. Bernard was delivered. He was deprived of

his post, for, though pardoned, he had undoubtedly been guilty of a

treasonable correspondence with the _Chouans_.

This was the foundation of Bernadotte's friendship with Madame

Récamier. "Neither time," he wrote to her, when adopted by Charles

XIII., as his son and heir--"neither time nor northern ice will ever

cool my regard for you." He had many noble qualities, and did much for

Sweden. We could forgive him for joining the coalition against France,

if he had not embraced Lutheranism for the sake of a crown.

During the short peace of Amiens, in 1802, Madame Récamier visited

England, where she received the kindest attentions from the Duchess of

Devonshire, Lord Douglas, the Prince of Wales, and the Duc d'Orleans,

afterward king of the French. Those who can refer to the English

newspapers of that year will find that {85} all the movements of the

beautiful stranger were regularly gazetted.

But where is Madame de Staël? In the autumn of 1803 she was exiled by

Bonaparte, who feared her talents and disliked her politics. As the

daughter of Necker and the friend of limited monarchy, she was

particularly obnoxious to one who represented both democracy and

absolutism. Madame Récamier, with her habitual generosity, offered her

an asylum at Clichy, which she accepted, under the impression that her

further removal from Paris would not be insisted on. Junot, afterward

the Duc d'Abrantes, their mutual friend, interested himself in her

behalf, but without success. Her sentence of exile was confirmed; she

was not to approach within forty leagues of the capital. So she

wandered through Germany, and collected materials for her

"_Allemagne_" and "_Dix années d'Exil._" At Weimar she studied German

literature under Goethe, Wieland, and Schiller, and in 1805 held her

court at Coppet in the Canton de Vaud. Here occurred, as we shall

presently see, one of the most singular episodes in Madame Récamier's

life. She, with Madame de Staël in Switzerland, and Madame d'Albany in

Florence, divided the empire of literary salons on the continent; and

each of these ladies felt in turn the weight of the despot of Europe's

sceptre. [Footnote 6] In 1810 the writer of "_Corinne_" became the

guest of Mathieu de Montmorency, near Blois, and within the prescribed

distance from Paris. In the château of Catherine de Medici she

collected round her a few friends, who were fearless of annoyance and

exile. But her work on Germany abounded with allusions to the imperial

police. The whole edition of ten thousand copies was seized, and she

received an order from the Duc de Rovigo to return immediately to

Switzerland Madame Récamier, faithful and courageous, followed her,

though timid advisers prophesied that no good would come of such

imprudence. She stayed there only a day and a half, and then pursued

her way in haste to Paris. But the sentence of exile had already gone

forth against her. The calm and religious Duke Mathieu had just before

expiated in like manner the crime of visiting the illustrious exile.

Her book on Germany did not contain a line directly against the

emperor; but it was enough that the authoress's heart beat with the

pulses of rational freedom, and the Corsican's tyranny became minute

in proportion to the territory over which it spread. Thus the ladies,

who so loved each other, were not only exiled, but separated. Rivers

rolled and Alps rose between them; lest, perchance, they should

combine their elegant and harmless pursuits.

[Footnote 6: "_Comtesse d'Albany_," par M. St. Réne Taillandier, p.

229.]

The limits allowed us in this article do not admit of our tracing the

events of Madame Récamier's life in strict chronological order, and

bringing out by degrees the character and history of her several

friends. Each of them in turn will lead us away from the main thread

of our story, and we hope that our readers will follow us with

indulgence when we are obliged to take it up again rather awkwardly.

We cannot do otherwise than mass together many things which had better

be kept apart.

One day, in the autumn of 1806, Monsieur Récamier brought some dismal

news to Clichy. The financial condition of Spain and her colonies,

combined with other untoward events, had placed his bank in such

jeopardy that, unless the government could be induced to advance him

£40,000 on good security, he must stop payment within two days. A

large party had been invited to dinner; and the hostess, suppressing

her emotions with extraordinary self-command, did the honors of her

house in a manner calculated to obviate alarm. It was a golden

opportunity for imperial vengeance, and it was not lost. All aid from

the Bank of France was {86} refused, and the much-envied Maison

Récamier was made over, with all its liabilities, to the hands of its

creditors. So cruel a reverse was enough to try the fortitude of the

most Christian. Nor was Madame Récamier found wanting in that heroic

quality. Indeed, there are few women who, taken all in all, would

serve better to enforce Eliza Famham's ingenious arguments for the

superiority of her sex. [Footnote 7] While her husband's spirit was

almost broken under the blow, she calmly, if not cheerfully, sold her

last jewel, and occupied a small apartment on the ground floor of her

splendid mansion. The rest of the house was let to Prince Pignatelli,

and ultimately sold. The French have their faults--great faults; what

nation has not?--but let us do them the justice to say that in their

friendships they are faithful. The poor wife of the ruined banker was

as much honored and courted by them in her adversity as she had been

when surrounded with every luxury and every facility for hospitable

entertainments. Let those who would form an idea of the sympathy

expressed by her friends read that touching letter of Madame de Staël

which Chateaubriand has preserved. [Footnote 8] The opulent and gay,

the learned, the brilliant, the serious, came in troops to that garden

of the hotel in the Rue du Mont Blanc, where the unsullied and queenly

rose was bending beneath the storm. The jealous emperor, at the head

of his legions in Germany, heard of the interest she excited; for

Junot, just returned from Paris, could not refrain from reporting at

length what he had seen. But Napoleon interrupted him with impatience,

saying, "The widow of a field-marshal of France, killed on the

battle-plain, would not receive such honors!" And why should she? Is

there no virtue but that of valor? Are there no conquests but those of

the sword?

[Footnote 7: "Woman and Her Era." 2 vols. New York.]

[Footnote 8: In the "_Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe._"]

The trial which Juliette bore so patiently was fatal to her mother.

Madame Bernard's health had long been declining; laid on a couch, and

elegantly attired, she received visits daily; but her strength gave

way altogether when her daughter fell from her high estate. She little

knew that Madame Récamier was on the very point of having a royal

prince for her suitor. Only three months after the failure of the bank

Madame Bernard passed away, deeply lamented by her loving daughter,

whom filial piety made blind or indulgent to her imperfections.

Prince Augustus of Prussia was a nephew of Frederick the Great.

Chivalrous, brave, and handsome, he united very ardent feelings with

candor, loyalty, and love, of his country. He had, in October, 1806,

been made prisoner at the battle of Saalfeld, where his brother,

Prince Louis, had fallen fighting at his side. The mourning he still

wore added to his dignity, and the society and scenery in the midst of

which Madame Récamier first met him, deepened the charm of his

presence and devoted attentions.

It was in 1807, on the banks of the lake of Geneva, hallowed to the

thoughtful mind by so many historic associations, and encircled by all

the gorgeous loveliness of which nature is so lavish in the valleys of

the Alps. There in the château of Madame de Staël, Juliette listened

during three months to his earnest conversation, and heard him propose

that she should be his bride. Her marriage with M. Récamier presented

no real difficulty; it was a civil marriage only; the peculiar case

was one in which the Catholic Church admits of declaration of nullity;

and for which, in Protestant Germany, legal divorce could very easily

be obtained. Madame de Staël's imagination was kindled by this

romantic incident, and she did not fail to second the prince's suit.

Juliette herself was fully alive to the honors that were proposed her.

It was no impoverished refugee that sought her hand. Though a prisoner

{87} for the moment, he would, doubtless, soon be set at liberty, and

he was as proud as any of his exalted rank. Yielding, therefore, to

the sentiments he inspired, Madame Récamier wrote to her husband to

ask his consent to a separation. This he could not refuse; but, while

granting it, he seems to have appealed to her feelings with a degree

of earnestness which profoundly touched her heart. He had, he said,

been her friend from childhood; and, if she must form another union,

he trusted it would not take place in Paris, nor even in France. His

letter turned the current of her desires. She thought of his long

kindness, his age, his misfortune, and resolved not to abandon him.

Religious considerations may also have weighed with her, for Prince

Augustus did not hold the true faith. He had, moreover, two natural

daughters, the countesses of Waldenburg, and this circumstance also

may have indisposed her to the match. [Footnote 9] He had, as she

once said, many fancies. Would a morganatic marriage bind his

wandering heart, or could she endure the pain of being expatriated for

ever? They parted without any definite engagement, but he repaired to

Berlin to obtain his family's consent. Madame Récamier returned to

Paris; and, though she declined the honor of his hand on the ground of

her responding imperfectly to his affection, she sent him her

portrait, which he treasured till the day of his death. A ring which

she also gave him was buried with him, and they never ceased while on

earth to correspond in terms of the warmest friendship. In 1815 the

prince entered Paris with the victorious legions of allied Europe,

having written to his friend from every city that he entered; and in

1825 they had their last interview in the Abbaye-aux-Bois.

[Footnote 9: "Madame Récamier," by Madame M----]

We must now follow her into exile. It was in the latter part of 1811

that she took up her abode in the dreary town of Châlons-sur-Marne,

which happened to be just as far from Paris as she was required to

live, and no further. The prefect was an amiable man, and retained his

post during forty years, enjoying the confidence of each government in

succession. But that which alleviated most the dulness of Châlons was

its neighborhood to many beloved friends, particularly Montmorency. In

June, 1812, however, she quitted it for Lyons, being unwilling to

compromise those who were most ready to console her in exile. Many a

château round had claimed the happiness of entertaining her; but to be

kind to those who are suspected is always to draw suspicion on one's

self. Renouncing many delights within her reach, she had sought one of

the purest in playing the organ in the parish church, both during the

week and on Sundays at high mass and vespers. She did the same at

Albano during her stay there in the ensuing year.

Italy, and above all Rome, attracts sooner or later whatever is most

cultivated in mind and taste. Thither, in 1813, Madame Récamier turned

her steps. She was attended by her niece and her maid. Montmorency

accompanied her as far as Chambery, and her carriage was well supplied

with books, which M. Ballanche had selected to beguile the tedium of

the way. This gentleman was the son of a printer at Lyons, and his

genius became his fortune. His prose writings were considered a model

of style, and ultimately obtained him a place in the French Academy.

Neglecting subjects of the day, he uniformly indulged his fondness for

abstract speculation, and in several works ingeniously set forth his

ideas on the progress of mankind through alternate periods of revival

and decay. [Footnote 10] He was profoundly Christian at heart, but

coupled his belief in the fall and redemption with peculiar notions

respecting human perfectibility.

[Footnote 10: "_Institutions Sociales,_" 1818. "_Palingénésis

Sociale._" 1830]

{88} His mind was dreamy, his system mystical, but he realized

intensely the existence of things unseen, and declared that "he was

more sure of the next world than of this present." He mistrusted,

indeed, the reality of material phenomena, and rested in the thought

of two, and two only, luminously self-evident beings, himself and his

creator. But genius is a dangerous gift to the student of theology,

and perhaps Ballanche would have been more sound if he had been less

clever. From the moment he saw Madame Récamier, he became ardently

attached to her society. Her praise was his richest reward, and the

prospect of reading his essays and poems to her more than doubled the

pleasure of composing them. The first time he conversed with her a

curious incident occurred. After getting over the difficulty he

experienced in talking on ordinary topics, he had risen to a higher

strain, and expatiated in glowing language on philosophical and

literary subjects, till Madame Récamier, who had for some time been

much incommoded by the smell of the detestable blacking with which his

shoes had been cleaned, was obliged to tell him timidly that she

really could not bear it any longer. M. Ballanche apologized humbly,

left the room, and, returning a minute later without his shoes, took

up the conversation where he had dropped it, and was soon in the

clouds again. But his shoes were not his only drawback. He was

hideously ugly, and that by a cruel mishap. A charlatan, like the one

who practiced upon Scarron, had prescribed such violent remedies for

his headaches that his jaw had become carious, and a part of it was

removed by trepanning. A terrible inroad was made on one of his cheeks

by this operation; but his magnificent eyes and lofty forehead

redeemed his uncomely traits, and amid all his awkwardness and

timidity his friends always discerned an expression of tenderness and

often a kind of inspiration breathing from his face. Madame Récamier's

talents were of a high order, for she could appreciate those of

others. She soon forgot Ballanche's shoes, forgot his ungainly

movements and ghastly deformity, and fixed her gaze on that inner man

which was all nobility and gentleness, glowing with poetry, and

steeped in the dews of Hermon. Let us leave him now at Lyons; we shall

meet him again before long.

There was a vast and dreary city toward the south of Italy which had

once been called Rome. It was now the capital of the department of the

Tiber. Without the Caesars or the Pope, it was Rome no more. No

foreigners thronged its streets and fanes, its prelates were

scattered, and its scanty inhabitants looked sullenly on the Frank

soldiers who turned its palaces and sanctuaries into barracks. Hither

came Madame Récamier, and her apartment in the Corso was soon hailed

as an oasis in the wilderness. All the strangers in the deserted

capital, and many of the Romans, paid their court to this queen of

society; and Canova, one of the few stars left in the twilight,

visited her every evening, and wrote to her every morning. He

chiselled her bust as no hand but his could chisel it, and seized

ideal beauty while copying what was before him. He called it

"Beatrice," and it was worthy of the name. Ballanche, too, came all

the way from Lyons to visit the universal favorite. He travelled night

and day, and could remain at Rome only one week. The very evening of

his arrival Madame Récamier began to do the honors of the Eternal

City. Three carriages full of friends drove from her house to St.

Peter's and the Coliseum, where they all alighted. Ballanche moved

solemnly, with his hands beside him, overpowered by the grandeur of

all around. On a sudden his _parfaite amie_ looked back. He was not

without his shoes this time, but without his hat. "M. Ballanche," she

said, "where is your hat?" "Ah!" replied the philosopher, "I have left

it at Alexandria." And so it was--so {89} little did his thoughts

dwell on external life.

From Rome the travellers proceeded to Naples. A cordial welcome

awaited Madame Récamier from Caroline Bonaparte, whom she had known of

old. A page from the royal palace brought her a magnificent basket of

fruit and flowers immediately on her arrival, and she soon became the

confidante of both king and queen. Joachim Murat sat on a usurped

throne, and was reaping the bitter fruits of a false position. Duty

bound him to Napoleon, interest to the allies. First he was perfidious

to his master, next to his colleagues. One day he entered his wife's

saloon in great agitation, and finding Madame Récamier, avowed to her

that he had signed the coalition. He then asked her opinion of his

act, taking it for granted that it would be favorable. But, though not

an imperialist, she was a Frenchwoman. "Sire!" she replied, "you are

French, and to France you should be faithful." Murat turned pale. "I

am a traitor then," he exclaimed, and, opening the window in haste,

pointed to the British fleet sailing into the bay. Then burying his

face in his hands, he sunk upon a sofa and wept. The year after,

faithless alike to Europe and to the empire, a tempest cast him on the

shore of Pizzo, and he was taken and shot like a brigand.

A dense crowd was collected in the Piazza del Popolo to see the entry

of Pius VII., after the Apollyon of kingdoms had been sent to Elba.

The Roman nobles and gentleman headed the procession, and their sons

drew the pontiff's carriage. In it he knelt, with his hair unsilvered

by age, and his fine face expressing deep humility. His hand was

extended to bless his people, but his head bowed before the almighty

disposer of human events. It was the triumph of a confessor rather

than of a sovereign--of a principle, not of a person. Never did such a

rain of tears fall on the marble paving at St. Peter's as when at last

he traversed the church and prostrated himself before the altar over

the tomb of the apostles. Then the _Te Deum_ rose and echoed through

those gorgeous arches, and Madame Récamier was not insensible to the

affecting scene. Before leaving Rome the second time, she paid a

farewell visit to General Miollis, who had commanded the French

forces. He was extremely touched by this civility, and received her in

a villa he had bought, and which still bears his name. He was quite

alone, with an old soldier for his servant. She was, he said, the only

person who had called upon him since he had ceased to govern Rome.

After three years' absence she returned to Paris, and, still radiant

with beauty and overflowing with gladness, resumed her undisputed

empire over polite society. Her husband had regained his lost ground,

and was again a prosperous banker, while she possessed in her own

right a fortune inherited from her mother. The restoration of Louis

XVIII. had changed the face of her salon and of society in general.

Her friends were once more in power, and those who had vexed her and

them were banished or forgotten. The Duke of Wellington often visited

her, and she presented him to Queen Hortense. He shocked her, however,

after the battle of Waterloo, by saying of Napoleon, "I have well

beaten him!" She had no love for the ex-emperor; but France was her

country, and she could not exult over its defeat. Her niece declares

that Wellington was not free from intoxication with his success, and

that nothing but the indignant murmurs of the pit prevented him from

entering the royal box with his aides-de-camp. [Footnote 11] Madame

de Staël died in 1817, and her friend, Mathieu de Montmorency,

gathered up with piety and hope every indication of a religious spirit

which she had left behind. She never raised her eyes to heaven without

thinking of him, and she believed that {90} in his prayers his spirit

answered hers. [Footnote 12] Prayer, she wrote, was the bond which

united all religious beings in one, and the life of the soul. Sin and

suffering were inseparable, and she had never done wrong without

falling into trouble. During the long sleepless nights of her last

illness she repeated constantly the Lord's prayer to calm her mind,

and she learned to enjoy the "Imitation of Jesus Christ."

[Footnote 11: "_Souvenirs de Madame Récamier_," vol. i., p.268.]

[Footnote 12: "_Dix années d'Exil._" ]

The void she left in Madame Récamier's circle was filled by one whose

writings were, the talk and admiration of Europe. This was

Chateaubriand. Professor Robertson has lately brought him very

agreeably to our remembrance in his able and interesting lectures on

modern history. The Duc de Noailles, that contemporary, as he has been

called, of Louis XIV., pronounced his eulogy when taking his place in

the French Academy, and he has left us his biography in the most

charming form in which that of any one can be read, viz., written by

himself. The portrait a man draws of himself in writing rarely

deceives; for the very attempt to falsify would betray the real

character. Chateaubriand's vanity escapes him in his memoirs as

frequently as it did in his conversation, yet there cannot be a doubt

that he had great qualities, and has built himself an enduring name.

That extreme refinement of thought which is inseparable from genius

makes him difficult to appreciate, and the phases of society through

which he passed were so conflicting as to be fatal to the consistency

of almost all public men. Yet he was on the whole faithful through

life to his first principles. At one time he defended monarchy, at

another freedom, pleading most eloquently for that which for the

moment seemed most in danger. He knew the value of their mutual

support, and, like all who move on a double line, he was often

misunderstood. Born of an ancient and noble family, he chose at the

same time the profession of arts and arms. The popular excesses of

1791 drove him from Paris, and he embarked for America. There, in the

immense forests and savannas of Canada and the Floridas, often living

among savages, he stored up materials for his early romances, and

acquired that grandeur and depth of coloring in descriptions of

natural scenery for which he is so remarkable. He was near the

tropics, in the land of the fire-fly and hummingbird, when he heard of

the flight of Louis XVI. and his arrest at Varennes. Hastening back to

rejoin the standard of his royal master, he again took arms, and was

seriously wounded at the siege of Thionville. From Jersey he was

transported to London, where he lived in extreme want, taught French,

and translated for publishers. Here, too, he produced his first work,

which was tainted with the infidelity of the day. The death of his

pious mother recalled him to a better mind, and awakened in him a

train of thought which issued at length in the "_Génie du

Christianisme._" "_Atala_" and "René," likewise under the form of

romance, serving as episodes to his great work, avenged the cause of

religion, and powerfully aided in producing a reaction in favor of

Christianity. The First Consul hailed the rising star, and attached

him as secretary to Cardinal Fesch's embassy at Rome. In 1804 he had

just been appointed to represent France in the republic of Valais,

when he heard of the odious execution of the Duc d'Enghien, and

immediately sent in his resignation. He could serve a ruler who had

brought order out of chaos, but not an assassin. From that day he

never ceased to be hostile to the empire. After wandering, as Ampère

did later, along the classic shores of Greece and the monuments of

Egypt, and kissing the footprints of his Redeemer on the mount of

Calvary, he returned to France, and in the Vallée-aux-Loups composed

his prose poem, the "Martyrs," in {91} which, as in "Fabiola" and

"Callista," the glowing imagery of pagan art is blended with the

ethical grandeur of the religion of Christ. A place was awarded him in

the French Academy, which he was not permitted to take till the

Bourbons were restored. Their return filled him with joy, and a

pamphlet he had written against Bonaparte was said by Louis XVIII. to

have been worth an army to his cause. On the escape of Napoleon from

Elba he accompanied the king to Ghent, and, on re-entering Paris, was

raised to the peerage and made minister of state. In 1816, having

published his "Monarchy according to the Charter," he lost the royal

favor and his honorary title. His work, however, continues to this day

"a textbook of French constitutional law." [Footnote 13]

[Footnote 13: Robertson's "Lectures," p. 291.]

Such was the statesman, apologist, philosopher, and poet who, in his

forty-ninth year, obtained an ascendancy over Madame Récamier's

imagination so complete that the religious Montmorency trembled, and

the thoughtful Ballanche dreamed some ill. They thought, too, that her

manners changed toward them, but she soon restored their confidence.

It would be vain, indeed, to deny that her regard for Chateaubriand

caused her many anxious thoughts and secret tears, particularly when,

after a few years, he neglected her for the din of political debate

and the society of beings less exalted and pure. But this estrangement

was only temporary, and both before it and after it, till he died, her

daily task was to soothe the irritability to which poets are said to

be especially subject; to amuse him herself, as Madame de Maintenon

amused Louis XIV.; and to surround him with those who, for her sake as

well as for his, labored for the same charitable end.

Another reverse befel her in 1819. M. Récamier fouled again, and

£4,000, which his wife had invested in his bank, went with the rest.

Trusting in the security of his position, she had shortly before

purchased a house in the Rue d'Anjou and furnished it handsomely.

There was a garden belonging to it, and an alley of linden-trees,

where Chateaubriand tells us he used to walk with Madame Récamier. But

the house and garden were sold, and the occupant removed to a small

apartment in the quaint old Abbaye-aux-Bois. She placed her husband

and M. Bernard with M. Bernard's aged friend in the neighborhood, and

dined with them, her niece, Ballanche, and Paul David every day. In

the evening she received company, and her cell soon became the

fashion, if not the rage. It was an incommodious room, with a brick

floor, on the third story. The staircase was irregular; and

Chateaubriand complains of being out of breath when he reached the

top. A piano, a harp, books, a portrait of Madame de Staël, and a view

of Coppet by moonlight, adorned it. Flower-pots stood in the windows;

and in the green garden beneath nuns and boarders were seen walking to

and fro. The top of an acacia rose to a level with the eye, tall

spires stood out against the sky, and the hills of Sèvres bounded the

distant horizon. The setting sun used to gild the picture and pierce

through the open casements. Birds nestled in the Venetian blinds, and

the hum of the great city scarce broke the silence.

Here Madame Récamier received every morning a note from Chateaubriand,

and here he came at three o'clock so regularly that the neighbors, it

is said, used to set their watches by his approach. Few persons were

allowed to meet him, for he was singular and exclusive; but, when

evening closed, the _élite_ of France and half the celebrities of

Europe found their way here by turns. The Duchess of Devonshire and

Sir Humphrey Davy, Maria Edgeworth, Humboldt, Villemain, Montalembert,

Alexis de Tocqueville, and Sainte-Beuve were frequent guests, and so

also was one who {92} deserves more special notice, Jean Jacques

Ampère.

It was on the 1st of January, 1820, that his illustrious father

presented him, then in his twentieth year, to the circle of friends

who met at the Abbaye-aux-Bois. [Footnote 14] The enthusiasm with

which he spoke, the gentleness of his disposition, the nobility of his

sentiments, and the brilliancy of his talents, soon secured him a high

place in Madame Récamier's esteem. He attached himself to her with an

ardor that never cooled, and that appeared quite natural to the elder

guests who had long experienced her magical influence. During the

career of fame which he ran her counsels were his guide, and her

goodness his theme. However deep his studies, however distant his

wanderings, among the surges of the Categat or the pyramids of the

Pharaohs, his thoughts always reverted to her, and letters full of

respect and devotion proved how amiable was his character, how

observant and gifted his mind.

[Footnote 14: _Le Correspondant_, Mai, 1864, p. 46.]

In November, 1823, he and the faithful Ballanche accompanied her to

Italy. Her niece, whom she treated as a daughter, was suffering from a

pulmonary complaint, and change was thought desirable for her.

Chateaubriand's visits had grown less frequent. A political rivalry

also had sprung up between her dearest friends, Chateaubriand having,

in December, 1822, accepted the office of minister of foreign affairs

vacant by the resignation of Mathieu de Montmorency. They disdained

alike riches and honors, but each was bent on the triumph of a

conviction, and on linking his name with a public act. Many thorns

beset her path in consequence of their disunion, and absence for a

time from France seemed to offer several advantages. She fully

possessed the confidence of Madame de Chateaubriand, and all who knew

the _capricieux immorel,_ as that lady called her husband, were of

opinion that by going to Italy she might avoid many occasions of

bitterness, and recall him to a calmer and nobler frame.

Nearly a month was passed in the journey from Paris to Rome. The

travellers paused in every town, and explored its monuments, churches,

and libraries. During the halt at midday, and again in the evening,

they talked over all they had seen, and read aloud by turns. Ballanche

and his young friend Ampère discussed questions of history and

philosophy, and Madame Récamier gave an air of elegance to an

apartment in the meanest inn. She had her own table-cloth to spread,

together with books and flowers; and her presence alone, so dignified,

so graceful, invested every place with the charm of poetry. Ballanche

and Ampère projected a guide-book, and thus the latter was

unconsciously laying up stores for that graphic "Histoire Romaine à

Rome," [Footnote 15] on which his reputation as an author mainly

rests. The year was just closing when they arrived in Rome. It was

here that he met Prince Louis Bonaparte, the present emperor, who was

then a boy, and here he had long and frequent conversations with

Prince Napoleon, his elder brother, while Queen Hortense, then called

the Duchess of Saint-Leu, was walking with Madame Récamier in the

Coliseum, or the campagna around the church of St. John Lateran or the

tomb of Cecilia Metella. Rome was then the asylum of the Bonapartes,

as it has ever been the home of the outcast and the consolation of the

wretched. The aspect was greatly changed since the former visit Pius

VII. had lately yielded up his saintly spirit to God, and Leo XII. sat

on his throne. The fêtes and ceremonies that attended his elevation

were all over except that of the pontifical blessing given from the

balcony of St Peter's. Madame Récamier took her place beside the

Duchess of Devonshire in joint sovereignty over society at Rome. {93}

The Duc de Laval, Montmorency's cousin, who was then the French

ambassador, placed his house, horses, and servants at her disposal,

and began or ended every evening with her. The duchess just mentioned

was in her sixty-fourth year, and preserved the traces of remarkable

beauty. Her eyes were full of fire, her skin was smooth and white. She

was tall, erect, queenly, and thin as an apparition. Her skeleton

hands and arms were like ivory, and she covered them with bracelets

and rings. Her manners were distinguished, and she seemed at the same

time very affectionate and rather sad.

[Footnote 15: Published in the _Revue des Deux Mondes,_ 1866-67.]

The long friendship which subsisted between this English Protestant

lady and Cardinal Consalvi was not the least singular feature in her

history. Her intimacy with Adrien and Mathieu de Montmorency was such

that they always called her the _duchesse-cousine_, though they were

not related to her at all. The Duc de Laval, whom she had known in

England, writes thus of her to Madame Récamier, in May, 1823:

"The duchess and I are agreed in admiring you. She possesses some of

your qualities, and they have been the cause of her success though

life. She is of all women the most attaching. She rules by

gentleness, and is always obeyed. What she did in her youth in

London, that she now recommences here. She has all Rome at her

disposal--ministers, cardinals, painters, sculptors, society, all

are at her feet."

Her days, however, were dwindling to a close, as were those also of

Cardinal Consalvi. Just seven months after the decease of Pius VII.

that eminent statesman followed him to the tomb. All Rome went to see

him laid in state--all except Madame Récamier, who, full of the sorrow

which the duchess would feel for his loss, and imagining that she

would only be pained by such idle curiosity, drove to the solitude of

the villa Borghese. On alighting from her carriage, she saw the tall

and elegant figure of the duchess in deep mourning, and looking the

picture of despair. To her astonishment the latter proposed that they

should go and see the lifeless cardinal. It was, indeed, a solemn

scene. The chaplains had retired for a brief space to dine, and the

public were excluded. The ladies only entered to take their last look

of human greatness. There he lay--the steady foe of the French

revolution and the imperial despot, the minister of two popes during

five-and-thirty years, the able and successful nuncio at the congress

of Vienna. There he lay in the sleep of death, with his purple round

him, and with his features still beautiful, calm, and severe.

Madame Récamier and her niece fell on their knees, praying fervently

for the departed, and still more so for the lonely friend beside them,

who had survived all the affections of her youth. She did not long

survive. In March, 1824, she expired after a few days' illness. No one

had been allowed to approach her till the last moment and for this

extraordinary exclusion different reasons are assigned. Madame

Récamier and the Duc de Laval believed that it was through fear lest

she should declare herself a Catholic. They were admitted just before

the vital spark was extinguished, and she died while they knelt beside

her, and Madame Récamier held her wan hand, and bathed it with tears.

After again visiting Naples, after excursions round the gulf, and

reading as she went the glowing descriptions of Chateaubriand and de

Staël, while the ardent Ampère and the meditative Ballanche supplied

their living comments, Madame Récamier returned to spend her second

winter in Rome, and enjoy the society of the Duc de Noailles and

Madame Swetchine. The duke was in his twenty-third year, and she used

to say that he was the last and youngest of those whom she called her

real friends. His subsequent history of Madame de Maintenon proves how

just a claim he had to be so regarded.

{94}

Madame Swetchine, when she arrived in Rome, was imbued with some

prejudices against Madame Récamier, but they vanished at the first

interview, and the love that sprang up between them was of the holiest

kind:

"I feel the want of you (she wrote in 1825) as if we had passed a

long time together, as if we had old associations in common. How

strange that I should feel so impoverished by losing what a short

time since I did not possess! Surely there is something of eternity

in certain emotions. There are souls--and I think yours and mine are

among the number--which no sooner come in contact with each other

than they throw off the conditions of their mortal existence, and

obey the laws of a higher and better world."

After an absence of eighteen months, Madame Récamier returned to

Paris. It was in May, 1825. Charles X. was being consecrated at

Rheims, and both Chateaubriand and Montmorency were there for the

ceremony. When the former received a line to inform him that the cell

in the Abbaye was again occupied, he lost no time in paying his usual

visit at the same hour as before. Madame Récamier's residence in Italy

had produced the desired effect on him. His fitful mood was over. Not

a word of explanation or reproach was heard, and from that day to his

death, twenty-three years later, the purest and most perfect harmony

existed between them. He had again fallen from power, and had been

rudely dismissed. His only crime had been silence. He would not

advocate the reduction of interest on the public debt, which appeared

to him an act of injustice. How many would be half ruined by the

change from five to three per cent! He abstained from voting. De

Villèle was incensed, and a heartless note informed one of the

greatest men in France that his services were no longer needed. By a

strange mishap he did not receive it at the right time, went to the

Tuileries, attended a levee, and was going to take his place at a

cabinet council, when he was told that he was no longer admissible. He

had ordered his carriage for a later hour, and was now obliged to walk

back in his full court robes through the streets of Paris. He long and

bitterly remembered this ungenerous treatment. In his opposition to

the Villèle ministry he displayed prodigious talent; and in January,

1828, it gave place to that of Martignae, and he was himself appointed

ambassador at Rome.

Among the letters he wrote during his embassy, there is one very brief

and touching, addressed to the little Greek Canaris, then educated in

Paris by the Hellenic committee. The emancipation of the Christians of

the East, whether Catholic or schismatic, was an object dear to

Chateaubriand's heart, as well as to the royalists in general. The

question was not embarrassed by those false views of freedom which

make many who love it afraid to speak its praise lest they should seem

to countenance its abuse. "My dear Canaris," he says, "I ought to have

written to you long ago. Pardon me, for I am full of business. My

advice to you is this: Love Madame Récamier. Never forget that you

were born in Greece, and that my country has shed its blood for the

freedom of yours. Above all, be a good Christian; that is, an honest

man submitting to the will of God. Thus, my dear little friend, you

will keep your name on the list of those famous Greeks of yore where

your illustrious father has already inscribed it. I embrace

you.--Chateaubriand." How delighted must the young Athenian have been

to carry this note to the Abbaye-aux-Bois the next time he went to

visit Madame Récamier, as he did on almost every holiday!

We have already spoken of Mathieu de Montmorency's singular death.

Madame Récamier was one of the first to hear of it. She hastened to

sit beside the corpse of her revered friend, and mingled her tears

with those of his mother and widow. The {95} latter, who had always

been attached to her, now became her intimate companion, and, when she

came to Paris, stayed at the Abbaye expressly to be near her. Even

Chateaubriand, who had been Montmorency's political rival, joined the

train of mourners, and composed a prayer on the occasion for Madame

Récamier's use. It is somewhat inflated, and breathes the language of

a poet rather than of a Christian. It ends thus: "O miracle of

goodness! I shall find again in thy bosom the virtuous friend I have

lost! Through thee and in thee I shall love him anew, and my entire

spirit will once more be united to that of my friend. Then our divine

attachment will be shared through eternity." These expressions are

overstrained; but they illustrate the character of Madame Récamier's

affection for her male friends. Of these Chateaubriand became

henceforward the chief, and his letters to her from Rome, together

with his subsequent intercourse with her in Paris, form the most

important part of her remaining history. Everything was summed up in

him,--diplomacy, politics, literature: he was to her, and not to her

only, their chief representative. His correspondence, as preserved by

her niece, is sparkling and pointed, full of incident, and especially

interesting to those who remember Rome during the last years of Leo

XII. and the pontificate of Pius VIII. Three letters a week reached

her while his embassy lasted, and he has inserted several of them in

his "_Mémoires_," though not without dressing them up a little for

posterity. Veneration and regard for her is their key-note. _Mille

tendres hommages_, he writes. _Que je suis heureux de vous aimer!_ But

French politeness always sounds strange and fulsome when dissected in

English. In May, 1829, he obtained leave to return to Paris for a

time, and he was welcomed at the Abbaye by numerous admirers. There he

read aloud his "_Moise,_" in the presence of Cousin, Villemain,

Lamartine, Mérimée, and a host of _literati_ beside. There he

expressed all his fears for the ancient dynasty under the guidance of

Prince Polignac. He had no personal feeling for the minister, save

that of friendship. But he could discern the signs of the times. He

sought an audience of the king, to warn him of the reefs on which he

was being steered; but he was no favorite with Charles X., and his

request was refused. Yet he might, if his counsels had been listened

to, have saved his master from exile and France from the revolution of

July. The crown was in his idea above all things except the law. He

would neither abandon the charter for the king, nor the king for the

charter. The ordinances of July were subversive of the constitution,

but the moment they were recalled he was on the monarch's side.

It was too late to stem the tide of insurrection. A ducal democrat was

called to the throne. His partisans and those of the dethroned

sovereign did not usually mix in society; but the salon in the Abbaye

was an exception to every rule. There and at Dieppe, in the bathing

season, the royalists Grenarde and Chateaubriand constantly met

Ballanche, Ampère, Lacordaire, and Villemain, who welcomed the new

regime. Madame Récamier, with admirable tact, kept them in social

harmony, and her efforts in this direction were the more praiseworthy

because she was not indifferent to their respective bias. She had

always loved the old dynasty, both because of its hereditary rights

and the glorious associations attached to it in history. She lamented

the shortsightedness of the Polignac ministry; but she lamented still

more the accession of Louis Philippe, which drove the greater part of

her friends into the obscurity of private life.

In April, 1830, her husband died. He was then in his eightieth year,

and during his last illness was removed to the Abbaye, that he might

be surrounded by every sort of attention. In taste, character, and

understanding he differed from Madame Récamier {96} as widely as

possible. They had but one quality in common: each was good and kind.

Notwithstanding the singularity of their tie, they lived together

thirty-five years without any disagreement. M. Bernard and his old

friend Simonard were also gone. Madame Lenormant was married, and

though the family circle that used to dine at the Abbaye was no more,

some faithful friends, such as Ballanche and Paul David, met daily at

the widow's hospitable board. The former of these was especially

disappointed by the fall of the elder Bourbon branch. He had hoped to

see its alliance with that moral, political, and social progress which

was the dream of his existence. Elective monarchy now seemed to hold

out better prospects of his _palingénésie sociale_.

The attitude assumed by Chateaubriand at this period was such as to

command general respect. He attempted, but in vain, to procure the

recognition of Henry V., and to place his rights under the protection

of the Duke of Orleans. Then, declining to take the oath of allegiance

to Louis Philippe, he retired from the peerage, and gave up his

pension. The friends, however, from whom he differed were delighted to

perceive that his cordiality with them in private was in no degree

lessened. But there was a circle within the circle that frequented the

Abbaye, and it was in 1832 that the Duc de Noailles became enrolled

among the select few. This was owing in part to the sympathy which

existed between him and Chateaubriand, and the high estimate which the

latter formed of his judgment. Neither was he so dazzled by the future

of society as to forget or despise its past. Both found in the history

of the kings of France the sources of all subsequent improvement. The

Duc de Noailles did not come alone to the Abbaye. His regard for

Madame Récamier was such that he brought with him every member of his

family whom he thought most worthy of her acquaintance, and invited

her in turn and her friends to grace with their presence the fair

domain of Maintenon. Here, surrounded by souvenirs of Louis XIV.,

Chateaubriand took notes for a chapter in his "Memoirs," which was not

inserted, but given in manuscript to Madame Récamier. It fills

seventeen pages, and forms one of the most striking parts of the

volume under review. The writer recalls the delicious gardens he has

visited in Greece, Ithaca, Grenada, Rome, and the East, and compares

them with the surroundings of the château of Maintenon. He touches on

many salient points in the history of that remarkable lady who bought

it in 1675, and whose corpse had, in his own day, been dragged round

the sacred enclosure of St. Cyr with a halter round the neck. He then

passes to the night spent in the château by Charles X., when the king,

driven from the seat of government, dismissed his Swiss Guards, and

placed himself almost in the condition of a prisoner. It was in Madame

Récamier's drawing-room that the auto-biography for which this

description was intended was first published, and that in the way so

fashionable among the ancient Romans and still common in France--by

the author's reading it aloud to an assembly of friends. Thus Statius

read his "Thebais," [Footnote 16] thus Alfieri his tragedies, at

Rome. The readings of the "_Mémoires d'outre Tombe_" spread over two

years, and his fame extended so fast that it was difficult to find

room for those who craved admittance. Publishers, also, were eager to

purchase the manuscript, to be printed at the writer's death; and some

royalist friends availed themselves of this circumstance to obtain for

him a pension for life. The excitement attending the recitals relieved

his ennui, and literary labor helped to pay his debts. The work

itself, though intensely interesting to all who heard it and felt

personally interested in the events it recorded, is too lengthy,

detailed, peevish, {97} and egotistic to add much to Chateaubriand's

fame. Any theme he handled was sure to call forth eloquence and

genius; but himself was the very worst subject he could choose,--the

worst, not, perhaps, for the entertainment of his readers, but for the

reputation of the writer.

[Footnote 16: Juvenal, Sat. VII., 82-86.]

In October, 1836, Louis Napoleon made his attempt at Strasburg, and

having been arrested, was brought to Paris for trial. His mother, the

ex-queen Hortense, fearing lest her presence there might only add to

his danger, paused at Viry, and allowed her devoted follower, Madame

Salvage, to proceed. This lady, relying on Madame Récamier's fidelity

to her friends, repaired immediately to the Abbaye, and, with a

portfolio of treasonable correspondence, sought an asylum there. On

the morrow, Madame Récamier visited the queen, or, to speak more

correctly, the Duchess of St. Leu, at Viry, and found her in extreme

distress. Her worst fears, indeed, were over. The prince's life was

spared, but, before his trial was concluded, he was shipped off to New

York. The prospect of thus losing him afflicted the duchess greatly,

for she had a mortal malady, and knew that her time on earth could not

be long. The next year, in fact, Louis Napoleon, informed of her

dangerous illness, hastened to Europe to see her once more. In 1840 he

again asserted, at Boulogne, his claim to the throne. He was tried by

the chamber of peers, and Madame Récamier, though she had been obliged

to appear and answer some questions before the _juge d'instruction_,

was not deterred by this annoyance from asking permission to visit the

prisoner. She saw him at the _Conciergerie_, not through attachment to

his cause, but for his departed mother's sake. Two years after, when

imprisoned in the fortress of Ham, he sent her his "_Fragmens

Historiques_." In writing to her, he said: "I have long wanted to

thank you, madam, for the kind visit you paid me in the

_Conciergerie_, and I am happy to have the opportunity now of

expressing my gratitude. . . . . You are so accustomed to delight

those who approach you, that you will not be surprised at the pleasure

I have felt in receiving a proof of your sympathy, and in learning

that you feel for my misfortunes." Enclosed in this letter was another

for Chateaubriand, much longer, and highly creditable to the prince's

talents and good taste. In it he declared his intention of beguiling

his prison hours by writing a history of Charlemagne as soon as he

should have collected the necessary materials. The prominent place

which that prince held in his thoughts is strikingly brought before us

in the preface to his "Julius Caesar." In 1848, when fortune smiled,

and he arrived in Paris already elected deputy, one of his first

visits was to the Abbaye-aux-Bois. It was just after the death of

Chateaubriand, and Madame Récamier had not the pleasure of seeing him.

In another year, she had entered into her rest, and he was far on the

turbulent way to an imperial throne.

We must not forget to mention among her friends one with whom we may

be excused for having more sympathy than with Napoleon III. This was

Frederic Ozanam. He was born in 1813, and was still a student, and in

his twentieth year, when first presented by Ampère to Madame Récamier.

Chateaubriand was much struck by him, and he was present at several

readings of the "_Mémoires_." But he came to the Abbaye rarely, and

when his friend Ampère asked him the reason, he replied: "It is an

assembly of persons too illustrious for my obscurity. In seven years,

when I become professor, I will avail myself of the kindness shown

me." With rare modesty, the young man kept his word. In seven years,

and no less, he took his place in the renowned circle. His talents

were already appreciated, and though timid and all but awkward, his

conversation often {98} broke through the restraints of habit, and

swept along its shining course as if he were surrounded by his pupils

in the lecture-room. Every year added to his celebrity. His character,

his philosophy, his scholarship, were all Christian, and his

professional life was devoted to one end. He vindicated the moral and

literary attainments of the middle ages against modern

detractors--against those who mean by the dark ages the ages about

which they are in the dark. He traced in all his works the history of

letters in barbarous times, and showed how, through successive periods

of decadence and renaissance, the Church has ever been carrying

forward the civilization of mankind. [Footnote 17] His publications

have been edited by friends of whom he was worthy--Lacordaire and

Ampère; and who would come to lay a votive wreath on Madame Récamier's

tomb, without having one also for the grave of Ozanam?

[Footnote 17: "_La Civilisation au Ve Siècle_," etc.]

The winter of 1840-41 was a disastrous one for Lyons and its

neighborhood. The swollen waters of the Rhone and Saone rising,

overflowed their banks, and ravaged the surrounding country with

resistless violence. The government was not slow to relieve the

sufferers, and public as well as private charity poured in from every

quarter. Madame Récamier felt deeply for her native city, and resolved

on making an extraordinary to aid it in its distress. She organized a

_soirée_ to which persons were to be admitted by tickets. These were

sold at twenty francs each, but were generally paid tor at a higher

rate. Lady Byron gave a hundred for hers. Rachel recited _Esther;_

Garcia, Rubini, and Lablache sang; the Marquis de Vérac placed his

carriages at their disposal; and the Duc de Noailles supplied

refreshments, footmen, and his _maître d'hôtel_. The Russians residing

in Paris were especially active in disposing of tickets; Chateaubriand

from eight o'clock to the end of the _soirée_ did the honors of the

saloon by which the company entered. Reschid-Pacha sat on the steps of

the musician's platform, half buried beneath waves of silk and

flowers. The rooms were adorned with exquisite objects of art, and

4,390 francs were received and transmitted to the mayor of Lyons.

Sixty poor families were selected by the curés to receive this bounty;

Madame Récamier having requested that it might not be broken up into

petty sums. In the midst of the glittering throng that assembled in

the old Abbaye that evening, it is said that she eclipsed them all in

beauty and grace. This may appear fabulous to many, for she was then

in her sixty-third year; yet her niece would hardly assert it if it

had not been the general opinion.

In 1842, Madame Récamier had the satisfaction of seeing Ballanche take

his place in the French Academy. His friends, indeed, were more elated

on the occasion than the philosopher himself. Literary honors were

little in his eyes compared with the exertion of a moral and

philosophic influence. His passion for machinery had nearly ruined

him; and his generosity was always beyond his narrow means. Like

Socrates in the basket, he lived above the earth, and the trivial

concerns of daily life dried up the sap of his sublime speculations.

[Footnote 18] Chateaubriand used to call him the hierophant; for he

had a small sect of followers whom he initiated in his mysticism.

[Footnote 18: Aristophanes. "The Clouds." ]

A cloud was gathering over his existence, and over the gladness of all

who frequented the Abbaye. Since the year 1839, Madame Récamier's

health had been growing feebler, and a cataract was perceived slowly

forming on her eyes. She bore the affliction with her usual calm, and

the fear of becoming less able to amuse Chateaubriand was her chief

distress. When her blindness became confirmed, her eyes were still

brilliant; and her ear being {99} fine, she knew all who approached

her by their voice. The valet took care to set everything in her

apartment in its fixed place, so that she could move about without

stumbling. In this way she often dissembled her loss of sight, and

many who visited her came away with the impression that she saw pretty

well. Long intercourse with Chateaubriand had made her habits as

methodical as his. He still came to her daily at half-past two. They

took tea together, and talked for an hour. Then the door opened to

visitors, and the good Ballanche was always the first. This would have

been mere dissipation, but for the more serious occupations of the

morning. She rose early, had the papers read to her rapidly, then the

choicest of new works, and afterward some standard author. Modern

literature had always been her delight; and it cheered her even in her

darkness. When she drove out, it was generally with some charitable

purpose; for the time was passed for paying other visits. Never, since

Montmorency had recommended it, did she forget to read or hear read,

daily some work of piety; and as age advanced and sorrow weighed more

heavily, she derived from the practice increasing solace and strength.

Now came what Ballanche called "the dispersion," from which afterward

he dated his letters. Prince Augustus of Prussia died in 1845, and

charged Humboldt to execute his last commands with regard to her whom

he had never ceased to respect and love. Her portrait, by Gerard,

which she had given him, and her letters, were returned when he could

no longer treasure them. His death affected her deeply; for other

flowers also were fading from life's garden, and the winter of age was

freezing everything but her affections. From Maintenon she passed into

Normandy with her niece and Ampère, who had just returned from Egypt,

weary and sick with travel. Wherever she went, the blind beauty of the

first empire wanted no one claim to respectful and devoted attention.

By the use of belladonna, she sometimes dilated the pupil, and

acquired for a few hours the sense of sight. In this way she saw and

admired Ary Scheffer's beautiful picture of St. Augustine, which he

brought from the exhibition to the Abbaye-aux-Bois, on purpose that

Chateaubriand and herself might inspect it. But such brief enjoyment

only made returning darkness more gloomy; and an operation offered the

best prospect of permanent relief. Meanwhile, Chateaubriand having

broken his collar-bone in stepping from his carriage, a delay

occurred. Madame Récamier would not deprive herself of the pleasure of

diverting him during his confinement to the house. Her friends often

assembled under his roof; and when he visited the Abbaye again, he was

always carried into the roam by two domestics. Indeed, he never walked

any more. Nor in her case did the operation for cataract succeed, for

the patient did not enjoy that composure which was indispensable for a

cure. Ballanche had been seized with pleurisy, and was dangerously

ill. The blind lady to whom he had so long been devoted, breaking

through all her surgeon's instructions, and braving the light she

should have shunned, crossed the street which separated her from the

dying man, and sat by his pillow to the last.

One who has often looked on death declares that she never saw it

present so grand a spectacle as in Ballanche. All his philosophy was

heightened into faith; all his poetry was wrapt into devotion.

Serenely trusting in the divine goodness, he realized intensely the

mysteries of the unseen world; and, with the holy viaticum on his

lips, quitted his earthly tabernacle with joy, whilst she who watched

at his side lost all hope of sight in her streaming tears. Ballanche's

mortal remains lie in the vault of the Récamier family; and his life

has been written by Ampère. He and Madame Récamier {100} together

selected the choicest passages from his works; and beneath the shade

of beech-trees, amid the calm of nature, her niece's daughters read

aloud to her Ballanche's long-treasured letters. She would scarcely

have survived her grief had not Chateaubriand's infirmities still

given a scope to her existence. Madame de Chateaubriand died in the

winter of 1846-7. She abounded in charitable works, and the poor loved

her name. The desolate widower proposed that Madame Récamier should

take her place. He pressed his suit, but she persisted in her refusal.

She thought the little variety caused by his daily visits to her

essential for his comfort; and that if she were always with him, he

would be less consoled. "What end," she asked, "could marriage answer?

At our age there is no service I may not reasonably render you. The

world allows the purity of our attachment; let it remain unaltered. If

we were younger, I would not hesitate a moment to become your wife,

and so consecrate my life to you."

A second operation was performed, with no better result than before.

The hope of being enabled to serve Chateaubriand more effectually

alone induced her to submit to it. His end was fast approaching, and

society itself seemed about to be dissolved. Without were contests;

within were fears. The revolution of February, 1848, undid the

revolution of July, 1830. The streets of the capital flowed with

blood, and the roar of cannon in the insurrection of June shook the

chamber of the expiring poet, and brought tears to his eyes. He heard

with keen interest of the death of Monseigneur Affre, the good

shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. The intrepid courage of that

glorious martyr lent fresh nerve to his jaded spirit; and though his

brilliant intellect had for some time past lost its lustre, his

thoughts were perfectly collected to the last. He was heard to mutter

to himself the words he had written in 1814: "No; I will never believe

that I write on the tomb of France." The chill waters of the river of

death could not extinguish the patriotism that burned in his breast.

The Abbé Guerry, his confessor and friend, stood near him with the

consolations of religion; his nephew, Louis de Chateaubriand, and the

superioress of the convent of Marie-Therése, which he and his wife had

founded. After receiving the blessed sacrament, he never spoke again;

but his eyes followed Madame Récamier with an expression of anguish

whenever she left the room. This was her crowning sorrow, that she

could not see the sufferer she sought to relieve. When the worst was

over, the calm of despair spread over her face, and a deathly

paleness, which nothing could remove. She gratefully assented to

everything which was proposed for her comfort; but her sad smile

proved how vain was the effort to restore her to gladness. Those

affectionate beings alone who live on friendship can comprehend the

extent of her desolation.

Chateaubriand's obsequies were performed in the church of the

_Missions étrangères_, where a large concourse assembled,

notwithstanding the city and the state were still in the agony of a

social crisis. But his ashes were transferred to his own Brittany,

where a solitary rock in the bay had long before been granted him by

the municipality of St. Malo, as a place of burial. More than 50,000

persons were present at this strange and solemn interment. They seemed

to represent France mourning his loss. The sea was covered with boats;

the roofs of the houses, and the shores beneath, were crowded with

spectators; banners floated from rock and tower; while mournful

canticles and booming cannon broke the stillness of the air. The

coffin was laid in a recess of the steep cliff, and surmounted by a

granite cross. Ampère was deputed by the French Academy to pronounce

his eulogy on the occasion; and he concluded his report to that body

in these {101} words: "It would seem that the genius of the

incomparable painter had been stamped on this last magnificent

spectacle; and that to him alone among men it had been given to add,

even after death, a splendid page to the immortal poem of his life."

On Easter day in the following year Madame Récamier was persuaded to

remove from the Abbaye-aux-Bois to the National Library, where her

niece and nephew resided. The cholera had broken out in the

neighborhood of the Abbaye; and though she did not fear death, she had

a peculiar horror of that dreadful pestilence. But her flight was

vain; the scourge pursued her, and fell with sadden violence on her

enfeebled frame. The day before, Ampère and Madame Salvage had dined

with her, and on the morning of her seizure her niece's daughter

Juliette had been reading to her the memoirs of Madame de Motteville.

During twelve hours she suffered extreme torture, but spoke with her

confessor, and received the sacrament of extreme unction. Continual

vomiting prevented the administration of the eucharist. Ampère, Paul

David, the Abbé de Cazalès, her relations and servants, knelt around

her bed to join in the prayers for the dying. Sobs and tears choked

their voices, and "Adieu, adieu, we shall meet again; we shall see

each other again," were the only words her agony allowed her to utter.

Madame Récamier breathed her last on the 11th of May, 1849. The

terrible epidemic, which generally leaves hideous traces behind,

spared her lifeless frame, and left it like a beautiful piece of

sculptured marble. Achille Devéria took a drawing of her as she lay in

her cold sleep, and his faithful sketch expresses at the same time

suffering and repose.

Such was the end of her who, without the prestige of authorship, was

regarded by her contemporaries as one of the most remarkable women of

her time. We will not indulge in any exaggerated statement of her

piety. Great numbers, no doubt, have attained to more interior

perfection. Her ambition to please was undoubtedly a weakness.

Religion did not make her what she was; yet she would never have been

what she was without it. It was the ballast which steadied her when

carrying crowded sail. It was the polar star that directed her course

amid conflicting currents and adverse storms. It raised her standard

of morality above that of many of her associates. It taught her how to

be devout without dissimulation, a patroness of letters without

pedantry, a patriot and a royalist without national disdain or

political animosity. It made her charitable to the poor, kind to the

aged and sorrowful, gracious and unassuming with all, at the very time

that the proudest of emperors invited her presence at his court, and

his brother Lucien made her the idol of his verse. Its golden thread

guided her aright through the intricate mazes of social life--through

a matrimonial position equally strange and unreal--an engagement to a

royal prince who was the foe of France--through friendships with

Bernadotte and Murat on their thrones, with the queens of Holland and

of Naples when fallen, and with the third Napoleon when plotting to

regain the sceptre of the first. It so lifted her above intrigue and

cabals that she could give her right hand to the disaffected General

Moreau and her left to the devoted Junot--could be made the confidante

of all parties without betraying the secrets of any. It inclined her

to be chary of giving advice, but to make it, when asked for, tell

always on the side of virtue. It enabled her to exhort the sceptical

with effect, and dispose the philosophic to accept the faith.

[Footnote 19]

[Footnote 19: See her letters to Ampère in the _Correspondant_,

1864.]

Her autobiography has unfortunately been destroyed by her own

direction, because blindness would not allow her to revise it and

cancel its {102} defects. But many fragments of it have been

preserved, and a thousand personal recollections, collected from those

who knew her, have been wrought by her niece and other biographers

into a lasting monument.

--------

From The Fortnightly Review

CHINESE CHARACTERISTICS.

BY SIR JOHN BOWRING.

I was gathering together some examples of the strange opinions held by

the Chinese as to "outer nations," when I fell upon a curious official

document, presented to the emperor by a great mandarin, who occupies a

very prominent place in the modern history of China, Keshen, once

viceroy of the two Kwang. His name brought immediately to my

recollection, by a very natural association, that of my old

acquaintance, Father Huc, whose contributions to our knowledge of

China, Tartary, and Tibet are among the most original authentic, and

instructive that we possess.

It is a matter much to be regretted that only a small part of Father

Huc's personal adventures has ever been communicated to the public. I

first met with him on one of the Chusan islands, dressed as a

Chinaman, and living in every particular as the natives live--his food

was rice--his drink was only tea. He was recognized as the director

and instructor of no less than five Catholic communities. I had heard

of the existence of professors of the Tien-choo (heavenly master)

religion, and, going some way into the interior, found the Lazzarist

doctor instructing the people. He had an extraordinary mastery of the

colloquial Chinese; spoke and wrote Manchoo, and was not unacquainted

with the Mongolian tongue. I enjoyed his company as a fellow

traveller, having given him a passage in a vessel which was at my

disposal, and I fell in with him in five different and distant parts

of China. I have no doubt of the general veracity of his narrative, of

his sincere love of truth--perhaps not wholly separated from a

certain credulity and fondness for the marvellous, with which, I have

observed, oriental travellers are not unfrequently imbued. It would be

interesting to learn how Father Huc got to Peking, lived for many

years in the city and its neighborhood, no one knowing or supposing

him to be a foreigner--what were the arrangements by which, departing

on his mission to Manchuria, he managed to escape from the

scrutinizing eye of the police, at a period, too, when the

determination to repel the intrusion of "barbarian strangers" was at

its height. Of his interviews with Keshen, after the discovery of the

objects of his journey, and the determination of the mandarin envoy to

drive him out of the country, he gives many interesting particulars in

his "Souvenirs," but he does not mention that Keshen, who had been

stripped at Peking of some millions sterling, the gatherings of

profits and peculations in the high offices he had filled, and who

managed to amass a considerable sum of money in Tibet, confided his

sayings in that country to the keeping of the Lazzarist missionary;

and at the very time when the decree was issued for his banishment,

Keshen obtained from him a promise that he would, when he passed into

the {103} territory of China, deliver over "the silver" to the parties

whom Keshen designated. Huc was a delightful companion; he had no

asperity; on the contrary, he was full of jokes and merriment.

Courageous, too, when in the presence of danger, his ready wit

furnished him with every appliance necessary to his safety and

protection. His familiarity with Chinese character was remarkable; he

knew when and where and how to domineer and command, where it was safe

to assume authority. In China, one of the common instruments of

government is to send from the court secret spies, whose persons are

unknown, and the object of whose mission is to report confidentially

to the emperor on the shortcomings or misdoings of the great

mandarins. It was often Huc's fortune to be thought one of these

mysterious but redoubtable visitants, and he turned the suspicion to

excellent account. The fact of his speaking Manchoo, and being well

acquainted with Tartar forms and usages, very naturally strengthened

the conclusion that it was most desirable to obtain his patronage and

favorable opinion in the confidential communications to be made to the

Tartar dynasty. No doubt many a functionary has trembled,

self-condemned, in the presence of the missionary, and has courted his

indulgent judgment by those attentions which are supposed to

conciliate. Bribes, large and attractive, representing the estimated

value of the service to be rendered, are constantly offered and

frequently received by the traveller who is believed to have the ear

of the supreme authority. I have heard that from twenty to thirty

thousand pounds sterling are sometimes collected in a district

circuit, the collection being made at the risk of either the bribed or

the briber, or of both, each being necessarily at the mercy of the

other in case of betrayal. But, at the same time, Father Huc possessed

all the arts of prostration and deference when the circumstances of

the case required them. There was, however, less of assumption in his

lowliness than in his loftiness; his was never "a pride that aped

humility." The acting was when he played the part of a ruler. He was

altogether a natural man--unobtrusive, but fluent in the presence of

those interested--and who could fail to be interested in his strange

adventures? He never recovered the free use of his limbs after he

returned to Europe; and died in France, leaving much undone--the doing

of which would have been most useful to his race.

One of the great grievances of which the Chinese complained, in the

time of the East India Company monopoly, and down to the Pottinger

war, was the "oozing out" of the silver in China for the payment of a

poisonous drug to the "outer barbarians." It was, however, then the

fact, as it is the fact now, that the poppy is widely cultivated, and

opium largely manufactured, by the Chinese themselves in several of

the provinces of the empire. It used to be the belief in China that

there alone was the pure metal produced, and that the coins brought

from afar would in process of time be converted, by natural process,

into base metal, or something worse. I recollect a person being

charged with stealing his master's money; he did not deny having had

the custody of the dollars, but swore they had been eaten by white

ants. Keshen was directed to give his opinion to the emperor as to the

quality of the silver brought to China by foreigners, and these are

his words:

"The foreign money brought from these outer nations is all boiled and

reduced by quicksilver. If you wrap it up and lay it aside for several

years without touching it, it will be turned into moths and corroding

insects, and the silver cups made from it by these strangers will

change into feathers."

After stating that the coins show their impurity when submitted to the

crucible, he adds:

"Yet we find that in Kiangnan and by the course of the river Hwac, and

{104} all along the rivers to the south, foreign dollars are used in

trade and circulated most abundantly; we even find them of more value

than Sycee silver; this is really what I cannot understand!" Truly it

passeth all understanding if the premises of the mandarin be correct.

Some one suggests that Keshen had read in our sacred book of our

treasures "that moth and rust do corrupt" (Matt. vi. 19), and of the

"riches" which "make to themselves wings and fly away" (Prov. xxiii.

5).

As was said of old time, "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,"

so the Chinese still recognize the principle that the penalty to be

paid for crime need not be visited on the criminal himself, but that

the substitution of an innocent for a guilty person to bear the award

of the law may satisfy all the demands of justice. In the

embarrassments of the imperial treasury during the last war,

proclamations of the emperor frequently appeared in the _Peking

Gazette_, authorizing the commutation of the judicial sentences which

inflicted personal punishment by the payment of sums of money, to be

estimated according to the gravity of the offence, and the rank or

opulence of the offender. Men are to be found as candidates for the

scaffold when a large remuneration is offered for the sacrifice of

life--to such a sacrifice posthumous honor is frequently attached--a

family is rescued from poverty, and enters on the possession of

comparative wealth. The ordinary price paid for a man's life is a

hundred ounces of pure silver, of the value of about £33 sterling. In

the Buddhist code such an act of devotion and self-sacrifice ranks

very high in the scale of merits, and would ensure a splendid

recompense in the awards of the tribunal which is, after death, to

strike the balance of good and evil, when every individual's mortal

history is to be the subject of review.

Some illustrations may not be unwelcome. In the history of the

intercourse of the East India Company with the Chinese, it will be

found that the authorities were never satisfied with the averment that

the individual charged with offences could not be found; they always

insisted that some English subject could be found and delivered over

to the penalties of the law. They invariably took high ground;

asserted that the laws of China must be respected in China, and that

those laws provided a certain and always applicable punishment by

which the demands of justice might and ought to be satisfied. They

turned a deaf ear to the representation that, according to European

law, the individual who had committed a crime was the only proper

person to be punished for that crime, and considered it a sort of

"barbarian" notion that any crime should be passed over without being

followed by the appropriate penalty visiting somebody or other. The

theory fills the whole field of penal legislation. Households,

villages, and even districts are made responsible for offences

committed within their boundaries; and it is not unusual for high

functionaries to be called upon to suffer for misdeeds not their own,

which no vigilance could prevent and no sacrifices repair. There

ought, say the sages, to be no wrong without a remedy, no sin without

consequent suffering; and it is better that an innocent man should now

and then be sacrificed than that guilt should not necessarily and

inevitably be followed by penal consequences.

There is every reason to believe that on one occasion, to prevent the

stoppage of trade, which was the menaced consequence of non-obedience,

an innocent man was delivered over to the authorities (but not by the

British), and executed at Canton. During the administration of Sir

John Davis, six Englishmen were brutally murdered at Kwan Chuh Kei, a

small village on the Pearl river. The English government insisted on

the punishment of the murderers, and six men were publicly beheaded.

It is quite certain they had nothing to do with {105} the crime; they

were brought gagged to the place of execution, and English gentlemen,

under the instructions of the consul, witnessed the decapitation; but

everybody was satisfied that the criminals were allowed to escape, and

that guiltless men were beheaded in their stead; and Lord Palmerston

most properly directed that no British authority should be present at

such executions, lest their presence might be deemed to imply

approbation of the administration of justice in China.

It once occurred to me to have to make representations to the governor

of Kiangsoo in consequence of some Chinese troops having fired upon

the British settlement of Shanghai. No injury was done, but the act

was of a character which might have led to serious consequences. An

interview was asked, and, accompanied by the British admiral, I went

to the tent of the great mandarin. On being introduced, we found six

soldiers kneeling by his side. Close at hand was an executioner, and

we saw as we passed the huge heavy swords which are employed by him in

his wonted work. "It was quite right to complain," said the mandarin;

"it was quite fit those who had committed the outrage should be

visited with the punishment. Inquiries had been made, and it was very

likely the men present were guilty; at all events, they had been in

the neighborhood. Utter the word, and their heads shall fall at your

feet." We informed his excellency that such abrupt and sudden action

did not accord with our notions of justice, and we requested that the

men might be relieved of their terrors and released on the spot This

was done, and the governor, who was also the military

commander-in-chief, merely told the trembling soldiers that they owed

their lives to our clemency--a clemency they little anticipated from

"outside barbarians."

Baron Gros informed me that when the French embassy was going up the

Peiho--which, by the way, is not the real name of the river, and only

means a river in the north, by which the Tientsing stream is usually

designated in the south--an outrage was committed on a French sailor

by a Chinaman, who was arrested and condemned to death. A deputation

waited on the ambassador from the offender's native village, bringing

with them an old man whom they wished to be hanged instead of him who

had committed the offence. They represented that the condemned man was

young, that his mother was dependent upon his labor, and would have no

means of support if deprived of her son; that it would be very hard if

she were made the victim. And, moreover, it could make no difference

to his excellency (the minister) whether the old man or the young were

executed. The death of either would show that punishment would

assuredly follow injuries done to the subjects of "the great man's

nation." They were informed that European usages demanded that the

criminal should suffer for the crime. They returned next day to offer

"a better bargain" to the ambassador. They brought down two men to

suffer in expiation of the offence of one. Surely two Chinamen might

be accepted for the wrong committed upon the stranger. The mission, of

course, failed; the delegates departed sorely disappointed, and

greatly wondering at the strange notions which the "red-haired outer

men" had of what is right and what is wrong.

There is a Chinese aphorism, _Puh tá, puh chaou_ ("No blows, no

truth"), whose universal recognition will best illustrate the general

character of the administration of justice. Torture is not employed on

criminals alone in order to elicit confession, but constantly to

witnesses when their evidence does not suit the foregone conclusions

of the judge, who, in very many cases, is bribed beforehand, and

desirous that the statements made should be such as to warrant his

predetermined verdict. Truth is a virtue little appreciated among

Orientals, and especially among the Chinese. They are afraid {106} of

truth. It gives the authorities accurate information as to their

whereabouts which may involve them in difficulties. They do not know

what may have happened in a particular locality, and therefore prefer

saying where they were not than where they were, in order to avoid

compromising themselves by putting the _runners_ upon a true scent.

Then again, habits of mendacity and a constant disregard of truth lead

to inaccuracy of observation. I remember a case in which three sets of

witnesses gave three separate versions as to the time of the day on

which an important event had occurred--that it was in bright daylight;

that it was in utter darkness; that it was neither light nor dark; and

in that case I had reason to believe there was no intended perjury.

Against perjury there is really no protection but in the dread of

punishment. We tried in Hong Kong different usages which were expected

to give some security for obtaining the "truth, the whole truth, and

nothing but the truth." Cocks' heads were cut off by or in the

presence of the witnesses, and they pronounced denunciations and

consented to have their blood shed if there was falsehood in their

testimony. Sometimes an earthenware plate was broken, and the parties

offered themselves to be shattered and broken to bits as was the plate

if they did not tell the truth. Others favored the writing of an

aphorism of the sages on a piece of paper, burning it at a lamp, and

requiring the witness to swear that as he hoped not to be burned and

tormented he would say all that was true. But every experiment failed.

Oaths, however enforced, with whatever forms invested, were discovered

to be utterly worthless; and it was wisely decided that the penalties

of perjury should attach equally to the sworn and the unsworn man. It

occurred to me to consult a person of some eminence as to the

possibility of administering any form of an oath which would be held

binding. He said that there was one temple within the city which was

held sacred to truth, and that promises made and contracts entered

into within that particular sanctuary were deemed better guaranteed

than any other. But he said the place was inaccessible to Europeans;

and he thought that nothing but the dread of punishment for falsehood

gave any security, and even that security was most insufficient, for

the elucidation of truth.

A case, which it was my duty to investigate, connected with the

smuggling of British property, came before the chief judge at Canton.

I had come to a conclusion as to the guilt of certain parties, which

conclusion was different from that formed by the Chinese official. One

day several Chinamen were brought to me in a dreadfully mutilated

state--their faces and arms covered with wounds and bruises inflicted

by heavy blows of the bamboo. It appeared their evidence confirmed the

opinion I had formed, and was altogether opposed to the theory of the

mandarin, and they were bastinadoed until they declared that all they

had said was false, and their testimony was made to accord with the

views of the magistrate. Sentence was delayed; new and irresistible

evidence was brought forward--meanwhile, perhaps, the mandarin had

been bribed; but certain it is the witnesses were again summoned

before him. They were informed they must be punished for the _lies_

they had told while under torture; and I heard, but I did not see the

men a second time, that they were again beaten until they declared

that their first and not their last story was the true one; the

mandarin reporting that his early impressions had been removed on

further investigation. [Footnote 20]

[Footnote 20: The Emperor Paul, of Russia, once published a decree

requiring that every one who passed in front of his palace should

wear short breaches and silk stockings, under penalty of a flogging.

In the cold weather people took care to avoid the neighborhood of

the palace, and went to their business by various circumambulations.

Being annoyed at the absence of the multitude, whom he was fond of

looking at from the palace windows, he published a second edict, in

which he ordered that any person wearing the before-enforced costume

should receive the same sort of castigation. It was said that an

unfortunate foreigner, who did not understand Russian--and had he

understood it, might not have escaped the penalty--was flogged on

two following days for disobeying the imperial mandate--for not

wearing, and for wearing, the obligatory and the interdicted

costumes.]

{107}

I was once engaged in correspondence with the Taeping chiefs, while

they were in possession of Nanking. The fact that they had printed and

circulated a portion of the Old Testament in Chinese created a

wonderful interest in the religious world, while the belief that they

were banded together for the patriotic purpose of replacing an

intrusive and oppressive dynasty by a national and liberal government,

led to much sympathy even beyond the field of missionary action. I

sent a ship of war to Nanking in order to ascertain, by direct

intercourse with its traders, the exact character of the insurrection.

They put forward the most monstrous pretensions. One of the kings

called himself "The Holy Ghost, the Comforter"--the third person of

the Trinity; and demanded our recognition of his authority, advising

us that we knew his coming had been foretold in our own Scriptures.

Another claimed to be the "Uterine, younger brother of Jesus Christ;"

and gave an account of mutual invitations which had passed between

them; of the visits of the king to paradise, where his "heavenly

brother" had introduced him to his wives and family; and he reported

specially a personal intervention of Jesus, who came down to earth in

order to settle the number of stripes which were to be given to a

woman of the harem who had offended her master. Our people on landing

were called "ko-ko" (brothers) by the insurgents, who inquired whether

we had brought them tribute, and were willing to recognize the

universal authority of the celestial king. It was only on this

condition that they would allow us to obtain the coal we desired to

purchase for the use of the steamer--a condition of course not

complied with; so that the evidence of brotherhood was not of a very

complete or satisfactory character.

In a very elaborate communication which I received from the Taeping

sovereigns, they desired a personal description of "God the Father,"

that they might compare our notions of the Deity with their own--the

color of his hair, the size of his abdomen; and inquired particularly

whether we had any poetry--as they had--written with his own hand.

That there was, and is, in this extraordinary movement an element of

well-warranted discontent and resistance to the exactions, extortions,

and corruptions of the Manchoo authorities cannot be doubted; but,

strange to say, not a single man of mark, not one literary graduate,

not an individual either known to or possessing the confidence of the

higher or the middle classes, ever joined the rebellion. Lamentable as

is the general ignorance of the Chinese as to remote nations, the

ignorance exhibited by the Taepings was the grossest of all. It will

be no wonder that "the rebels," most of whom came from the interior of

China, and had never had any communication with western nations,

should display such a want of knowledge, when even books of authority

give such confirmation as will be found in a popular geography,

written by a man who had visited the Dutch archipelago, and on his

return gave to his countrymen the results of his observation and

experience: [Footnote 21]

[Footnote 21: Dr. Medhurst published a translation of this work of

Wang Tac Lai, Shanghai, 1849.]

"European countries are originally on the outside verge of

civilization, and their being now assimilated to the villages of our

inner land is entirely owing to the virtuous influences of our

august government, which transforms these distant and unknown

regions by the innate force of its own majesty."

European nations are thus described:

"The Dutch share the sovereignty of Europe with the English, or

'red-haired nation,' and the French.

"The English nation is poor but powerful; and being situated at a

most {108} important point, frequently attacks the others.

"The Hollanders are like the man who stopped his ears while stealing

a bell. Measuring them by the rules of reason, they scarcely possess

one of the five cardinal virtues (which, according to the Chinese,

are benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and truth). The

great oppress the small, being overbearing and covetous. Thus they

have no benevolence. Husbands and wives separate with permission to

marry again; and before a man is dead a month his widow is permitted

to go to another. Thus they have no rectitude. They are extravagant

and self-indulgent in the extreme, and so bring themselves to the

grave without speculating on having something to tranquillize and

aid their posterity. Thus they have no wisdom. Of the single quality

of sincerity, however, they possess a little.

"The dispositions of the French are violent and boisterous. Their

country is poor and contains but few merchants; hence they seldom

come to Batavia. Whenever the Dutch are insulted by the English,

they depend upon the French for assistance. The kingdom of France is

large and the population numerous, so that the English are somewhat

afraid of them.

"The dependent countries of Europe are intermixed and connected

without end. Some of the places can be visited by ships when they

become a little known; and some are held in subjection by the Dutch,

and governed by them. The rest live in hollow trees and caves of the

earth, not knowing the use of fire, and wander about naked or in

strange and uncouth attire. They cannot all be fully known, nor are

there any means of inquiring about them. We have heard of such names

as Tingli (English), Po-ge (Pegu?) Wotsie (Bussorah?), China (which

is not supposed to mean the celestial empire); but have no

opportunity of knowing anything of their manners and customs."

He says of Mekka (Mohia) that "its walls are extremely high, and the

whole ground splendid with silver and gold and beautiful gems,

guarded by a hundred genii, so that the treasures, cannot be taken

away. The true cultivators of virtue may ascend to Mekka and worship

the real Buddha, when, after several years of fasting, they return

and receive the title of Laou Keun--doctor; they can then bring down

spirits, subdue monsters, drive away noxious influences, and defeat

demons."

He mentions a sea-dog on the loadstone sea (_tze-she-yang_), where

there are so many magnets, that if a vessel with iron nails gets into

the neighborhood it is inevitably absorbed. Hence, those who navigate

it employ only bamboo pegs. He reports the existence of a sea-horse

(_hai ma_) at Malacca, which comes out of the ocean in pursuit of a

mare. The horse has a fine black skin, a very long tail, and can

travel hundreds of miles a day; but when on shore, if he be allowed

only to see a river, off he goes to his native element; nothing can

control him. He describes a sea-mare attached to the rocks at the

bottom of the sea by a stalk from her navel many hundred yards long.

"When discovered," he, says, and this is no doubt true, "male and

female appear together, so that they are never solitary. The Dutch pay

the fishermen liberally for catching a sea-mare, but she never lives

after separation from her root. When caught, the Dutch, who are

'envious people,' put them into spirits, and preserve them." "I never

saw," he says, "the flying head, but have heard of it, and that it

abounds in Amboyna, and resembles a native woman. Its eye has no

pupil, and it can see in the dark. It flies about; nothing but the

head enters houses and eats human entrails; but if it meet anything

sour it cannot open its eyes. Drops from a piece of linen sprinkled

upon it will be security against its mischief." He says there "is an

animal somewhat like a man, {109} but with a mouth from ear to ear.

Its loud laughs indicate a storm its name is the _hai-ki-shang,_ or

sea priest; its appearance prognosticates evil."

He speaks of a race of men called _wei tan,_ "dwelling among the

hills, with ugly faces and tattooed bodies, who have tails five or six

inches long, at the end of which are several bristles, about an inch

or two in length. These savages frequently engage themselves as

sailors, and come to Batavia, but as soon as they are discovered, run

away and conceal themselves, and if examination be insisted on, they

change countenance and violently resist." He gives a description of

sundry European instruments; calls the telescope "a cunning invention

of supernatural agents." He recommends his countrymen not to believe

that the "large eggs" (no doubt ostriches) sometimes brought to China

are "mares' eggs," which he is sure they are not. He thinks there may

be fishes large enough to swallow ships, as he himself saw a mortar

capable of holding five pecks, which he was told was the vertebral

bone of a fish.

Of Manilla he gives a tolerably sensible account, having, as he says

himself, traded there. He adds: "Since the withdrawal of the English

there has been general tranquillity, peace, and joy in the regions

beyond sea. He humbly conceives this is due to the instruction

diffused by the sacred government of China, which overawes insulated

foreigners, soaking into their flesh, and moistening their marrow, so

that even the most distant submit themselves."

It is not an unusual practice for opulent Chinamen from the interior

to visit their friends at the ports opened to trade, and to seek

introductions to "the merchant outer people" who buy their silks,

teas, and rhubarb, and pay them dollars or opium in exchange. As

Chinese habits, Chinese costumes, and Chinese opinions are all moulded

to the same type--as all read the same language, study the same books,

and have done so for a hundred generations--the contrast between

European and Chinese life is startling. That a guest or visitor should

be placed on the right hand, shows that one of the first requirements

of courtesy is unknown or disregarded; that a lady with large feet

should by possibility be of "gentle birth," no Chinese woman of

quality dares to believe; that the magnetic needle should point to the

north, instead of the south, shows a strange unacquaintance with

elementary science; but, above all, that civilized and adjacent

nations should have written languages so imperfect that they cannot

read the letters on the books of their neighbors, is wholly

unintelligible to a Chinese literate. I remember showing a picture of

the Crystal Palace to a mandarin from the interior. He at first denied

that such a building could ever have been erected; he was sure it was

only a picture--a fancy; he had never seen anything like it at Peking.

Was it possible there should be an emperor out of China with so

beautiful a palace as this? He was told this was the palace built by

and for the people. This was quite sufficient to convince him that we

were practising upon his credulity; and though Chinese courtesy would

not allow him to call us liars, it was very clear he had come to the

conclusion that we were nothing better.

They have manufacturers of false noses in China, but none of false

teeth. There are practitioners who profess to cure the tooth-ache

instantaneously, and people worthy of credit have assured me they

succeed in doing so. The works of European dentists are among the most

admired examples of the skill of foreigners. A mandarin who was

anxious to learn something about the making of teeth, once produced to

me a box fall of artificial noses of various sizes and colors, with

which he supplied the defects of his own; he said he used one sort of

nose before and another after his meals, {110} and insisted that

Chinese ingenuity was greater than our own. What, in process of time,

will be the action of western civilization on the furthest eastern

regions--whether, and in what shape, we shall make returns for the

instruction our forefathers received from thence--is a curious and

interesting inquiry--more interesting from the vast extent of the

regions before us. The fire-engine is almost the only foreign

mechanical power which has been popularized in China. There is

scarcely a watch or clock maker in the whole empire, though opulent

men generally carry two watches. The rude Chinese agricultural and

manufacturing instruments have been nowhere supplanted by European

improvements. No steamship has been built by the Chinese; the only one

I ever saw would not move after it was launched; it was said a

Chinaman, who had only served on an English steamer as stoker, was

required by the authorities to construct the vessel. There is neither

gold nor silver coinage; the only currency being a base metal, chien,

whose value is the fifth of a farthing. The looms with which their

beautiful silk stuffs are woven are of the most primitive character.

Yet they have arts to us wholly unknown. They give to copper the

hardness and the sharpness of steel; we cannot imitate some of their

brightest colors. They have lately sent us the only natural green

which is permanent, which has been known to them, as printing, wood

engraving, the use of the compass, artillery practice, and other great

inventions, from immemorial time. Paper was made from rags long

anterior to the Christian era, and promissory notes were used at a

still earlier period. The Chinese may be proud of a language and a

literature which has existed for thirty centuries, while in Europe

there is no literary language now written or spoken which would have

been intelligible seven hundred years ago. If, then, this singular

people--more than a third of the whole human race--look down with

some contempt on the "outside races," let them not be too harshly

judged, or too precipitately condemned.

--------

From The Month.

PIERRE PRÉVOST'S STORY;

OR, TRUE TO THE LAST.

CHAPTER I.

In one of my summer rambles through the north of France, I came across

a little seaside village which possessed so many charms that it was

the greatest difficulty in the world to tear myself away from it.

It was indeed a lovely spot. The village, situated on a noble cliff,

was enclosed almost in a semicircle of richly wooded hills, which

stretched, as far as the eye could see, into the very heart of noble

Normandy.

At your feet the glorious sea came dashing in to a shore over which

great masses of bold rock were liberally scattered, and round which

the waves used to play in the summertime, however little obstacle was

afforded to their fury when fierce winds blew up a storm in the cruel

winter-time.

But perhaps the most attractive feature of the place to me was a

splendid river, within a mile's walk of the village, which was

plentifully supplied with fish, and afforded me many and {111} many

day's amusement, and not a little excellent sport.

My time was pretty well my own, and I had made up my mind for a

tolerably long spell of idle enjoyment; so, under these circumstances,

it may not appear strange that I resolved to take up my quarters

at----.

The inhabitants of the place were mostly poor fishermen, who used to

ply their trade nearly the whole of the week, and by great good luck

frequently got back to their wives and families toward its close.

A very pretty cottage, with a bay-window commanding a splendid view of

the sea, took my fancy immensely, and though it was rather a humble

sort of place, I determined if possible to make an impression on its

possessors, in order to secure two rooms for my use during my stay.

Alphonsine was certainly not the most sweet-tempered woman I have ever

met, in fact rather the contrary; at the same time I fully persuaded

myself that a great many disagreeables would be counteracted by the

possession of my much-coveted bay-window.

Alphonsine evidently ruled the establishment with a rod of iron. She

was a tall, thin, ill-favored looking woman, who was always prepared

for a wrangle, and who looked uncommonly sharp after her own

interests. However, by paying pretty liberally and in advance, I soon

won her heart, and flatter myself that it was by excellent generalship

on my part that I contrived very soon to be entirely in her good

books. Her hard face used sometimes actually to relax into a grim kind

of smile in my presence, and I fancied her harsh voice used almost

imperceptibly to soften in addressing me. Beside, she was accustomed

to bustle about in a rough kind of way in order to get things straight

and comfortable, and I really think tried to do her best to make me

feel at home. What more could I want than this? And then she had two

delightful children, a boy and a girl, with whom I was very soon

especially friendly, and who tended to enliven me up a bit whenever I

chanced to be at all dull. The boy was about thirteen years old, and

his sister, who looked a year or so younger, was indeed a lovely

child. She was as fair as a lily, and had that sweet expression of

countenance which is so often found among the peasants in Normandy;

her eyes were large and exquisitely blue, and with all this she had a

decided will of her own. But then she was the daughter of Alphonsine.

It was some little time before I made the acquaintance of the master

of the establishment; for he was always busy fishing, and, as I have

said before, the fishermen who lived in the village seldom got home

before Saturday evening, and had to be off again either on Sunday

evening or by daybreak on Monday.

However, Saturday soon came round, and with it Pierre Prévost.

He was about five-and-thirty years old, very dark and singularly

handsome. His hair, which was thick, fell about his head in ringlets;

he was short, and had most expressive eyes. I was not long in

perceiving that he was in every way a great contrast to Alphonsine.

His expression was sad, and he seldom or never smiled; and I noticed

he seemed to shrink rather nervously from the piercing look with which

he was very frequently favored by "la belle Alphonsine." His sweet and

handsome face soon disposed me favorably toward him, notwithstanding

that there were circumstances which occurred on our first acquaintance

which would otherwise have tended to prejudice me entirely against

him.

I was smoking a pipe and chatting quietly to Alphonsine in the great

chimney-corner on the evening I allude to, when all at once the two

children came tearing in from school with their books under their

arms.

"He is come!" cried they, in their shrill treble voices. "We saw his

boat just coming near the shore. He will be on the sand almost in a

{112} moment We may go and meet him, may we not, mother?"

"What's the use?" said she, in rather a more disagreeable tone than

usual. "I am sure he would much prefer to come alone. Beside, I want

you both. Go into the garden to get me something to make a salad of.

Come now!"

These last two words settled the matter, and the children were soon

off, without another word about the expedition to the sea-shore.

"That's strange," thought I to myself; "I wonder if this Pierre can be

a bad father, or at any rate a bad husband?"

A few minutes afterward he came in.

As if to strengthen this bad impression of mine, I noticed that

Alphonsine never moved when he entered, and did not attempt to offer

her hand or cheek to him. She did not even welcome him with a smile.

No, she contented herself with taking a slate down from the wall, the

pencil belonging to which was already in her hand:

"How much?" said she, coolly.

Pierre Prévost pulled out of his pocket a great leather purse, and

detailed, day by day, how much he had made by the sale of his fish.

After which, he put down the money upon the corner of the table.

All this time the woman was eagerly dotting down the various sums on

the slate. Then she gravely added them all up, and determinedly

counted out every sou.

By great good luck the figures tallied with the money. Then Alphonsine

shut up the money in a drawer, and locked it very securely.

Meanwhile Pierre repocketed his leather purse, which he had just

emptied, never attempting to grumble in the least, and going through

the task as methodically as possible.

"I was quite wrong in forming so hasty an opinion," thought I to

myself, as I witnessed this peculiar scene; "Pierre is not such a bad

fellow, after all."

It was not long before the young ones made a second burst into the

room, making rather more noise than they did on the first occasion.

They were not long in scrambling on to Pierre's knees, and smothering

him with kisses, and it was all done so heartily, with such warmth,

and so naturally, that I could not help exclaiming to myself, "Why,

he's a capital father, after all!"

But, judge, of my astonishment when I heard their pretty voices call

out,

"Oh! we're so glad to see you back again, dear uncle Pierre!"

Then he was their uncle, after all, and he was not married to

Alphonsine. But was he her brother, or merely a brother-in-law? And

yet she seemed so entirely to have the upper-hand over him. It

certainly was a very remarkable coincidence.

But what surprised me most of all was the fatherly affection that

Pierre Prévost seemed to have for the two children.

He took them on his knees, and played with them, and appeared to make

so much of them, that I, who was a silent spectator of this little

scene, became really quite interested.

This lasted for about five minutes, and then all at once it seemed as

if the old pain came over him, for he turned quite sad again, and

turned deathly pale, and I could see the tears starting to his eyes.

And then he got up, and looking steadily into the young innocent faces

of his nephew and niece, said, in an extremely soft voice,

"Go and play on the sand. Go along, my pretty ones!"

The poor children, who seemed quite astonished at the sudden change in

his demeanor, hesitated for a moment. However, another beseeching look

from their uncle, and an angry word or so from Alphonsine, soon

persuaded them what to do; whereupon they set out very slowly for the

sea-shore.

{113}

"They know perfectly well how little you care for them," said

Alphonsine, very bitterly; "and it would be just as well if you would

not go out of your way to show it."

Pierre made no answer. He shut his eyes, and put his hand to his heart

as if to express the pain he was suffering.

Then taking a spade from the corner,

"I am going to work in the garden," said be, gently.

And then he went out, looking very sorrowful.

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