Thus, then, the "philosophy of history" is the comparison and

arrangement of its great events by one whose mind is stored with the

facts which it records, and who at the same time possesses the great

first principles which qualify him to judge of it. We may, therefore,

lay it down as an absolute rule, that without Christianity no really

philosophical history could have been written.

Not unnaturally, then, the first example of the philosophy of history

was given by a man whose mind, if not the greatest ever informed by

Christianity, was at least among a very few in the first class, was

moreover so thoroughly penetrated by Christian principles, that to

review the events of the world in any other aspect, or through any

other medium, would have been to him as impossible as to examine in

detail without the light of the sun the expanse of plains and hills,

rivers and forests, which lay under him as he stood on some

predominant mountain peak. God, the Almighty Creator--God incarnate,

who had once lived and suffered on earth, and now reigned on high

until he should put all enemies under his feet, and who was coming

again to judge the world which he had redeemed--the Church founded by

him to enlighten and govern all generations throughout all nations,

and in which dwelt the infallible guidance of God the Holy Ghost--the

evil spirits, powerless against the divine presence in the Church, but

irresistible by mere human power--the saints, no longer seen by man,

but whose intercession influenced and moulded all the events of his

life,--all these were ever before the mind of St. Augustine, not

merely as articles of faith which he confessed, but as practical

realities. To trace the events of the world without continually

referring to all these, would have been to him not merely irreligious,

but as unreal, unmeaning, and fallacious as it would be to a natural

philosopher of our own day to investigate the phenomena of the

material world without taking into consideration the attraction of the

earth and the resistance of the air. This should be noticed, because

we have all met men who, while professing to believe most, if not all,

of these things, would consider it bad taste to introduce such

considerations into any practical affair. They are, in short, part of

that very {358} remarkable phenomenon, the "Sunday religion" of a

respectable English gentleman, which he holds as an inseparable part

of his respectability, but which is well understood to have no bearing

at all upon the business of the week. Living as St. Augustine did at

the crisis at which the civilization of the ancient world was finally

breaking up, his eye was cast back in review over the whole gorgeous

line of ancient history, which swept by him like a Roman triumph.

Egypt, Assyria, Greece, Rome, each had its day; the last and greatest

of them all he saw tottering to its fall. But far more important than

this comprehensive survey, which the circumstances of his times made

natural to so great an intellect, was his possession of fixed and

certain principles, the truth of which he knew beyond the possibility

of doubt, and which were wide enough to solve every question which the

history of the world brought before him. Great men there had been

before him, but the deeper their thoughts, the more had they found

that the world itself and their own position in it were but a hopeless

enigma without an answer, a cypher without a key. A flood of light had

been poured upon the piercing mental eye of St. Augustine when the

waters of baptism fell from the hand of the holy Ambrose upon his

outward frame. Every part of the Old Testament history glowed before

him, as when from behind a cloud which covers all the earth the light

of the sun falls concentrated upon some mountain-peak; and the man who

reverences and ponders as divine that inspired history has learned to

read the inner meaning of the whole history of the world as no one

else can. In every age, no doubt, Almighty God rules and directs in

justice and mercy the world which he has created; but in general he

hides himself behind an impenetrable veil. "Clouds and darkness are

round about him, justice and judgment the establishment of his

throne." To many an ordinary spectator, the world seems only the

theatre of man's labor and suffering. He passes through it as he might

through one of the arsenals of ancient Greece or Rome, where indeed

great works were wrought, but where the hand of the workman was always

as visible as the result produced. A more thoughtful man might see

proofs of some unknown power, just as in an arsenal of our day works,

compared to which the fabled labors of giants and cyclops were as

child's play, are hourly performed by the stroke of huge hammers

welding vast masses of glowing metal, while nothing is seen to cause

or explain their motion. All this is understood by one who has once

been allowed to see at work the engine itself which sets all in

motion. So does the Old Testament history unveil to the eye of faith

the hidden causes, not only of the Jewish history, but of the great

events of secular history. All that seemed before only results without

cause, is seen to be fully accounted for; not that we can always

understand the ends which the Almighty Worker designs to accomplish,

or the means by which he is accomplishing them, but everywhere faith

sees the operation of Almighty power directed by infinite wisdom and

love, and, while able to understand much, it is willing to await in

reverent adoration the development of that which as yet is beyond its

comprehension. It sees that the history of other nations is

distinguished from that of the children of Israel, not so much by the

character of the events which it records (for the extraordinary

manifestations of divine power were chiefly confined to a few special

periods), as to the principle and spirit in which it has been written,

and that secular history viewed by eyes supernaturally enlightened

assumes the same appearance.

In fact, it is not difficult to write a history of the reigns of David

and Solomon and their successors down to the fall of the Hebrew

monarchy which sounds very much like that of any other Oriental

kingdom. The {359} thing has been done of late years, both in Germany

and in England. It was by this that Dean Milman, many years ago, so

greatly shocked the more religious portion of English readers. Nor

were they shocked without cause; for his was a history of the Jews

from which, as far as possible, Almighty God was left out, while the

characteristic of the inspired narrative is, that it is a record not

so much of the doings of men as of the great acts of God by man and

among men. Only Dean Milman was more consistent than those who

condemned him. He was right in perceiving that the greater part of the

history of the Jews is not materially different from that of other

nations. But he went on to infer that, therefore, we may leave God out

of sight in judging of Jewish history, as we do in that of other

nations, instead of learning from the example of the Jews that in

every age God is as certainly working among every nation. That by

which he offended religious Protestants was the application of their

own ordinary principles to the one history in which they had been

taught from childhood to see and acknowledge with exceptional

reverence the working of Almighty God in the affairs of the world.

This it is which gives its peculiar character to many of the

chronicles of the middle ages. It is impossible not to feel that the

writers see no broad distinction between the history of the nations

and times of which they are writing and that of the ancient people of

God. And hence in their annals we have far more of the philosophy of

history, in the true sense of the word, than was possible to any

ancient author. For with all their ignorance of physical causes, which

led them into many mistakes, their main principles were both true and

vitally important, and were wholly unknown to Thucydides and Tacitus.

But the circumstances of their times made it impossible that they

should survey the extensive range of facts which lies before a modern

historian. In many instances, also, they were led by the imperfect

state of physical science to attribute to a supernatural interference

of God in the world things which we are now able to refer to natural

causes. That God has before now interfered with the course of nature

which he has established in the world, and may whenever he pleases so

interfere again, these were to them first principles. And so far they

reasoned truly and justly, although their imperfect acquaintance with

other branches of human knowledge sometimes led them to apply amiss

their true principle. Their minds were so much accustomed to dwell

upon the thought of God, and upon his acts in the world, that they

were always prepared to see and hear him everywhere, and in every

event. When they heard of any event supposed to be supernatural, they

might be awestruck and impressed, but could not be said to be

surprised; and hence, no doubt, they sometimes accepted as

supernatural events which, if examined by a shrewd man who starts with

the first principle that nothing supernatural can really have taken

place, could have been otherwise explained. Beside, their comparative

unacquaintance with physical science led them into errors in

accounting for and even in observing those which they themselves did

not imagine to be supernatural. But their first principles were true.

And the modern who assumes, whether explicitly or implicitly, that the

course of the world is modified and governed only by the passions and

deeds of man, is in his first principles fundamentally wrong. They

fell into accidental error; he cannot be more than accidentally right.

Our author says:

"In the middle ages, and notably in the thirteenth century, there

were minds which have left us imperishable memorials of themselves,

and which would have taken the largest and most philosophical view

of history had the materials existed ready to their hand. {360}

Conceive, for instance, a history from the luminous mind of St.

Thomas with the stores of modern knowledge at his command. But the

invention of printing, one of the turning points of the human race,

was first to take place, and then on that soil of the middle ages,

so long prepared and fertilized by so patient a toil, a mighty

harvest was to spring up. Among the first-fruits of labors so often

depreciated by those who have profited by them, and in the land of

children who despise their sires, we find the proper alliance of

philosophy with history. Then at length the province of the

historian is seen to consist, not merely in the just, accurate, and

lively narrative of facts, but in the exhibition of cause and

effect. 'What do we now expect in history?' says M. de Barante; and

he replies, 'Solid instruction and complete knowledge of things;

moral lessons, political counsels; comparison with the present, and

the general knowledge of facts.' Even in the age of Tacitus, the

most philosophic of ancient historians, no individual ability could

secure all such powers" (p. 12).

Thus philosophical history is one of the results of Christianity.

Professor Max Müller makes a similar remark with regard to his own

favorite study of ethnology. Before the day of Pentecost, he says, no

man, not even the greatest minds, ever thought of tracing the

genealogy of nations by their languages, because they did not know the

unity of the human race. The unity of mankind is naturally connected

in the order of ideas with the unity of God. Those who worshipped many

gods, and believed that each race and nation had its own tutelary

divinity, not unnaturally regarded each nation as a separate race. So

far was this feeling carried by the most civilized races of the old

world, that they thought it a profanation that the worship of the gods

of one race should be offered by a priest not sprung from that race.

The most moderate and popular of the Roman patricians rejected the

demand of the _plebs_ to be admitted to the highest offices of the

state, not as politically dangerous, but as profane. The Roman consul,

in virtue of his office, was the priest of the Capitoline Jove, to

whom, on certain solemn occasions, he had to offer sacrifice. It would

be a pollution that a plebeian, not sprung from any of the tribes of

Romulus, should presume to offer that sacrifice. In fact, the

consulship would hardly have been thrown open to the _plebs_ until the

long continued habit of intermarriage had welded the two portions of

the Roman people so completely into one that the plebeian began, at

last, to be regarded as of the same blood with the Furii, the

Cornelii, and the Julii. The first measure by which the tribunes

commenced their attack upon the exclusive privilege of the great

houses was wisely chosen; it was the Canuleian law, by which marriages

between the two orders were made legal and valid. Before that,

patricians and plebeians were two nations living in one city, and,

according to the universal opinion of the ancient world, this implied

that they had different gods, different priests, a different ritual,

and different temples. But the day of Pentecost blended all nations

into a new unity--the unity of the body of Christ; and its first

effect was, that the preachers of the new law proclaimed everywhere,

that "God had made of one blood all nations of men, to dwell upon the

face of the whole earth." The professor points out what curiously

completes the analogy between the two cases, that while Christianity,

by collecting into one church all the nations of the world, and by

teaching their original unity, naturally suggested the idea that all

their different languages had some common origin, any satisfactory

investigation of the subject was long delayed by the unfounded notion

that the Hebrew must needs be the root from which they all sprang.

Thus, in both cases, the germ of studies, whose development was

delayed for ages by the {361} imperfection of human knowledge, appears

to have been contained in the revelation of the gospel of Christ.

It is important to bring these considerations into prominence, because

the knowledge which would never have existed without Christianity, is,

in many cases, retained by men who forget or deny the faith to which

they are indebted for it. Our author draws comparison between Tacitus

and Gibbon (page 14):

"The world of thought in which we live is, after all, formed by

Christianity. Modern Europe is a relic of Christendom, the virtue

of which is not gone out of it. Gregory VII. and Innocent III. have

ruled over generations which have ignored them; have given breadth

to minds which condemned their benefactors as guilty of narrow

priestcraft, and derided the work of those benefactors as an

exploded theory. Let us take an example in what is, morally,

perhaps the worst and most shocking period of the last three

centuries--the thirty years preceding the great French revolution.

We shall see that at this time even minds which had rejected, with

all the firmness of a reprobate will, the regenerating influence of

Christianity, could not emancipate themselves from the virtue of

the atmosphere which they had breathed. They are immeasurably

greater than they would have been in pagan times, by the force of

that faith which they misrepresented and repudiated. To prove the

truth of my words, compare for a moment the great artist who drew

Tiberius and Domitian and the Roman empire in the first century

with him who wrote of its decline and fall in the second and

succeeding centuries. How far wider a grasp of thought, how far

more manifold an experience, combined with philosophic purposes, in

Gibbon than in Tacitus. He has a standard within him by which he

can measure the nations as they come in long procession before him.

In that vast and wondrous drama of the Antonines and Constantine

Athanasius and Leo, Justinian and Charlemagne, Mahomet, Zenghis

Khan, and Timour, Jerusalem and Mecca, Rome and Constantinople,

what stores of thought are laid up--what a train of philosophic

induction exhibited! How much larger is this world become than that

which trembled at Caesar! The very apostate profits by the light

which has shone on Thabor, and the blood which has flowed on

Calvary. He is a greater historian than his heathen predecessor

because he lives in a society to which the God whom he has

abandoned has disclosed the depth of its being, the laws of its

course, the importance of its present, the price of its futurity."

A very little thought will show that, constituted as man's nature is,

this could not have been otherwise. Man differs from the inferior

animals in that he is richly endowed with faculties which, until they

have been developed by education, he can never use, and appreciates

and embraces truths, when they have been set before him, which he

could never have discovered unassisted. This is the most obvious

distinction between reason and instinct. The caterpillar, hatched from

an egg dropped by a parent whom it never saw, knows at once what food

and what habits are necessary for its new life. Weeks pass away, and

its first skin begins to die; but (as if it had been fully instructed

in what has to be done) it draws its body out of it as from a glove,

and comes forth in a new one. A few weeks later it forsakes the food

which has hitherto been necessary for its life, and buries itself in

the earth, which up to that very day would have been certain death.

There a mysterious change passes upon it, and it lies as if dead till

the time for another change approaches. It then gradually works its

way to the surface, and comes out a butterfly or a moth. It is now

indifferent to the plants which in its former state were necessary to

its existence, but yet it chooses those plants on which to deposit its

eggs. {362} We are so apt to delude ourselves with the notion that we

understand everything to which we give a name, that ninety-nine people

out of a hundred seem to think they account for this marvelous power

of the inferior animals to act exactly right under circumstances so

strangely changed, by calling it "instinct." But, in truth, why or how

the creature does what it does, we no more know when we have called it

"instinct" than we did before. All we can suppose is that as the

Creator has left none of his creatures destitute of the kind and

degree of knowledge necessary to enable it to discharge its appointed

office in creation, the appetites and desires of the insect are

modified from time to time in the different stages of its existence so

that they impel it exactly to the course necessary for it to take,

with much greater certainty than if it understood what the result was

to be. How different is the case of man. Not only is he a free agent,

and therefore to be guided by reason, not by mere propensity, but

neither reason nor speech, nor indeed life itself, could be preserved

or made of any use except by means of training and education received

from others. A man left to shift for himself like the animal whose

changes we have been tracing, would die at each state of his existence

for want of some one to teach him what must be done for his

preservation. This same training is equally necessary for his

physical, intellectual, moral, and spiritual life. But he is so

constituted that the different things needful for him to know for each

of these purposes approve themselves to him as soon as they are

presented to his mind from without, and the things which thus approve

themselves, although he could never have discovered them, we truly

call natural to man, because no external teaching would have made him

capable of learning them unless the faculty had been as much a part of

his original constitution as the unreasoning desires which we call

instinct are part of the constitution of brutes. And therefore, when

once developed by education, they remain a part of the man, even when

he casts away from him those teachers by whom they were developed.

Nero would never have learnt the use of speech if he had not caught it

from his mother; yet when he used it to order her murder he did not

lose what she had taught him, because it was a part of his nature. And

so of higher powers, the result of a superior training. Principles

which men would never have known without Christian training are

retained when Christianity itself is rejected, because they are a part

of the spiritual endowment given to man by his Creator, although

without training he would never have been able to develop them. His

rejection of Christianity results from an evil will. The parts of

Christian teaching against which that will does not rebel he calls and

believes to be the lessons of his natural reason, although the

experience of the greatest and wisest heathen shows that his

unassisted natural faculties never would have discovered them.

Nor is this true only of individuals. Nations trained for many

generations in Christian faith have before now fallen away from

Christianity. But it does not seem that they are able to reduce

themselves to the level of heathen nations in their moral standard,

their perception and appreciation of good and evil, justice and wrong,

or of the nature and destinies of the human race. In some respects

they are morally much worse than heathen. But it does not appear that

in these points they can sink so low, because their nature, fallen

though it be, approves and accepts some of the truths taught it by

Christianity. Hence, in order to judge what man can or cannot do

without the revelation of God in Jesus Christ, we must examine him in

nations to which the faith has never been given, rather than in those

which have rejected it. Unhappily, there are at this moment parts of

Europe in which the belief in the supernatural {363} seems wanting. An

intelligent correspondent of the _Times_ a year ago described such a

state of things as existing in parts of northern Germany and

Scandinavia. The population believes nothing, and practises no

religion. Public worship is deserted, not because the people have

devised any new heresy of their own as to the manner in which man

should approach God, but because they have ceased to trouble

themselves about the matter at all. Lutheranism is dead and gone; but

nothing has been substituted for it. The intelligent Protestant writer

was surprised to find a population thus wholly without religion

orderly and well-behaved, hard-working, and by no means forgetful of

social duties. The phenomenon is, no doubt, remarkable; but it is by

no means without example. Many parishes (we fear considerable

districts) in France are substantially in the same state. The

peasantry are sober, industrious, and orderly to a degree unknown in

England. They reap the temporal fruits of these good qualities in a

general prosperity equally unknown here. They are saving to a degree

almost incredible, so that it is a matter of ordinary experience that

a peasant who began life with nothing except his bodily strength,

leaves behind him several hundreds, not unfrequently some thousands,

of pounds sterling. But in this same district whole villages are so

absolutely without religion, that, although there is not one person

for many miles who calls himself a Protestant, the churches are almost

absolutely deserted, and the _curés_ (generally good and zealous men)

are reduced almost to inactivity by absolute despair. Some give

themselves up to prayer, seeing nothing else that they can do; some

will say that they are not wholly without encouragement, because,

after fifteen or twenty years of labor, they have succeeded in

bringing four or five persons to seek the benefit of the sacraments

out of a population of as many hundreds, among whom when they came

there was not one such person to be found. [Footnote 52]

[Footnote 52: It should be observed that the morality said to exist

in those parts of France which have so nearly lost the faith is not

Catholic morality: in fact, the population in those districts is

decreasing, and that (it is universally admitted) from immorality.

It should also be remember that there is a most marked contrast

between these districts and those Lutheran districts of which the

_Times_ spoke: In the latter, Lutheranism has died out of itself. In

the worst districts of France, the Catholic religion has not died

out, but has been displaced by a systematic infidel education

inflicted on the people by a godless government. Lastly, even where

things are the worst, there are a few in each generation who, in the

midst of a godless population, turn out saints, really worthy of

that name. It is seldom that a mission is preached in any village

without some such being rescued from the corrupt mass around them.

Nothing, in fact, can more strongly mark the contrast between the

Catholic religion and Lutheranism. The subject is far too large to

be discussed here, but we have suggested these considerations to

avoid misconceptions of our meaning.]

Appalling as is this state of things, the natural virtues (such as

they are) of populations which have thus lost faith are themselves the

remains of Christianity. History gives us no trace of any people in

such a state except those who have once been Christians. For instance,

in all others, however civilized, slavery has been established both by

law and practice; no one of them has been without divorce; infanticide

has been allowed and practised. Nowhere has the unity of man's nature

been acknowledged, and, what follows from that, the duties owing to

him as man, not merely as fellow countryman. And hence, nowhere has

there existed what we call the law of nations, a rule which limits the

conduct of men, not only toward those of other nations, but, what is

much more, toward those with whom they are in a state of war, or whom

they have conquered. In the most civilized times of ancient Greece and

Rome no rights were recognized in such foreigners. All these things

are the legitimate progeny of Christianity, and of Christianity alone,

although they are now accepted as natural principles by nations by

whom, but for the gospel of Christ, they would never have been heard

of.

{364}

We have enlarged upon this point because, not only in what he says of

Gibbon, but in many parts of his subsequent chapters, Mr. Allies

attributes to the influence of Christianity things which a superficial

observer may attribute rather to some general progress in the world

toward a higher civilization. We shall see instances of this as we

proceed. We are satisfied that the objection is utterly unfounded. We

see no reason to believe that without Christianity any higher or

better civilization than that of Rome under Augustus and Athens under

Pericles would ever have been attained. That those who lived under

that state, so far from expecting any "progress," believed that the

world was getting worse and worse, and that there remained no hope of

improvement, nor any principles from which it could possibly arise, is

most certain. Nor do we believe that those who thus judged of the

natural tendency of the world were mistaken, although by a stupendous

interference of the Creator with the course of nature an improvement

actually took place.

The philosophy of history then sifts and arranges the facts which it

records, and judges of them by fixed and eternal principles of right

and wrong; drawing from the past lessons of wisdom and virtue for the

future. It will approach nearer and nearer to perfection as the range

of facts investigated becomes wider, and as the principles by which

they are judged are more absolutely true, and applied more correctly,

more practically, and more universally. Hence, it would never have

existed without Christianity, and although in Christian nations it is

found in men partially or wholly unworthy of the Christian name, but

who retain many ideas and principles derived from Christianity alone,

yet even in them it is exercised imperfectly in proportion as they are

less and less Christian.

Mr. Allies thus compares Tacitus and St. Augustine:

"The atmosphere of Tacitus and the lurid glare of his Rome compared

with St. Augustine's world are like the shades in which Achilles

deplored the loss of life contrasted with a landscape bathed in the

morning light of a southern sun. Yet how much more of material

misery was there in the time of St. Augustine than in the time of

Tacitus! In spite of the excesses in which the emperors might

indulge within the walls of their palace or of Rome, the fair fabric

of civilization filled the whole Roman world, the great empire was

in peace, and its multitude of nations were brethren. Countries

which now form great kingdoms of themselves, were then tranquil

members of one body politic. Men could travel the coasts of Italy,

Gaul, Spain, Africa, Syria, Asia Minor, and Greece, round to Italy

again, and find a rich smiling land covered by prosperous cities,

enjoying the same laws and institutions, and possessed in peace by

its children. In St. Augustine's time all had been changed; on many

of these coasts a ruthless, uncivilized, unbelieving, or

misbelieving enemy had descended. Through the whole empire there was

a feeling of insecurity, a cry of helplessness, and a trembling at

what was to come. Yet in the pages of the two writers the contrast

is in the inverse ratio. In the pagan, everything seems borne on by

an iron fate, which tramples upon the free will of man, and

overwhelms the virtuous before the wicked. In the Christian, order

shines in the midst of destruction, and mercy dispenses the severest

humiliations. It was the symbol of the coming age. And so that great

picture of the doctor, saint, and philosopher laid hold of the minds

of men during those centuries of violence which followed, and in

which peace and justice, so far from embracing each other, seemed to

have deserted the earth. And in modern times a great genius has

seized upon it, and developed it in the discourse on universal

history. Bossuet is worthy to receive the torch from St. Augustine.

Scarcely could a more majestic voice, or a more {365} philosophic

spirit, set forth the double succession of empire and of religion,

or exhibit the tissue wrought by Divine Providence, human free will,

and the permitted power of evil."

After this estimate of St. Augustine, he speaks of

"A living author--at once statesman, orator, philosopher, and

historian of the higest rank--who has given us, on a less extensive

scale, a philosophy of history in its most finished and amiable

form. The very attempt on the part of M. Guizot to draw out a

picture of civilization during fourteen hundred years, and to

depict, amongst that immense and ever-changing period, the course of

society in so many countries, indicates no ordinary power; and the

partial fulfilment of the design may be said to have elevated the

philosophy of history into a science. In this work may be found the

moat important rules of the science accurately stated; but the work

itself is the best example of philosophic method and artistic

execution, united to illustrate a complex subject. A careful study

of original authorities, a patient induction of facts, a cautious

generalization, the philosophic eye to detect analogies, the

painter's power to group results, and, above all, a unity of

conception which no multiplicity of details can embarrass; these are

some of the main qualifications for a philosophy of history which I

should deduce from these works. Yet, while the action of Providence

and that of human free will are carefully and beautifully brought

out, while both may be said to be points of predilection with the

author, he has not alluded, so far as I am aware, to the great evil

spirit and his personal operation. Strong as he is, he has been

apparently too weak to bear the scoff of modern infidelity--"he

believes in the devil"--unless, indeed, the cause of this lies

deeper, and belongs to his philosophy; for if there be one subject

out of which eclecticism can pick nothing to its taste, it would be

the permitted operation of the great fallen spirit. Nor will the

warmest admiration of his genius be mistaken for a concurrence in

all his judgments. I presume not to say how far such an author is

sometimes, in spite of himself, unjust, from the point of view at

which he draws his picture. Whether, and how far, he be an eclectic

philosopher, let others decide. It would be grievous to feel it true

of such a mind; for it is the original sin of that philosophy to

make the universe rotate round itself. Great is its complacency in

its own conclusions, but there runs through them one mistake--to

fancy itself in the place of God" (p. 31).

Those who have ever made the attempt to analyze in a few lines the

genius of a great writer will best be able to estimate the combination

of keen intellect, patient thought, and scrupulous candor in this

criticism. We must not deny ourselves one more quotation:

"St. Augustine, Bossuet, Guizot, Balmez, Schlegel: I have taken

these names not to exhaust but to illustrate the subject. Here we

have the ancient and the modern society, Africa and France, Spain

and Germany, and the Christian mind in each, thrown upon the facts

of history. They point out, I think, sufficiently a common result.

But amid the founders of a new science, who shall represent our own

country? Can I hesitate, or can I venture, in this place and company

[_i.e._, before the Catholic University of Dublin, in the chair of

which this lecture was delivered], to mention the hand which has

directed the scattered rays of light from so many sources on the

wild children of Central Asia, and produced the Turk before us in

his untameable ferocity--the outcast of the human race, before whom

earth herself ceases to be a mother--by whom man's blood has ever

been shed like water, woman's honor counted as the vilest of things,

nature's most sacred laws publicly and avowedly outraged,--has

produced him before us for the abhorrence of mankind, the infamy of

nations? To sketch the intrinsic {366} character of barbarism and

civilization, and out of common historical details, travel, and

observation to show the ineffaceable stamp of race and tribe,

reproducing itself through the long series of ages, surely expresses

the idea which we mean by the philosophy of history" (p. 38).

We have given a disproportionate space to this inaugural lecture, both

for its intrinsic importance and because it gives a shadow of the

whole plan of Mr. Allies's work, both that part which lies before us

and that which remains to be published; for the volume before us is

"only a portion, perhaps about a fourth, of the author's design." In

the six lectures which it contains, he gives us an estimate, first, of

the physical and political condition of the Roman empire in its palmy

days; then, of the force by which it pleased God to constitute the new

creation in the midst of it. In the last four lectures he compares the

vital principles of these two vast social organizations--the heathen

and the Christian--first in a representative man of each class, then

in the effects produced upon society at large by the influence of

each; then in the primary relation of man to woman in marriage; and,

lastly, in the virginal state; although under this last head there can

hardly be said to be a comparison, as heathen society has simply

nothing to set against that wonderful creation of Christianity--holy

virginity.

We know not where we have met any painting of the Roman empire so

striking as that contained in the first lecture. Of the multitude of

Englishmen who read more or less of the classical Latin authors, a

very small proportion have ever paid any attention to the Roman

empire, as it is displayed by Tacitus and Juvenal. This is the natural

result of the grace and eloquence of Livy and Cicero, much rather than

of any strong preference for republican institutions. Indeed it is

impossible not to be struck with the vast influence which Roman

republicanism exercises in France compared with England. Nor is it

difficult to account for this. France, except to a limited degree

under the monarchy of July, has never enjoyed constitutional liberty.

The Frenchman, therefore, who dreams of liberty at all, places his

dreamland in a Roman republic. Boys who in England would rant about

John Hampden are found in France ranting about Junius Brutus. For what

the Englishman means when he talks about liberty is "English liberty;"

the Frenchman means the Roman republic. So much has this been the

case, that even in America the war of independence began, not in any

aspiration after a republic, but for the rights of English subjects.

The sword had been drawn for a year before the colonies claimed

independence, and very shortly before Washington had declared that

"there was no thought of separation, only of English liberty." What

proves that these were not mere words was, that even after

independence had been achieved, the leaders, who met in congress,

agreed almost to a man in expressing their preference for "an English

constitution," if circumstances had placed it within their reach. All

the world knows that France became a republic chiefly because Rome in

her palmy days had been so called; nay, to this hour all the terms

adopted by the revolutionary party have been borrowed from classical

times. Such was the term "citizen," so appropriate to a people whose

boast was that they were free of a city which had conquered the world,

so absurd as denoting the members of a great nation in which not even

centuries of extreme centralization have prevented political rights

from being exercised by each man in his own province. Such, again, was

that inundation of pagan names which the revolutionary times

substituted for those of the saints, and which are still

characteristic of France--Camille, Emile, Antonine, and even Brute and

Timoleon. This we take to be one great reason why many sensible {367}

persons in France are so greatly afraid of classical studies in

schools and colleges. They say that they turn the heads of boys,

especially French boys. It is highly characteristic of the man, that

the officers of the House of Commons, who made forcible entry into the

house of Sir Francis Burdett when he was committed by order of the

House, found him reading with his little son, not Plutarch's life of

Brutus or Cato, as would assuredly have been the case with a

Frenchman, but "Magna Charta." He was not less theatrical, but he was

a thoroughly English actor.

And yet we strongly suspect that out of a hundred boys who leave a

classical school more than ninety believe that Roman history ends with

Augustus. The university no doubt, gives a somewhat more extended

view. But even there Tacitus is usually about the limit. We wonder how

far this feeling was carried before Gibbon published the "Decline and

Fall."

Hence we especially value the wonderful picture of the empire painted

by our author.

It was in fact a federation of civilized states under an absolute

monarch; the municipal liberties were left so entire that Niebuhr

mentions Italian cities, in the immediate neighborhood of Rome itself,

which retained all through the times of the empire and the middle

ages, down to the wars of the French revolution, the same municipal

institutions under which Rome had found them. They were swept away by

that faithful lover of despotism, Napoleon I., to make way for the

uniform system of a _préfet_ and _souspréfet_ in each district. It is

more important to bear this in mind because, as the revolutionists

aped the manners and names of the Roman republic without understanding

them, the imperialists of France are apt to assume that they

faithfully represent the Roman empire. Now the one striking

characteristic of the French empire is that it raises yearly 100,000

military conscripts, beside the naval conscription, the police, and

the very firemen, all of whom are carefully drilled as soldiers. How

was it under Augustus?

"It is hard to conceive adequately what a spectator called 'the

immense majesty of the Roman peace' (Pliny, 'Nat. Hist,' xxvii. 1).

Where now in Europe, impatient and uneasy, a group of half-friendly

nations jealously watches each other's progress and power, and the

acquisition of a province threatens a general war, Rome maintained,

from generation to generation, in tranquil sway, an empire of which

Gaul, Spain, Britain, and North Africa, Switzerland, and the greater

part of Austria, Turkey in Europe, Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt formed

but single limbs, members of her mighty body. Her roads, which spread

like a network over this immense territory, from their common centre,

the golden milestone of the Forum, under the palace of her emperors,

did but express the unity of that spirit with which she ruled the

earth her subject, levelling the mountains and filling up the valleys

for the march of her armies, the caravans of her merchandise, and the

even sweep of her legislation. A moderate fleet of 6,000 sailors at

Misenum, and another at Ravenna, a flotilla at Forum Julii, and

another in the Black sea, of half that force, preserved the whole

Mediterranean from piracy; and every nation bordering on its shores

could freely interchange the productions of their industry. Two

smaller armaments of twenty-four vessels each on the Rhine and the

Danube secured the empire from northern incursion. In the time of

Tiberius a force of twenty-five legions and fourteen cohorts, making

171,500 men, with about an equal number of auxiliary troops, that is,

in all, an army of 340,000, sufficed, not so much to preserve internal

order, which rested upon other and surer ground, but to guard the

frontiers of a vast population, amounting, as is calculated, {368} to

120,000,000, and inhabiting the very fairest regions of the earth, of

which the great Mediterranean sea was a sort of central and domestic

lake. But this army itself, thus moderate in number, was not, as a

rule, stationed in cities, but in fixed quarters on the frontiers, as

a guard against external foes. Thus, for instance, the whole interior

of Gaul possessed a garrison of but 1,200 men--that Gaul which, in the

year 1860, in a time of peace, thought necessary for internal

tranquillity and external rank and security to have 626,000 men in

arms. [Footnote 53] Again, Asia Minor had no military force; that

most beautiful region of the earth teemed with princely cities,

enjoying the civilization of a thousand years, and all the treasures

of art and industry, in undisturbed repose. And within its

unquestioned boundaries, the spirit, moreover, of Roman rule was far

other than that of a military despotism, or of a bureaucracy and a

police pressing with ever watchful suspicion on every spring of civil

life. The principle of its government was not that no population could

be faithful which was not kept in leading-strings, but rather to leave

cities and corporations to manage their own affairs themselves. Thus

its march was firm and strong, but for this very reason devoid alike

of fickleness and haste."

[Footnote 53: Surely the author should have added the Belgian army

(fixed by the laws of 1853 at 100,000), and that part of the

Prussian, etc., which is raised west of the Rhine, in comparing the

military force of ancient Gaul with that of the same district in our day.]

It might have been added, that, as a general rule, the army which

guarded each portion was composed of the natives of the country in

which they were stationed. Roman citizens they were, no doubt, but

citizens of provincial extraction, and posted to guard on behalf of

Rome the very country which their fathers, sometimes but a very few

generations back, had defended against her. [Footnote 54] This is a

policy the generosity of which France dares not at this day imitate,

even in her oldest provinces. To say nothing of the British army in

Ireland, the Breton conscripts are still sent to serve at Lyons and

Paris.

[Footnote 54: Champagny, Rome, and Judea.]

The extracts we have given will doubtless lead every reader to study

for himself Mr. Allies's descriptions of Rome, and the life of the

Thermae, and of the colonies, everywhere reproducing the life of Rome.

Every page breathes with the matured thought of a mind of remarkable

natural acuteness, and stored with refined scholarship. There is

nothing of beauty or majesty in that magnificent old world which he

does not seem to have witnessed and mused over.

It is hardly possible to realize all this greatness without being

tempted to repine in the remembrance whither it was all

hastening--that the peace of the Roman world was but "the torrent's

smoothness ere it dash below;" its magnificence only the feast of

Baltassar in that last night of the splendor of Babylon, when the

Medes and Persians were already under her walls, and the river had

been turned away from its course through her quays, and a way left

open for the rush of the destroyer into her streets and palaces.

Already the mysterious impulse had been given which, during so many

centuries, drove down horde after horde of barbarians from the wild

north-east, to overflow the favored lands that surrounded the

Mediterranean. In the early days of Roman history the Gauls had rushed

on, sweeping away those earlier races whose remains we are now

exploring in the shallows of the Swiss lakes, and whose descendants

are probably to be found in the Basques, and in some of those degraded

castes which, in spite of the welding power of the Church, left

proscribed remnants in France and elsewhere until the great

revolution. That mighty wave burst upon the rock of the Capitol,

threatened for a moment utterly to overwhelmed it, and then fell

broken at its feet. But it is not by repelling one wave, however

formidable, that a rising tide is turned back. In the day of Rome's

{369} utmost power her very foundations were shaken by the torrent of

the Cimbri and Teutones. They, too, were broken against the steel-clad

legions of Marius, and fell off like spray on the earth. But the tide

was still advancing. What need to trace its successive inroads? Every

reader of Gibbon remembers how the time came at last when the very

site where Rome had stood had been so often swept by it, that of all

its greatness there remained nothing more than the sea leaves of some

castle of shingles and sand, after a few waves have passed over it.

"Quench'd is the golden statue's ray;

The breath of heaven hath swept away

What toiling earth hath piled;

Scattering wise heart and crafty hand,

As breezes strew on ocean's strand

The fabrics of a child!"

There even came a time when for many weeks the very ruins of ancient

Rome were absolutely deserted, and trodden neither by man nor beast.

No wonder that the world stood by afar off weeping and mourning over

the utter destruction of all that the earth had ever known of

greatness and glory. So the sentence had been passed, in the day of

her greatest glory, by the prophetic voice of the angel, who cried

with a strong voice:

"Fallen--fallen, is Babylon the great, and is become the habitation

of devils and the hold of every unclean spirit, and of every unclean

and hateful bird. And the kings of the earth shall weep and bewail

themselves over her, when they shall see the smoke of the burning;

standing afar off for fear of her torments, saying, Alas! alas! that

great city Babylon, that mighty city; for in one hour is thy

judgment come. And the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn

over her, and shall stand afar off from her for fear of her

torments, weeping and mourning, and saying, Alas! alas! that great

city which was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and

was gilt with gold and precious stones and pearls. For in one hour

are so great riches come to nought." (Apocalypse, chap, xviii.)

It was not the ruin of one city, however glorious, but the sweeping

away of all the accumulated glories of the civilization of the whole

civilized world, during more than a thousand years. All had been

embodied in imperial Rome. In the words of our author--

"The empire of Augustus inherited the whole civilization of the

ancient world. Whatever political or social knowledge, whatever

moral or intellectual truth, whatever useful or elegant arts, 'the

enterprising race of Japhet' had acquired, preserved, and

accumulated in the long course of centuries since the beginning of

history had descended without a break to Rome, with the dominion of

all the countries washed by the Mediterranean. For her the wisdom of

Egypt and of all the East had been stored up. For her Pythagoras and

Thales, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and all the schools beside

of Grecian philosophy suggested by these names, had thought. For her

Zoreaster, as well as Solon and Lycurgus, legislated. For her

Alexander conquered, the races which he subdued forming but a

portion of her empire. Every city, in the ears of whose youth the

poems of Homer were familiar as household words, owned her sway. The

magistrates, from the Northern sea to the confines of Arabia, issued

their decrees in the language of empire--the Latin tongue; while, as

men of letters, they spoke and wrote in Greek. For her Carthage had

risen, founded colonies, discovered distant coasts, set up a

world-wide trade, and then fallen, leaving her the empire of Africa

and the west, with the lessons of a long experience. Not only so,

but likewise Spain, Gaul, and all the frontier provinces, from the

Alps to the mouth of the Danube, spent in her service their strength

and skill; supplied her armies with their bravest youths; gave to

her senate and her knights their choicest minds. The vigor of {370}

new and the culture of long-polished races were alike employed in

the vast fabric of her power. Every science and art, all human

experience and discovery, had poured their treasure in one stream

into the bosom of that society, which, after forty-four years of

undisputed rule, Augustus had consolidated into a new system of

government, and bequeathed to the charge of Tiberius" (p. 41).

No wonder the ancient world had assured itself that, as nothing

greater, nothing wiser, nothing more glorious than Rome could ever

arise upon earth, so its greatness, wisdom, and glory could never be

superseded. It was "the eternal city." It was "for ever to give laws

to the world." The contemporary poets could imagine no stronger

expression of an eternity, than that of a duration while Rome itself

should last. Yet was it at that very time that the eyes of a fisherman

of the lake of Tiberias were opened to see the angel "coming down from

heaven with power and great glory," from whose mighty cry over the

fall of Babylon we have already quoted some words. No wonder when the

time came that his prophecy was fulfilled, the world stood by weeping

and mourning, not over the fall of a single city (such as Scipio

Africanus had forecast as he watched the smoke of old Carthage rising

up to heaven), but over the ruin of the civilization of the whole

world. No wonder that, even in our own age, those whose hearts have so

far sunk back to the level of heathenism as to value only material

prosperity and worldly greatness, still re-echo the cry--

"Alas! the eternal city, and alas!

The trebly hundred triumphs, and the day

When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass

The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away.

Alas! for earth, for never shall we see

That brightness in her eye she wore when

Rome was free."

But the voice of divine wisdom was far different: "Rejoice over her,

thou heaven, and ye holy apostles and prophets, for God hath judged

your judgment upon her. And a mighty angel took up a stone, as it were

a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying, 'With such

violence as this shall Babylon, that great city, be thrown down, and

shall be found no more at all; and the voice of harpers, and of

musicians, and of them that play on the pipe and on the trumpet, shall

no more be heard at all in thee; and no craftsman, of any art

whatsoever, shall be found any more at all in thee; and the sound of

the mill shall be heard no more at all in thee; and the light of the

lamp shall shine no more in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and

the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee; for thy merchants

were the great men of the earth, for all nations have been deceived by

thine enchantments.' And in her was found the blood of prophets, and

of saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth."

Thus total, according to the prophecy, was to be the destruction of

the wealth, civilization, greatness, and glory of the ancient heathen

world, gathered together in Rome, that in the utter sweeping away of

that one city all might perish together. How fully the words were

accomplished we know by the lamentation of the whole world over

Babylon, the echoes of which still ring in our ears. But to us

Christians it rather belongs to weigh the words which follow without

any break in the sacred text (although the division of the chapters

leads many readers to overlook the close connection). "After these

things I heard, as it were, the voice of much people in heaven,

saying, 'Alleluia. Salvation, and glory, and power is to our God. For

just and true are his judgments, who hath judged the great harlot

which corrupted the earth with her fornications, and he hath avenged

the blood of his servants at her hands.' And again they said,

'Alleluia. And her smoke ascendeth for ever and ever.'" Here is the

answer to that cry of the angel, "Rejoice over her, thou heaven, and

ye apostles and prophets."

{371}

Were any comment needed upon such prophecies--any explanation of the

sentence passed upon a civilization so great, so ancient, so widely

extended, and so refined--anything to reconcile us to the utter

destruction of so much that was fair and mighty, we may find it in the

latter half of the lecture before us. Not that our author is

insensible to the marvellous beauty of that glow with which classical

literature causes the figures of those days to shine before us. That

would be impossible for a man of his studies. He says:

"Is not the very language of Cicero and Virgil an expression of this

lordly, yet peaceful rule; this even, undisturbed majesty, which

holds the world together like the regularity of the seasons, like

the alternations of light and darkness, like the all-pervading

warmth of the sun? If every language reflects the character of the

race which speaks it, surely we discern in the very strain of Virgil

the closing of the gates of war, the settling of the nations down to

the arts of peace, the reign of law and order, the amity and concord

of races, the weak protected, the strong ruled: in a word,

'Romanos rerum dominos,

gentemque togatam.'"

Neither, need it hardly be said, has he set the hideous pollutions of

that civilization fully before us: that is rendered impossible by its

very hideousness. Let those who recoil from the horrors of what he has

said--but a faint outline of the miserable truth, though traced with

singular artistic form and beauty--bear in mind the while the words of

the inspired prophecy, "All nations have drunk of the wine of her

fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication

with her"--"Her sins have reached unto heaven, and the Lord shall

reward her iniquities"--"In her was found the blood of prophets, and

saints, and of all that were slain upon the earth." The crimes, as

well as the civilization of a thousand years, were accumulated at

Rome, and both were swept away together by that overwhelming flood of

fierce barbarians. Little were it worthy of Christians to mourn over a

civilization into whose very heart-strings such unutterable pollution

was intertwined; especially as it was removed, not like Babylon of

old, to leave behind it nothing but desolation, but to make room for

that kingdom of God which was to be enthroned upon its ruins; for such

was the purpose of God, that the very centre of Christendom, the very

seat of the throne of Christ upon earth, on which he would visibly sit

in the person of his Vicar, was there to be established, whence the

throne of the Caesars and the golden house of Nero had been swept away

in headlong ruin. "I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first

heaven and the first earth was gone. And I heard a great voice from

the throne saying, 'Behold the tabernacle of God with men, and he will

dwell with them. And they shall be his people, and God himself shall

be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"

"And he that sat on the throne said, 'Behold, I make all things new.'"

The full accomplishment of these words we expect, in faith and hope,

when "death shall be no more, nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow

shall be any more; for the former things are passed away;" yet,

surely, whatever more glorious accomplishment is yet to come, it were

blindness not to see how far they are already fulfilled in the

substitution of Christendom for the civilized pagan world, the setting

up the throne of the Vicar of Christ upon the ruins of the palace of

the Caesars.

First among the causes of that hideous accumulated mixture of blood

and filth in which heathen civilization was drowned, Mr. Allies most

justly places the institution of slavery as it was at Rome, because by

this the springs of human life were tainted. It is certain that during

all the long years of the duration of the Roman {372} empire, there

was among its heathen population no one human being, who lived beyond

the earliest childhood, who was not polluted, and whose very soul was

not scarred and branded, by the marks of that hideous moral

pestilence. We say "its heathen population," because great as must

have been the evil it wrought upon ordinary Christians, we doubt not

that there were those who gathered honey out of corruption, and whose

justice, charity, and purity came out from that furnace of temptation

with a brightness which nothing but the most fiery trial could have

given to them. From slavery the whole of Roman society received its

form. Our author most truly says, "The spirit of slavery is never

limited to the slave; it saturates the atmosphere which the freeman

breathes together with the slave; passes into his nature, and corrupts

it." This miserable truth can never be too often impressed upon men,

because, unhappily, there are still advocates of slavery who think

that they apologize for it if they can prove, as they think, that the

slave is happy. As well might they argue that the introduction of the

plague into London would be no calamity, if the man who brought it in

upon him entered the city dancing and shouting. In ancient Italy

slaves replaced the hardy rustics, that "_prisca gens mortalium_" who,

though doubtless far less virtuous than they appeared in the fevered

dreams of men sick of the vices of Rome in the last days of the

republic, were still among the best specimens of heathen life.

Wherever slavery extends, labor becomes dishonorable as the badge of

servitude, a few masters languish in bloated luxury, but the nation

itself grows constantly poorer, as an ever-increasing proportion of

its population has to be maintained in indolence. At Rome slaves were

the only domestic servants, and after a time the only manufacturers.

And yet even this is nothing compared to the evils of a state of

society in which the great majority of women as well as of men are the

absolute property of their masters. Horrible as was this state of

things, it offered so many gratifications to the corrupt natures of

those whose hands held the power of the world, and without whose

consent it could not be abolished, that it would have seemed to any

one who had ever witnessed the life of a wealthy Roman noble no less

than madness to imagine that any man would ever willingly surrender

them.

As a matter of fact, so far was this state of society from holding out

any hope of its own amendment, whether sudden or gradual, that, as our

author remarks--

"Of all the minds which have left a record of themselves, from

Cicero to Tacitus, there is not one who does not look upon the

world's course as a rapid descent. They feel an immense moral

corruption breaking in on all sides, which wealth, convenience of

life, and prosperity only enhance. They have no hope for humanity,

for they have no faith in it, nor in any power encompassing and

directing it."

Faithless and hopeless they were; but whatever this world could give

they had in abundance:

"In the time of heathenism the world of sense which surrounded man

flattered and caressed all his natural powers, and solicited an

answer from them; and in return he flung himself greedily upon that

world, and tried to exhaust its treasures. Glory, wealth, and

pleasure intoxicated his heart with their dreams; he crowned himself

with the earth's flowers, and drank in the air's perfume; and in one

object or another, in one after another, he sought enjoyment and

satisfaction. The world had nothing more to give him; nor will the

latest growth of civilization surpass the profusion with which the

earth poured forth its gifts to those who consented to seek on the

earth alone their home and their reward; though, indeed, they were

the few, to whom the many were sacrificed. The Roman noble, with the

pleasures of a vanquished world at his feet, {373} with men and

women from the fairest climes of the earth to do his bidding--men

who, though slaves, had learnt all the arts and letters of Greece,

and were ready to use them for the benefit of their lords; and

women, the most beautiful and accomplished of their sex, who were

yet the property of these same lords--the Roman noble, as to

material and even intellectual enjoyment, stood on a vantage-ground

which never again man can hope to occupy, however--

'Through the ages an increasing purpose runs,

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.'

"Caesar and Pompey, Lucullus and Hortensius, and the fellows of

their order, were orators, statesmen, jurists, and legislators,

generals, men of literature, and luxurious nobles at the same time;

and they were this because they could use the minds as well as the

bodies of others at their pleasure. Not in this direction was an

advance possible" (p. 159).

Our author draws with great skill and vigor a picture of the moral

society of the heathen world, and of the beliefs upon which the

practice of the heathen rested. Into these we have no room to follow

him. At the end of this lecture he shows what sights they were which

met the eyes of a stranger coming from the east in the days of

Nero--an execution in which four hundred men, women, and children were

marched through the streets of Rome to the cross, because their master

had been killed by one of his slaves. In all such cases the Roman law

required that every slave in the house, however innocent, however

young or however old--man, woman, or child--should be put to death.

Thence the stranger passed to a scene of debauchery such as the world

has never imagined, in the gardens close to the Pantheon. This

stranger--

"Why has he come to Rome, and what is he doing there? Poor, unknown,

a foreigner in dress, language, and demeanor, he is come from a

distant province, small in extent, but the most despised and the

most disliked of Rome's hundred provinces, to found in Rome itself a

society, and one, too, far more extensive than this great Roman

empire, since it is to embrace all nations; far more lasting, since

it is to endure for ever. He is come to found a society, by means of

which all that he sees around him, from the emperor to the slave,

shall be changed" (p. 101).

What madness can have inspired such a hope, or what miracle, real or

simulated, could fulfil it? And that, not in the golden age of

pastoral simplicity, in which men looked for wonders with an

uncritical eye, but "amid the dregs of Romulus," when all the world

seemed to have fallen together into the "sere and yellow leaf."

"He has two things within him, for want of which society was perishing

and man unhappy: a certain knowledge of God as the Creator, Ruler,

Judge, and Rewarder of men; and of man's soul made after the image and

likeness of this God. This God he has seen, touched, and handled upon

earth; has been an eye-witness of his majesty, has received his

message, and bears his commission. But whence had this despised

foreigner received the double knowledge of God and of the soul, so

miserably lost (as we have seen) to this brilliant Roman civilization?

"In the latter years of Augustus, when the foundations of the imperial

rule had been laid, and the structure mainly raised by his practical

wisdom, there had dwelt a poor family in a small town of evil repute,

not far from the lake of the remote province where this fisherman

plied his trade. It consisted of an elderly man, a youthful wife, and

one young child. The man gained his livelihood as a carpenter, and the

child worked with him. Complete obscurity rested upon this household

till the child grew to the age of thirty years" (p. 104).

Then follows in few words the history of his life, death, and

resurrection. These things the fisherman had {374} seen, and in this

was the power which was to substitute a new life for the corrupt

civilization of a world.

The details of the comparison which follows we may leave to be

considered when the work is continued. They are drawn out with great

spirit, thoughtfulness, and artistic beauty. For the comparison of the

two systems in an individual, Mr. Allies selects on the one side

Cicero, on the other St. Augustine. An able reviewer has maintained

that "Marcus Aurelius was the person to compare with St Augustine."

Mr. Allies has given his reasons for not selecting either Marcus

Aurelius or Epictetus in the defective religious system of both. There

were, however, other grounds which seem to us even stronger. To test

what heathenism can do, it was necessary that the example selected

should, as a chemist would say, present not "a trace" of any other

influence. Now this was impossible in the days of Epictetus or

Aurelius. Christianity had then been taught and professed publicly and

without restraint for many years, with only occasional bursts of

persecution since Nero first declared war upon it. Its theology,

indeed, was fully known only to the faithful, but its moral code was

publicly professed. The Christian teachers came before the people as

philosophers. It is absolutely certain that all the great Stoics, and

especially the emperor, must often and often have heard of the great

moral and religious principles laid down by the Christian teachers,

however imperfect was his knowledge of their religious practices. But

we have already had occasion to remark that men are driven, whether

they will or no, to approve and admit these great principles when they

are only publicly stated and maintained, although certain not to have

discovered them by their unassisted reason. We cannot, therefore, but

regard the religious and moral maxims of the later Stoics as an

imperfect reflection of the full light of Christianity, like the

moonlight illuminating without warming, but still taking such hold of

the minds which have once embraced them, that they could never be

forgotten. The life and practice of the imperial philosopher, we have

every reason to believe, was, for a man without the faith and the

sacraments, wonderfully high. Far be it from us to depreciate it, for

whatever there was in it that was really good we know resulted from

that grace which is given even beyond the bounds of the Church. But

our knowledge of details is most meagre, while Cicero we know probably

more familiarly than any great man in whose intimacy we hare not

lived. The thoughts and speculations which approved themselves to the

deliberate judgment of Marcus Aurelius, these we know, and in many

respects they are wonderful. Of his life we know little more than he

chose publicly to exhibit to his subjects. The failings of Cicero were

petty and degrading; but if he had been firmly seated on the throne of

the Caesars, and if we had possessed no more exact details of his life

than we do of the life of Marcus Aurelius, we much doubt whether we

should have been aware of them. Merivale says: "The high standard by

which we claim to judge him is in itself the fullest acknowledgment of

his transcendent merits; for, undoubtedly, had he not placed himself

on a higher level than the statesmen and sages of his day, we should

pass over many of his weaknesses in silence, and allow his pretensions

to our regard to pass almost unchallenged. But we demand a nearer

approach to the perfection of human wisdom and virtue in one who

sought to approve himself as the greatest of their teachers." He was

condemned indeed by his heathen countrymen, but their censure was

rather of his greatness than his goodness, and they would probably

have been even more severe had he attained what he did not even aim at

--Christian humility.

Considering these things, and especially that Cicero belonged almost

to {375} the last generation, which was wholly uninfluenced by the

reflected light of Christianity and in which, therefore, we can to a

considerable degree measure the real effects of heathen philosophy, we

venture to think that Mr. Allies has judged well in comparing him as

the model heathen with St. Augustine as the model Christian. The

comparison is drawn with a masterly hand.

On the whole, however, we incline to think that the two last lectures

are of the greatest practical value, especially at the present crisis.

The salt by which Christianity acts upon the world seems to be

martyrdom and holy virginity. Both of them have been always in

operation since the days of John the Baptist. But there are periods of

comparative stillness in which martyrdom is hardly seen, or at least

only at the outposts of the Christian host. At such times, it is by

holy virginity that the Church acts most directly and most powerfully

upon the world. This was the case in the Roman empire as soon as

persecution relaxed.

Our author says:

"A great Christian writer [St. Chrysostom], who stood between the

old pagan world and the new society which was taking its place, and

who was equally familiar with both, made, near the end of the fourth

century, the following observation: 'The Greeks had some few men,

though it was but few, among them, who, by the force of philosophy,

came to despise riches; and some, too, who could control the

irascible part of man; but the flower of virginity was nowhere to be

found among them. Here they always gave precedence to us, confessing

that to succeed in such a thing was to be superior to nature and

more than man. Hence their profound admiration for the whole

Christian people. The Christian host derived its chief lustre from

this portion of its ranks.' And, again, he notes the existence, in

his time, of three different sentiments respecting this institution.

'The Jews,' he says, 'turn with abhorrence from the beauty of

virginity; which indeed is no wonder, since they treated with

dishonor the very Son of the Virgin himself. The Greeks, however,

admire it, and look up to it with astonishment, but the Church of

God alone cultivates it.' After fifteen hundred years we find the

said sentiments in three great classes of the world. The pagan

nations, among whom Catholic missionaries go forth, reproduce the

admiration of Greek and Latin pagans; they reverence that which they

have not strength to follow, and are often drawn by its exhibition

into the fold. But there are nations who likewise reproduce the

Jewish abhorrence of the virginal life. And as the Jews worshipped

the unity of the Godhead, like the Christians, and so seemed to be

far nearer to them than pagan idolaters, and yet turned with

loathing from this product of Christian life, so those nations might

seem, from the large portions of Christian doctrine which they still

hold, to be nearer to Christianity than the Hindoo and the Chinese;

and yet their contempt and dislike for the virginal life and its

wonderful institutions seems to tell another tale. But now, as

fifteen hundred years ago, whether those outside admire or abhor,

the Church alone cultivates the virginal life. Now, as then, it is

her glory and her strength, the mark of her Lord, and the standard

of his power, the most _special_ sign of his presence and operation.

'If,' says the same writer, 'you take away its seemliness and its

continuity of devotion, you cut the very sinews of the virginal

estate; so when it is possessed together with the best conduct of

life, you have in it the root and support of all good things: just

as a most fruitful soil nurtures a root, so a good conduct bears the

fruits of virginity. Or, to speak with greater truth, the crucified

life is at once both its root and its fruit'" (p. 382).

We must conclude by expressing our deliberate conviction that no study

{376} can be more important at the present day than that of the change

from heathen civilization to Christendom, the means by which it was

brought about, and the effects which it produced. For in our day, most

eminently, the Protestant falling away is producing its fruits in

restoring throughout all Europe more and more of the special

characteristics of heathen society. We have not room at present to

offer any proofs of this, but we would beg every reader to observe for

himself, and we are confident that his experience will confirm what we

say. Nor is it only Catholics that are aware of this tendency. A

thoughtful writer in the _Saturday Review_, six months back, devoted a

whole article to trace the points of resemblance between an educated

English Protestant of our day and a heathen of cultivated mind. Those

who feel disposed at once to regard the idea as an insult are probably

judging of heathen civilization by Nero and Domitian. Mr. Allies's

book will at least dispel this delusion. In fact, it is only too

obvious that there is, even in our own day, no want of plausibility in

what is at the bottom only revived heathenism; and in consequence of

this remarkable resemblance, nothing could be more strictly practical

at the present moment than any studies which show us the old heathen

civilization as it really was, in its attractive as well as its

repulsive qualities.

------

From The Month.

SAINTS OP THE DESERT.

BY THE REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.

1. Abbot Antony said: Without temptation there is no entrance possible

into the kingdom. Take away temptations, and no one is in the saving

way.

2. Some one asked blessed Arsenius, "How is it that we, with all our

education and accomplishments, are so empty, and these Egyptian

peasants are so full?"

He made answer: We have the world's outward training, from which

nothing is learned; but theirs is a personal travail, and virtue is

its fruit.

3. It was heard by some that Abbot Agatho possessed the gift of

discrimination. Therefore, to make trial of his temper, they said to

him, "We are told that you are sensual and haughty." He answered: That

is just it.

They said again, "Are you not that Agatho who has such a foul tongue?"

He answered: I am he.

Then they said, "Are you not Agatho the heretic?" He made answer: No.

Then they asked him why he had been patient of so much, yet would not

put up with this last. He answered: By those I was but casting on me

evil; but by this I should be severing me from God.

4. Holy Epiphanius was asked why the commandments are ten, and the

beatitudes nine. He answered: The commandments are as many as the

plagues of Egypt; but the beatitudes are a triple image of the Holy

Trinity.

5. It was told to Abbot Theodore, that a certain brother had returned

to the world. He answered: Marvel not at this, but marvel rather that

any one comes out of it.

6. The Abbot Sisoi said: Seek God, and not his dwelling-place.

7. It is told of a certain senior, that he wished to have a cucumber.

When he had got it, he hung it up in his sight, and would not touch

it, lest appetite should have the mastery of him. Thus he did penance

for his wish.

------

{377}

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER XVIII.

New Year's Day is always a holiday. And well it is for the girls and

boys of a parish, of a district, of a county, ay, of all Ireland, if

it should rise upon them in the glowing beauty of a cloudless sun.

Then, indeed, the girls "are drest in all their best." Many a new

bright ribbon has been purchased on the previous market-day, and many

a twist and turn the congregation side of their bonnets has had. A bow

of new ribbon, blue or red, according to their complexion--for these

country girls are no more fools in such a matter than their

betters--has been held first to this side of their bonnet, then to

that; then the long ends have been brought across the top this way,

then that way, temporarily fastened with pins in the first instance,

until it is held at arm's-length, with the head a little to one side,

to test the final position. Their petticoats have been swelled out by

numbers, not by crinoline, which as yet was unknown, even to the

higher orders. But "be this as it may," the girls of the townlands of

Rathcash, Rathcashmore, and Shanvilla made no contemptible turn-out

upon the New Year's day after Tom Murdock had returned from Armagh.

The boys, too, were equally grand, according to their style of dress.

Some lanky, thin-shanked fellows in loose trousers and high-low boots;

while the well-formed fellows, with plump calves and fine ankles,

turned out in their new _corderoy_ breeches, woolen stockings, and

_pumps_. I have confined myself to their lower proportions, as in most

cases the coats and rests were much of the same make, though perhaps

different in color and material, while the well-brushed "_Caroline_"

hat was common to all.

Conspicuous amongst the girls in the district in which our story

sojourns, were, as a matter of course, Winny Cavana and Kate Mulvey,

with some others of their neighbors who have not been mentioned, and

who need not be.

Winny, since the little episode respecting her refusal of Tom Murdock,

and his subsequent departure, had led a very quiet, meditative life.

She could not help remarking to herself, however, that she had somehow

or other become still more intimate with Kate Mulvey than she had used

to be; but for this she could not account--though, perhaps, the

reader can. She had always been upon terms of intimacy with Kate; had

frequently called there, when time would permit, and sat for half an

hour, or sometimes an hour, chatting, which was always reciprocated by

Kate, whose time was more on her own hands. In what then consisted the

increase of intimacy can hardly be said. Perhaps it merely existed in

Winny's own wish that it should be so, and the fact that one and the

other, on such occasions, now always threw a cloak round her shoulders

and accompanied her friend a piece of the way home. Sometimes, when

the day was tempting, a decided walk would be proposed, and then the

bonnet was added to the cloak. What formed the burden of their

conversation in these chats, which to a close observer might be said

latterly to have assumed a confidential appearance, must be so evident

to the reader's capacity, that no mystery need be observed on the

subject. To say the {378} least, Emon-a-knock came in for a share of

it, and, as a matter of almost necessity, Tom Murdock was not

altogether left out.

Kate Mulvey, after the _éclaircissement_ with Winny, believed she

could do her friend some good without doing herself any harm, a

principle on which alone most people will act. With this view she took

an early opportunity to hint something to Emon of the result of the

interview between herself and Winny, and although she did it in a very

casual, and at the same time a clever, manner, she began to fear that

so far as her friend's case was concerned, she had done more harm than

good. The fact of Tom Murdock's proposal and rejection subsequent to

the interview adverted to, had not become public amongst the

neighbors; and before Winny had an opportunity of telling it to Kate,

Emon had left his father's house, to seek employment in the north. It

is not unlikely that he was tempted to this step by something which

had fallen from Kate Mulvey respecting Winny and Tom Murdock, although

the whole cat had not yet got out of the bag.

Hitherto poor Emon's heart had been kept pretty whole, through what he

considered a well-founded belief that Winny Cavana, almost as a matter

of course, must prefer her handsome, rich neighbor to a struggling

laboring man like him. Tom, he knew, she saw almost every day, while

at best she only saw him for a few minutes on Sundays after chapel.

Emon knew the meaning of the word propinquity very well, and he knew

as well the danger of it. He knew, too, that if there were no such

odds against him, he could scarcely dare aspire to the hand of the

rich heiress of Rathcash. He knew the disposition of old Ned Cavana

too well to believe that he would ever consent to a "poor devil" like

him "coming to coort his daughter." He believed so thoroughly that all

these things were against him, that he had hitherto successfully

crushed every rising hope within his breast. He had schooled himself

to look upon a match between Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana as a matter

so natural, that it would be nothing less than an act of madness to

endeavor to counteract it. What Kate Mulvey, however, had "let slip"

had aroused a slumbering angel in his soul. He was not wrong, then,

after all, in a secret belief that this girl did not like Tom Murdock

over-much. Upon what he had founded that belief he could no more have

explained--even to himself--than he could have dragged the moon down

from heaven; but he did believe it; he even combatted it as a fatal

delusion, and yet it was true. But how did this mend the matter as

regarded himself? Not in the slightest degree, except so far as that

the man he most dreaded, and had most reason to dread, was no longer

an acknowledged rival to his heart. Hopes he still had none.

But Emon-a-knock was now in commotion. The angel was awake, and his

heart trembled at a possibility which despair had hitherto hidden from

his thoughts.

For some time past he had not only not avoided a casual meeting with

Winny, but delighted in them with a safe, if not altogether a happy,

indifference. He looked upon her as almost betrothed to Tom Murdock;

circumstances and reports were so dovetailed into one another, and so

like the truth.

Although there was really no difference in rank between him and Winny,

except what her father's well-earned wealth justified the assumption

of, his position as a daily laborer kept him aloof from an intimacy of

which those in circumstances more like her own could boast; and poor

Emon felt that it was a matter for boast. Thus had he hitherto

refrained from attempting to "woo that bright particular star," and

his heart was comparatively safe. But now--ay, _now_--what was he to

do? "Fly, Fly" said he; "I'll go seek for employment in the north.

{379} To America, India, Australia--anywhere! Kate Mulvey may have

meant it as kindness; but it would have been more kind to have let me

alone. This horrible knowledge of that one fact will break my heart."

And Emon-a-knock did fly. But it was no use. There were many reasons

quite unconnected with Winny Cavana which rendered a more speedy

return than he had intended unavoidable. A stranger beyond the

precincts of his own pariah, he found it impossible to procure

permanent employment amongst those who were better known, and who

"belonged to the place"--a great consideration in the minds of the

Irish, high and low. The bare necessaries of life, too, were more

expensive in the north than about his own home; and for the few days'

employment which he got, he could scarcely support himself, while his

father and family would feel the loss of his share of the earnings at

home. No; these two separate establishments would never do. He could

gain nothing by it but the gnawing certainty of never seeing, even at

a distance, her in whom he now began to feel that his heart delighted.

Besides, he could manage to avoid her altogether by going to his own

chapel; yes, he felt it a duty he owed to his father not to let him

fight life's battle alone, and--he returned. We question whether this

_duty_ to his _father_ was his sole motive; and we shall see whether

he did not subsequently consider it a _duty_ to prefer the good

preaching of Father Roche, of Rathcash, to the somewhat indifferent

discourses of good Father Farrell in _his own_ chapel.

Emon had not been more than ten days or a fortnight away, and he was

now following the usual routine, of a day idle and a day working,

which had marked his life before he went.

But we were talking of a New Year's day, and it will be far spent if

we do not return to it at once, and so we shall lose the thread of our

story.

The day, as we had wished a few pages back, had risen in all the

beauty of a cloudless sun. There had been a slight frost the night

before, but as these slight frosts seldom bring rain until the third

morning, the country people were quite satisfied that the promise of a

fine day on this occasion would not be broken. The chapel-bells of

Rathcash and Shanvilla might be heard sounding their dear and cheerful

call to their respective parishioners that the hour of worship had

drawn near, and the well-dressed, happy congregation might be seen in

strings along the road and across the pathways through the fields, in

their gayest costume, laughing and chatting with an unbounded

confidence in the faithfulness of the sky.

Tom Murdock, the reader knows, had returned, but he had not as yet

seen Winny Cavana. One Sunday had intervened; but upon his father's

advice he had refrained from going "for that wan Sunda' to chapel."

Neither, on the same advice, had he gone near old Ned's house. The old

man--that is, old Murdock--had endeavored to spread a report that his

son Tom was engaged to be married to a very rich girl in Armagh. He

took his own views of all matters, whether critical or simple, and had

his own way of what he called managing them. He was not very wrong in

some of his ideas, but he sometimes endeavored to carry them out too

persistently, after anybody else would have seen their inutility.

On this New Year's day, too, he had hinted something about his son's

not going to mass, but Tom would not be controlled, and quickly "shut

up'" that is the _fashionable_ phrase now-a-days--the old man upon the

subject. His opinion, and he did not care to hide it, was, "that he

did not see why he should be made a mope of by Winny Cavana, or any

other conceited piece of goods like her." His father's pride came to

his aid in this instance, and he gave way.

Rathcash chapel was a crowded place of worship that day. Amongst {380}

the congregation, as a matter of coarse, were Winny Cavana and Kate

Mulvey, both conspicuous by their beauty and solemnity. Tom Murdock,

too, was there; doubtless he was handsome, and he was solemn also, but

his solemnity was of a different description. It was that generated by

disappointment, with a dream of villany in perspective.

Tom was not a coward, even under the nervous influence of rejected

love. Physically, he was not one in the matters of everyday life; and

morally, he wanted rectitude to be one when he ought. He therefore

resolved to meet Winny Cavana, as she came out of chapel, as much as

possible as if nothing had happened, and to endeavor to improve the

acquaintance as opportunity might permit. He purposed to himself to

walk home with her, and determined, if possible, that at least a

friendly intercourse should not be interrupted between them.

Emon-a-knock had steadily kept his resolution, notwithstanding our

doubts, and had not gone to Rathcash chapel for the last four or five

Sundays; he was even beginning to think that Father Farrell, after

all, was not quite so much below Father Roche as a preacher.

At length there was a rustling of dresses and a shuffling of feet upon

the floor, which proclaimed that divine worship had ended; and the

congregation began to pour out of Rathcash chapel--men in their dark

coats and Caroline hats, and women in their best bonnets and cloaks.

Tom Murdock was out almost one of the first, and sauntered about,

greeting some of the more distant neighbors whom he had not seen since

his return. At length Winny and Kate made their appearance. Winny

would have hurried on, but Kate "stepped short," until Tom had time to

observe their approach. He came forward with more cowardice in his

heart than he had ever felt before, and Winny's reception of him was

not calculated to reassure him. Kate was next him, and held out her

hand promptly and warmly. Winny could scarcely refuse to hold out

hers; but there was neither promptness nor warmth in her manner. An

awkward silence ensued on both sides, until Kate, with more anxiety on

her own behalf than tact or consideration on her friend's, broke in

with half a score of inquiries, very kindly put, as to his health--the

_very long_ time he was away--how the neighbors _all_ missed him so

much--what he had been doing--how he left his aunt--how he liked

Armagh, etc, ending with a _hope_ that he had come home to _remain_.

Winny was glad she had so good a spokeswoman with her, and did not

offer a single observation in her aid. To say the truth, there was

neither need nor opportunity; for Kate seemed perfectly able, and not

unwilling, to monopolize the conversation. Tom endeavored to be

sprightly and at his ease, but made some observations far from

applicable to the subjects upon which his loquacious companion had

addressed him. He had hoped that when they came to the end of the lane

turning up to their houses, that Kate Mulvey would have gone toward

her own home, and that he must then have had a word with Winny alone;

but the manner in which she hastened her step past the turn, saying,

"Kate; you know we are engaged to have a walk 'our lone' today,"

showed him that no amelioration of her feelings had taken place toward

him; and without saying more than "Well, this is my way," he turned

and left them.

Bully-dhu was standing near the end of Winny's house, looking from

him; and as he recognized his mistress on the road, commenced to wag

his huge tail, as if asking permission to accompany them. "Call him,

Winny," said Kate; "he may be of use to us; and, at all events, he

will be _company_," and she laid a strong emphasis upon the last word.

Winny complied, and called the dog as loud {381} as she could. Poor

Bully wanted but the wind of the word, and tore down the lane with his

mouth wide open, and his tail describing large circles in the air. He

had well-nigh knocked down Tom Murdock as he passed, but he did not

mind that; and bounding out upon the road, cut such capers round Winny

as were seldom seen, keeping up at the same time a sort of growling

bark, until the enthusiasm of his joy at the permission had subsided.

CHAPTER XIX.

Winny and Kate had agreed to take a long walk after mass on the day in

question. This was not a mere trick of Winny's to get rid of Tom

Murdock. Certainly they had not agreed that it should be "their lone;"

this was as chance might have it; and it was a gratuitous addition of

Winny's, as calculated to attain her object; and we have seen how

promptly she succeeded.

The day was fine, and they now wandered along the road, so engaged in

chat that they scarcely knew how far they were from home. They had

turned down a cross-road before they came to Shanvilla, the little

village where Emon-a-knock lived. Kate would have gone on straight,

but Winny could not be induced to do so. Kate had her own reasons for

wishing to go on, while Winny had hers for being determined not; so

they turned down the road to their left, intending, as they had

Bully-dhu with them, to come home through the mountain-pass by

Boher-na-milthiogue. They had chat enough for the whole road. Prayers

had been over early, although it was second mass; and the country

people generally dine later on a holiday than usual. It gives the boys

and girls more time to meet and chat and part, and in some instances

to make new acquaintances. But whether it had been agreed upon or not,

Winny and Kate appeared likely to have their walk alone upon this

occasion; and as neither of them could choose their company, they were

not sorry to find the road they had chosen less frequented than the

one they had left. Bully-dhu scampered through the fields at each side

of them, and sometimes on a long distance in front, occasionally

running back to a turn to see if they were coming.

They were now beyond two miles from home, and two-and-a-half more

would have completed the circle they had intended to take; but they

were destined to return by the same way they came, and in no

comfortable or happy plight.

They were descending a gentle hill when, at some distance below them,

they perceived a number of young men engaged playing at what they call

"long bullets." They would instinctively have turned back, not

wishing, unattended as they were except by Bully-dhu, to run the

gauntlet of so many young men upon the roadside, most of whom must be

strangers; but the said Bully-dhu had been enjoying himself

considerably in advance, and they called and called to no purpose.

They could not whistle; and if Bully heard them call, he did not heed

them. He had seen a large brindled mastiff coming toward him from the

crowd with his back up, and a growl of defiance which he could not

mistake. Bully was no coward at any time; but on this occasion his

courage was more than manifest, being, as he considered, in sole

charge of his mistress and her friend. He was not certain but his

antagonist's attack might be directed as much against them as against

himself; and he stood upon the defensive, with his back up also, the

hairs of which, from behind his ears to the butt of his tail, bristled

"like quills upon the fretful porcupine." An encounter was now

inevitable. The mastiff had shown a determination that nothing but a

death-struggle should be the result, and rushed with open mouth and a

roar of confident superiority upon his {382} weaker rival. It was no

even match; nothing but poor Bully-dhu's indomitable courage and

activity could enable him to stand a single combat with his antagonist

for five minutes. The first snarling and growling on both sides had

now subsided, and they were "locked in each other's arms" in a silent

rolling struggle for life or death. A dog-fight of even the most minor

description has charms for a crowd of youngsters; and of course the

"long bullets" were left to take care of themselves, and all the

players, as well as the spectators, now ran up the road to witness

this contest, which was, indeed, far from a minor concern. Poor Winny

had screamed when she saw her dog first rolled by so furious and, as

she saw at once, so superior a foe. She would have rushed forward but

that Kate restrained her, as both dangerous and useless. She therefore

threw herself against the bank of the ditch by the roadside,

continuing to call out "for God's sake for somebody to save her poor

dog. Was there no person there who knew her, and would save him?"

The crowd had by this time formed a ring round the infuriated animals.

Some there were who would have been obedient to Winny's call for help;

but the case at present admitted of no relief. Notwithstanding poor

Bully-dhu's pluck and courage, he had still the worst of it; in fact,

his was altogether a battle of defence, while that of the mastiff was

one of ferocious attack. He had seized Bully in the first instance at

an advantage by the side of the neck under the ear, meeting his teeth

through the skin, while the blood flowed freely from the wound,

coloring the mud of the road a dark crimson round where they fought,

and nearly choking the mastiff himself, as he was occasionally rolled

under in the strife. Now they were upon their hind-legs again,

wrestling like two stout boys for a fall; now Bully was down, and the

mastiff rolled his head from side to side, tightening his grip, while

the bloody froth besmeared himself and his victim, as he might now

almost be called.

Some men at this point, more humane than the rest, took hold of the

mastiff by the tail, while others struck him on the nose with a stick.

They might as well have struck the rocks love Slieve-dhu or

Slieve-bawn. The mastiff was determined upon death, and death he

seemed likely to have. His master was there, and seemed anxious to

separate them. He even permitted him to be struck on the nose,

claiming the privilege only of choosing the thickness of the stick.

"He's loosening, boys!" said one fellow; "he's tired of that hoult,

an' can do no more with it; stan' back, boys, an' give the black dog

fair play, he's not bet yet; he never got a grip iv th' other dog yet;

give him fair play, boys, an' he'll do good business yet. There!

Tiger's out iv him now, and the black dog has him; be gorra, he's a

game dog any way, boys! I dunna who owns him." This man seemed to be

an "expert" in dog-fighting. Tiger had got tired of the hold he had

had, and, considering a fresh grip would be better, not by any means

influenced by the blows he had received on the nose, had given way;

believing, I do suppose, that he had already so mastered his

antagonist, that he could seize him again at pleasure. But he had

reckoned without his host. Bully-dhu took advantage of the relief to

turn on him, and seized him pretty much in the same way he had been

seized himself, and with quite as much ferocity and determination. Hie

fight did not now seem so unequal; they had grip for grip, and there

was a general cry amongst the crowd to let them see it out. Indeed,

there appeared to be no alternative, for they had both resisted every

exertion to separate them.

"It's no use, boys," said the expert; "you might cut them in pieces,

an' they wouldn't quit, except to get a better hoult; if you want to

part them, hold them by the tails, an' watch for {383} the loosening

of wan or th' other, an' then drag them away."

"Stan' back, boys," said another. "The black dog's not bet yet; stan'

back, I say!"

Bully-dhu had made a great rally of it. It was now evident that he

would have made a much better fight from the first, if he had not been

seized at an advantage which prevented him from turning his head to

seize his foe in return. They had been by this time nearly twenty

minutes in deadly conflict; and the mastiff's superior strength and

size began now to tell fearfully against poor Bully-dhu. He had shaken

himself completely out of Bully, and made a fresh grip, not far from

the first, but still nearer the throat. The matter seemed now coming

to a close, and the result no longer doubtful. Every one saw that if

something could not be done to disengage Tiger from that last grip,

the black dog must speedily be killed.

Here Winny, who heard the verdict from the crowd, could be restrained

no longer, and rushed forward praying for some one, for them all, to

try and save her dog. They all declared it was a pity; that he was a

grand dog, but no match for the mastiff. Some recommended one thing,

some another. Tiger was squeezed, and struck on the nose; a stick was

forced into his mouth, with a hope of opening his teeth and loosening

his hold; but it was all useless, and poor Winny gave up all for lost,

in a fit of sobbing and despair.

Here a man, who had not originally been of the party, was seen running

at full speed down the hill. It was Emon-a-knock, who at this juncture

had come accidentally upon the top of the hill immediately above them,

and at once recognizing _some_ of the party on the road, rushed

forward to the rescue. He cast but a glance at the dogs. He knew them

_both_, and how utterly hopeless a contest it must be for Bully-dhu.

Like an arrow from a bow, he flew to a cabin hard by, and seizing a

half-lighted sod of turf from the fire, he returned to the scene.

"Now, boys," he cried, "hold them fast by the tails and hind-legs, and

I'll soon separate them." Two men seized them--Tiger's own master was

one. Although there were many young men there who would have looked on

with savage pleasure at an even fight between two well-matched dogs,

even to the death, there was not one who could wish to stand by and

see a noble dog killed without a chance by a superior foe, and they

all hailed Emon-a-knock, from his confident and decisive manner, as a

timely deliverer. The dogs having been drawn by two strong men to

their full length, but still fastened by the deadly grip of the

mastiff on Bully-dhu's throat, Emon blew the coal, and applied it to

Tiger's jaw. This was too much for him. He could understand squeezes,

and even blows on the nose and head, or perhaps in the excitement he

never felt them; but the lighted coal he could not stand, and yielding

at once to the pain, he let go his hold. The dogs were then dragged

away to a distance; Emon-a-knock carrying poor Bully-dhu in his arms,

more dead than alive, to where Winny sat distracted on the roadside.

"O Emon! he's dead or dying!' she cried, as the exhausted animal lay

gasping by her side.

"He's neither!" almost roared Emon; "have you a fippenny-bit, Winny,

or Kate? if I had one myself, I wouldn't ask you."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Winny, taking an old bead-purse from her pocket,

and giving him one. She knew not what it was for, but her confidence

in Emon's judgment was unbounded, and her heart felt some relief when

it was not a needle and thread he asked for.

"Here," said Emon to a gossoon, who stood looking at the dog, "be off

like a hare to Biddy Muldoon's for a naggin of whiskey, and you may

have the change for yourself, if you're back in less than no time;

make her put it in a bottle, not a cup, that you may {384} run the

whole way without spilling it."

The boy started off, not very unlike--either in pace or

appearance--to the animal he was desired to resemble, for he had a cap

made of one of their skins.

Emon-a-knock, although a very steady, temperate young man, was not

altogether so much above his compeers in the district as not to know

"where a dhrop was kept," which, to the uninitiated (English, of

course), means a sheebeen house. Perhaps, _to them_, I am only

explaining one thing by another which equally requires explanation.

During the interval of the boy's absence, Emon-a-knock was examining

the wounds in poor Bully-dhu's neck and throat. The dog still lay

gasping, and occasionally scrubbling with his fore-legs, and kicking

with his hind, while Winny reiterated her belief that he was dying.

Emon now contradicted her rather flatly. He knew she would excuse the

rudeness from the hope which it held forth.

"There will be nothing on him to signify indeed, Winny, after a

little," he said kindly, feeling that he had been harsh but a moment

before; "see, he is not even torn; only cut in four places."

"In four places! O Emon, in four?"

"Yes; but they are only where the other dog's teeth entered, and came

through; see, they are only holes; the dog is quite exhausted, but

will soon come round. Come here, Winny, and feel him yourself."

Winny stretched over, and Emon took her hand to guide it to the spots

where her poor dog had been wounded. Poor Bully looked up at her, and

feebly endeavored to wag his tail, and Winny smiled and wept together.

Emon was a very long time explaining to her precisely where the wounds

were, and how they must have been inflicted; and he found it necessary

to hold her hand the whole time. Whether Winny, in the confusion of

her grief, knew that he did so, nobody but herself can tell. Three or

four persons who knew Winny had kindly come up to see how the dog was,

and the expert amongst them, with so much confidence that he was going

to set him on his legs at once. But Emon had taken special charge of

him, and would not suffer so premature an experiment, nor the

interference of any other doctor.

But here comes the gossoon with the whiskey, like a hare indeed,

across the fields, and his middle finger stuck in the neck of the

bottle by way of a cork.

Emon took it from him, and claiming the assistance of the expert, whom

he had just now repudiated, for a few moments to hold his head, he

placed the neck of the bottle in Bully-dhu's mouth. He poured "the

least taste in life" down his throat, and with his hand washed his

jaws and tongue copiously with the spirits.

With a sort of yelp poor Bully made a struggle and a plunge, and rose

to his feet. Winny held out her hand to him, and he staggered over

toward her, looking up in her face, and wagging his tail.

"I told you so," said Emon; "get me a handful of salt."

The same cabin which had supplied the "live coal" was applied to by

the gossoon (who kept the change), and it was quickly brought.

Emon then rubbed some into the wounds, in spite of Winny's

remonstrances as to the pain, and the dog's own unequivocal objections

to the process.

Matters were now really on the mend. Bully-dhu shook himself, looking

after the crowd with a growl; and even Winny had no doubt that Emon's

prescriptions had been necessary and successful.

"The sooner you get home now with him, Winny, the better," said Emon.

"You are not going to leave us, Emon?" said Winny, doubtingly.

{385}

"Certainly not," he replied; "the poor dog is still very weak, and may

require rest, if not help, by the way." He then took a red cotton

handkerchief from his pocket, and tying it loosely round the dog's

neck, he held the other end of it in his hand, and they all set out

together for Rathcash.

The handkerchief, Emon said, would both keep the air from the wounds,

and help to sustain the dog on his legs. But he may have had some idea

in his mind that it would also serve as an excuse for his accompanying

them to the very furthest point possible on their road home.

TO BE CONTINUED.

------

From London Society.

TENDER AND TRUE AND TRIED.

Tender and true.

You kept faith with me,

As I kept faith with you;--

Though over us both

Since we plighted troth

Long years have rolled:--

But our love could hold

Through troubles and trials manifold,

My darling tender and true!

Tender and true,

In your eyes I gazed,

And my heart was safe, I knew!

Your trusting smile

Was pure of guile,

And I read in sooth

On your brow's fair youth

The earnest of loyal trust and truth,

My darling tender and true!

Tender and true.

All my own at last!

My blessing for all life through--

In death as life

My one loved wife--

Mine--mine at last,

All troubles past--

And the future all happiness, deep and vast.

My darling tender and true!

--------

{386}

Translated from Etudes Religieuses, Historiques, et Littéraires, par

des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.

A RIDE THROUGH CALCUTTA AND ITS VICINITY.

LETTER FROM A FATHER OF THE PROVINCE OF BELGIUM,

MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA.

You ask me for a little information concerning this country and our

ordinary life in this climate. I am entirely at your disposal for this

whole afternoon, if you will come and join me at the college of St.

Francis Xavier, No. 10 Park street, Calcutta.

It is warm there. The thermometer I have just consulted stands 37°

centigrades in the shade. Look where you may from my windows, you see

nothing but white houses which, turned toward the four winds of

heaven, have no other shade but that of their cornice; and a little

further on, in an old cemetery, some fifty obelisks lit up on their

four faces, so vertical is our sun! Hence, though lightly clad--a

white calico soutane, without buttons, a white girdle, white

pantaloons, and white shoe--we still feel enough of the tropical heat

of the dog-star. Happily, we have the breeze, which, although it does

not lower the thermometer any, refreshes us considerably. But it does

not always blow; and when it stops, the floor is watered with drops of

perspiration as big as two-franc pieces. Those who would then make up

for the breeze have themselves _ponka-ed._ _Ponka-ed?_ what is that?

To understand it, you will enter Father Stochman's abode. He is seated

all in white, at his desk, in the middle of a large room; over his

bald head, at a little less than a metre, is hung a large white

triangle, three metres long horizontally, and one metre in height; a

cord is fastened to it there, passes into the hollow of a pulley fixed

to the wall, and terminates at a crouching Indian, clad in his dusky

skin and a strip of stuff around his loins. This human machine has no

other occupation than to pull the cord which balances continually over

Father Stochman's head the other rectangular machine that I have

described to you, which is called a _ponka_. Now, do not suppose that

Father Stochman is a Sybarite. There are _ponkas_ here everywhere: in

the parlor, in the refectory, and many persons have themselves ponkaed

in their bed the whole night long. These instruments are not in use in

Catholic churches, but every parishioner, male and female, continually

uses the fan, which by extension is likewise called a _ponka_. Other

countries, other customs; a _ponka_ is here more necessary than a

coat; whereas, on the other hand, there is not a single chimney in the

whole house. No chimney, you will say; do you, then, eat your rice

quite raw? To that question I have two answers; first, the kitchen,

with us as with our neighbors, is not in the house, but in the

_compound_--that is to say, in the vast inclosure that surrounds the

dwelling. Then I will furthermore observe, that even in the kitchen

there is no chimney. These black Indians, who are our cooks, are

accustomed to make fire without troubling themselves about the smoke,

which escapes wherever it can, through the windows, through the

crevices, anywhere and everywhere. If you were, like me, philosopher

enough to eat whatever comes before you, I would introduce you into

that kitchen; but I think you would not care to enter that dingy {387}

hole, lest you should for ever lose your appetite. Let us leave the

Indians in their den, and go sit down under the _ponka_ in the

refectory. To-day they will serve us with mutton and fowl; to-morrow

with fowl and mutton; now and then with fowl only. As regards

vegetables, yon shall see them successively of all kinds; but, if you

take my advice, you will not touch them; they have no other taste than

that of stagnant water. Beside the morning repast and the dinner,

which is at half-past three o'clock, we have two other meals a day.

One at noon, under the name of _tiffin_, is composed, in the maximum,

of a glass of beer, a crust of bread, and some fruit; for some amongst

us, it is reduced to but one of those three things; for many others,

and myself in particular, to nothing at all. The other repast, at

eight in the evening, consists of a cup of coffee, with or without

bread.

And now let us quit this abode of misery, no more to return. Come and

see my chamber. It has no _ponka_, but four windows, open day and

night; two to the south, where the sun does not enter, and two to the

east, where the Persians forbid him access in the morning. My bed is a

species of large sofa, upon which there is a nondescript article, that

is neither a pattiass nor a mattrass. It is a flat sack, eight or nine

inches thick, and stuffed with hair; over it two linen sheets (a

luxury here, where most people use but one) and a pillow as hard as

the mattrass. But best of all are the four posts supporting a

horizontal rectangle from which is hung the mosquito net. The mosquito

net is used here all the year round. It is a piece of net fastened

below the mattrass. Behind, that frail rampart, if happily there be no

rent in it anywhere, you enjoy the pleasure of hearing the mosquitoes

buzzing about powerless and exasperated. In December and January,

there are clouds of them; but, hearing them, you appreciate that verse

of Tibullus: _Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem!_ What is a

mosquito? It is the cousin-german of your gnats in Europe, generally a

little smaller, but quite the same in form; it _sings_ and stings like

them; only its sting is a little more painful, and is followed by a

larger and more lasting tumor. Nothing can secure you against its

attacks; it can dart its sting even through a double covering of

linen.

These insects are not my only room-mates. There are now, in addition

thereto, some millions of red and black ants, hundreds of which I

every day crush, but all in vain; there are lizards, which are not

dumb as in Europe, but give utterance, now and then, to a short song.

These lizards apply themselves to hunt the insects, so that I am very

careful not to hunt themselves. In my chamber, moreover, there are

horrible beetles--large insects of a dark brown color, four or five

inches long, which have the privilege of inspiring universal disgust.

To love them, one should be as poetical as M. Victor Hugo, who had an

affection for "the toad, poor meek-eyed monger." There are little

_white fishes_, insects that do not live in water, but are

particularly abundant during rainy weather. These _fishes_, little as

they are, contrive to make large holes in cloth and in stuffs. During

the night I sometimes hear rats and mice prowling around; the mosquito

net protects me from their assaults. As for bats, owls, and other such

nocturnal visitors, I do not think they ever come in through our open

windows.

Birds of prey are very numerous here, and wherever I am in my chamber,

I know not how many are watching me from the top of the adjacent

buildings. Crows are another species of bird as interesting as they

are dreary. They inhabit the riversides where the Indians throw their

dead; two, three, or more of them are often seen in the water, looking

as though they were sailing on some invisible bark; that bark is a

dead body, which they slice amongst them as they {388} go. Sometimes

the jackals, along the river, dispute this horrible prey with them,

and you might see these animals, at some distance from the city,

trotting along with human limbs across their mouth. In the city, the

crows live on offal of all kinds; they are often found assembled round

kitchen doors; during our meals there are always twenty or thirty of

them before our refectory. There they seem to beg for crusts of bread,

bones, etc, and willingly receive whatever is thrown to them. The

kites, less numerous and less bold, but much more voracious, mount

guard with them, and often fly away with what the poor crows had

picked up from the ground. In revenge, it is really a pleasure to see

a kite gnaw a bone which he has thus purloined. If he does not take

care to perform that operation high up in the air, he is invariably

flanked by two crows, one of which keeps constantly pulling him behind

to make him angry, whilst the other avails himself of this artifice to

peck at the bone in the very claws of the kite. After a while, the

crows change parts, and each in his turn becomes the assailant. I

perceive at this moment in our court another bird, less common than

the two preceding species, but still not at all rare. The name it

usually bears here is that of _adjutant_; in other places the much

more picturesque name of _philosopher_ is given to it. In order to

form an idea of it, give an ordinary heron the size of a small

ostrich; the bill is ten inches wide and from fifty to sixty long; the

claws and the legs, white and thin, are more than three feet high; the

neck almost always bent, and forming a crop, has a development of from

sixty to seventy inches. Between these two extremities place a big

white body with large wings of a dark-gray color, and you shall have

pretty nearly the _adjutant_ or _philosopher_.

_Apropos_ to the description of my domicile, I have been led to give

you a course of natural history; let us go on to something else. There

is no other curiosity in my chamber, if it be not the two partitions

which, with the walls of the house, form the inclosure. These

partitions are but two yards in height, whilst the ceiling is more

than five; they are generally arranged in this way, so as to give a

free passage to the breeze.

In descending, let us take a look at the bathing rooms, about a dozen

in number, in which there is not a single bath, but large vases of

baked clay, always full of water, and small copper vases, that contain

about a quart. You stand on the pavement, and, dipping the small vase

into the larger one, pour the contents of it fifty times or so on your

head. This is called taking a bath. It is said to be very wholesome;

every one in this country takes their daily bath--except me, who have

no time; so every one has been more or less sick, except me, for the

same reason.

Before going out, a word on the pupils of our college. They are two

hundred and twenty, the great majority of whom are Catholics. Most of

the names have an English aspect; but you will also hear Portuguese,

French, and Armenian names, borne respectively by white, black,

bronze, and brown skins. English is the common language; the French

pupils themselves speak it more fluently than their mother tongue, and

most of them know only as much of Bengalese and Hindostanese as is

necessary to make themselves understood by their Indian domestics. The

costumes are varied enough; but as for the Indians, one may say that

white, and especially white calico, constitutes their wardrobe,

notwithstanding that some dark or pale colors are seen here and there.

Let us set out. Here are our young people coming in for recreation,

and I would spare your ears one of my daily torments. It were

impossible to find on the European continent people more destitute of

all musical judgment than our pupils. It is not taste they want, but

_good_ taste. Several of them have an instrument like the {389}

accordeon which is called the _concertina_. They have the courage to

spend all their recreations, for three months and more, playing always

the same air. I have thus heard "God save the Queen" thousands of

times. Once would have sufficed to disgust you with it for ever; you

may just imagine what liking I have for it. But it is time to go for

our walk.

The English took a very simple way of making Calcutta. They marked out

a broad circular road, to fix its boundary. Three Hindoo villages,

Fort William, and some European factories, were inclosed within it;

time has done the rest. Within the inclosure, the construction of the

houses is subject to police regulations; straw roofs are prohibited,

tiles required, etc; all that annoys the Hindoo, who likes better to

take up his quarters on the other side of the circular road; and in

this way the suburbs are formed. The European city, on its side, has

grown larger every day. Five years ago, our college was at the very

extremity of the city; now, it is nearly in the centre; the new houses

have occupied all the free space, and, in some places even go beyond

the circular road. A year and a half since, a group of Hindoo huts,

situate about one hundred paces from the college, disappeared to make

place for a public tank, which furnishes us with water. The

transformation is slow, but sure. So much for English tact; they have

made Calcutta a palatial city, and such its name implies--_the city

of palaces_. It is, moreover, an immense city; the streets are of

fabulous length, thanks to the mode of construction employed here. I

believe, indeed, that if Paris were built on the same system, it would

extend itself as far as the _natural frontiers_.

In those long streets circulates a numerous and very mixed population,

as in all great maritime places. If you please, we will busy ourselves

to-day with the Indians only.

We distinguish them here into two great classes; the Mohammedans and

the Hindoos. They are easily recognized in the streets. The

Mohammedans wear a beard; they have usually on their head a cap a

little larger than that of the priests in Belgium, but which, having

only one seam forming an edge, is a little less spherical. The rich

have caps embroidered with gold and silver, often very costly; the

poor make theirs of two pieces of grayish-white calico. As for the

women, I know not by what sign to recognize them, unless, perhaps, by

the seams of a portion of their garments. For the rest, no Indian

woman, poor or rich, appears in the streets. The Hindoos, all

idolaters, wear no beard on their chin, but only moustaches and

sometimes whiskers. In case of mourning for the death of a parent,

they shave all, and even the hair from the fore part of the skull. The

rest of the hair is generally drawn back and gathered in a knot. The

men go almost always bareheaded; sometimes they make themselves a

turban of a large piece of calico gracefully enough wound around. The

rich dress in muslin; unbelievers wear leather shoes, [Footnote 55]

the others wooden sandals. The poor have a cord around their loins,

which the rich replace by a silver chain, that they never leave off.

One or more keys are usually attached to it. Between this cord and the

skin they thrust the edge of a piece of calico as long and as wide as

a bed-sheet, and which goes first round and half round the legs; the

men pass between their legs what remains of the sheet and fasten the

end of it to the cord or to the silver chain; the women throw this

same remainder of the stuff over one shoulder and the head, so as to

cover the chest. All go barefoot; many men have necklaces, the women

wear on their ankles two large rings of copper or silver; they have,

beside, a profusion of necklaces, bracelets, rings in the ears and

even in the {390} nostrils. This costume forms their essential and

ordinary apparel.

[Footnote 55: Leather is an abomination to a devout Hindoo.]