From the month of November till the month of March, the Indians have a

season which they call winter. At 20° they are cold, at 15° they

shiver, at 12° or 13° they are frozen. You should see, in the morning,

the masons, carpenters, and other workmen, residing usually in the

country, coming into town all muffled up in one or two extra

bed-sheets, their mouth and nose completely hidden, and looking so

much like being cold, that after some years the Europeans themselves

(sad effect of bad example!) end by persuading themselves that it is

cold here in winter, and even catch a little cold here and there. The

domestics also try then to obtain some cast-off garments, in which

they wrap themselves up without any regard for aesthetics. The porter

of the college, who may be recognized by his red skull-cap and small

white band worn as a shoulder-belt, characteristic of the caste of

Brahmins, asked Father Stochman last year for one of his old soutanes.

A little _bera_ (servant) strutted about the other day in his master's

old _paletot_. The master is thirty-five, the _bera_ seven. The

_meteurs_ (room sweepers, etc) cover themselves with everything:

packing-linen, palliasses, etc., etc. The _bossartchi_ (cooks) are the

best off in winter; they keep themselves warm with their masters'

wood.

Now that you have my Indians more or less dressed, let us see how they

act. The best way to do that will be to go in a palanquin from our

college to the railroad station. If we arrive in time for the train,

we shall make a little excursion as far as Serampore or even to

Chandernagor. Here is the palanquin that is waiting for us at the

door: it is a wooden box, about four feet long; two poles a little

bent, and fastened one before, the other behind, seem to be the

continuation of the axle of the parallelepiped (excuse the word: I

teach geometry). Two individuals, clothed just so far as it is

absolutely necessary, place themselves under the front pole, so as to

lay it one over his right shoulder, the other over his left shoulder;

they press one against the other, because union makes strength. Two

other Indians similar to these do as much for the back pole; the

palanquin is raised. I slide the doors sideways, seat myself on the

edge, and with all the elegance given by gymnastic habit I dart in

backwards. The bottom is a sort of mattrass, on which one lies down at

full length: the shoulders are then supported by a back-cushion, the

feet are in front; you cry _Djas!_ and the four _palki-bera_ start

off. Usually, to mark the way, the most intelligent of the bearers

throws out phrases of four or six syllables, in a very monotonous tone

quite unknown in Europe; the other answers, repeating the phrase in

the same tone. In town, they go at the rate of at least six miles an

hour; in longer journeys they go more slowly.

I have already made a journey of five leagues twice in this kind of

box. The first was poetical enough. It was more than fifty leagues

from Calcutta. We were three Europeans; a very light Frenchman (not in

body, but in mind), an Irishman, and myself. The Frenchman had a

considerable sum about him, and the country being in his opinion

somewhat dangerous, he had brought to the starting station arms of

every kind. I had with me in my palanquin a double-barrelled carabine,

a case of ammunition, and a large hunting-knife. To prevent any one

from robbing me of all this, I partly lay down on the carabine, made a

pillow of the case, and slept with the sheath of my knife in one hand

and the handle in the other. The Irishman, travelling on horseback,

with pistols, served us as a scout; but his pistols did not prevent

him from being struck on the face and arms by the greatest brigand in

India: I mean the sun. He had his skin red for several days. For us,

who were shaded in our palanquins, we had, of {391} course, no

adventure; were it not that I dreamed sometimes of brigands and the

Black Forest, crossing a vast desert plain, all white with light. So,

when we came back the same way a fortnight after, we took with us no

other fire-arms than a box of matches and cigars. But this is a

digression; let us continue our journey.

_Daina péro!_ (turn to the right). It is not the ordinary way; but

instead of passing by the broad European thoroughfare, Park street, we

shall turn aside into the dark and winding passages of an Indian

bazaar. A bazaar is a multitude of lanes, exclusively composed of

miserable huts, and blocked up with all sorts of merchandise. You

rarely meet any one there but men; the shop-girl and the "young lady"

of the store are equally unknown here; but in it is found every form

of misery.

See there below that beggar of eighteen or twenty years, scarce half

covered, and without even a rudiment, a shadow, of an arm. He is long

and thin, but appears to be in good health. A French physician told me

that, very probably, his parents cut off his arms when he was a child

to secure him a livelihood. Whilst we are looking at him, a gigantic

hand is thrust trough the opposite door of the palanquin. The fingers

are as big as the arms of a two-year old child; they are long in

proportion. That hand is soliciting alms. We raise ourselves up a

little to see this needy giant, and our eyes fall on a wretched,

emaciated Indian; the rest of his body can weigh but little more than

his two hands, for the left is like unto the right. This case of

hypertrophy is, I think, isolated here; but another very common one,

which is met in every street, is _Elephantiasis_, hypertrophy of the

legs. The unhappy creatures attacked by this malady have, from the

knee to the end of the foot, one, or sometimes two, elephant's legs,

cylindrical, enormous, and seeming to draw to them the nourishment of

all the rest of the body.

But here we are at the _Meïdan_, This is the name given to that

immense esplanade on which stands Fort William, and which bounds the

governor's palace, the city hall, the Protestant cathedral, the

prison, the lunatic asylum, etc. Let us cross it in our palanquin,

coasting along the river, and we shall soon reach the vicinity of the

station. There we find ourselves besieged by the _couli_ (a sort of

porter) of every age. They claim the honor of carrying our

travelling-bag fifty paces for a _pais_--about four centimes. Since

we are there, before going any further, let us say a word of the

_couli_.

Some are in the service of the rich and of Europeans, others are for

hire in the streets. The first are always men; amongst the second,

there are many children: there are few of them very strong. Indeed, as

a general rule, one European has the strength of several Bengalese.

Both carry everything on their head, in a great hemispherical basket;

there it is that they place the traveller's luggage or the provisions

bought in the bazaar. A _couli_ brought me one day two little birds

which an Irishman had shot for me, and sent them to me from his

residence, three leagues from Calcutta. The birds were in the large

basket. On receiving them I wrote a few lines of thanks; the _couli_

put the note in his basket. Here is another anecdote, for the truth of

which I can certify. M. Moyne, a Frenchman settled in Chandernagor,

had ordered his _couli_ to convey some very heavy materials, of I know

not what kind. He saw the poor devil bent under the burden, and as the

journey was to be of several days' duration, he went to his carpenter

and had him construct a wheelbarrow. That done, he comes back quite

pleased with his good work, and, wheeling the barrow himself to the

_couli_, gives it to him, shows him how to use it, and goes his ways

satisfied that he has caused that man to make one step toward

civilization. The pleasure he experiences at this {392} reflection

induces him to turn round to enjoy his work. He turns, therefore, and

sees the _couli_ walking along, the barrow and the burden all on his

head!

We have met by the way a great number of Mohammedans, carrying on

their back an enormous leather flask, and dripping wet. These are the

_bisthi_, water-carriers. Every house has its own; for people here

waste a great deal of water, and there are neither wells nor cisterns.

The _bisthi_ go and fill their leather flasks at the river or at the

public reservoirs, which are to be found in almost all the large

streets, and come and empty it into pitchers of the dimensions of a

hogshead. It is filtered for drinking; for other uses it is merely

left to settle.

Those other individuals, a little cleaner, who carry on their head

large bundles of linen, are _dôbi_, or washers. They wash the linen by

soaking it in water, and then striking it with their whole strength

against a plank or a stone. Happily, notwithstanding the American war,

calico is not very dear here. You understand that in such a mode of

washing it is roughly handled, and wears out before it is old. But why

not teach the _dôbi_ to wash in another way? Remember M. Moyne's

wheelbarrow, when you ask that question!

Mercy on us! whilst we are chatting so about the _couli_, the

_bisthi_, and the _dôbi_, we are missing the train. Since it is gone,

we shall do as others do who are left behind: we shall take a

_Hinghi_, an Indian bark, long, curved, and without a keel. We shall

find four or five Mohammedan _mendjié_ (boatmen), one of whom steers

with a long oar; the others row with bamboos as thick as one's arm,

and terminated by small flat boards. Just as we enter, the crew are

finishing their common prayer, in which, with many protestations and

gesticulations, they thank God and the Prophet for having helped them

to speed well heretofore, and asking them to help them the same for

the future.

Allah! Allah! _mendjié_ row strong; if we arrive in time, you shall

have two _annas_ (30 centimes). What is this floating three paces from

here? The body of a man lying on his back. And yonder? A woman's

corpse. And further off? The carcass of a horse. The crows, the kites,

the vultures, are much interested in it. But we are landing. The

passengers on board the steamboat are not all landed yet. You see

there perhaps forty, fifty European dresses, and hundreds of Indian.

In the second-class car, which we enter, we shall see Indians in

muslin, who are named _babou_ (or townspeople) through politeness.

They are clerks in the Calcutta offices; they reside several leagues

from here, come every day to town, and return home by the railroad.

The compact mass of the poor are penned up in wretched third-class

cars. The bell rings, the whistle blows, we are off.

Thirteen miles north of Calcutta in the third station, the first

important one; we stop two minutes. Let us go down; we are at

Serampore, an old Danish colony sold to England. We shall content

ourselves there with a visit to the Hindoo gods, and we shall have

enough to do if we see them all. There are, I think, more than fifty

temples. Here is one that is no larger than one of the little wayside

chapels we often see at home. At the further end, on a scaffold, is a

god quite black, almost of human form, holding his two hands as though

he were playing the flute. No flute is there, however. The god has the

cut of a French conscript; at his feet there is a little woman a foot

high, and a little god half a foot, an exact copy of the large one.

The priest has observed us, and here he comes to speak to us. He is

clad like the poorest of the Hindoos. What is your god's name? Answer

unintelligible. Who are those two little personages? His wife and son.

What does that god do? He eats. Indeed? Oh yes, _sahib_, he eats much.

If you will give him some rice or flour he will be very thankful {393}

to you, and it will be of great spiritual advantage to you. Oh! oh!

but if we give him rice, will he eat it before us? Oh! of course not.

He does not eat in company. I place the rice before him; I close the

door carefully, and go away; when I come back some time after to open

the door, he has it all eaten up. Thereupon we begin to laugh; the

priest smiles, too, and we move away.

You meet under almost every large tree four or five of these gods, or

even a greater number. Over them the Indians hang cocoa-nuts, full of

a water which escapes drop by drop, from a little hole bored in the

bottom. It is thus that they keep their gods cool. You often see a

regular series of little temples, built one after the other, on the

same base. Usually, there are six on one side, six on the other. In

the centre of each of them there is a black stone, fairly representing

an anvil covered with a hat. That stone is a god. A great number of

them are sold in Calcutta at from ten to twelve rupees a piece

(twenty-five or thirty francs).

But here is a temple of _Kali_, the terrible goddess of destruction,

in honor of whom the sect of _Togs_ has devoted itself to murder for

ages long. They say there are still Togs who kill for killing's sake,

especially in Bengal. The goddess is standing; she is almost black;

has four arms armed with daggers and death's-heads; around her neck is

a double necklace, which hangs to the ground, composed of hundreds of

little figures also representing death's-heads. The best of it is that

her tongue hangs down midway on her chest. To pull the tongue is a

sign of astonishment in Bengal. Now Kali, returning one day from the

war, with her chaplet of skulls round her neck, met a man, whom she

naturally killed first and foremost. That is the dead body that lies

under her feet. She asked the name of the individual, and was much

surprised to find that she had killed her husband. Then she pulled her

tongue, the best thing she could do. Having no other husband to kill,

and even deprived recently of human sacrifices by the English

government. Kali has enormous quantities of black kids sacrificed to

her. I often see flocks of several hundreds of them coming into town;

the votaries of Kali have their heads cut off at a celebrated temple

we have here in Calcutta. For you must know, Calcutta signifies

_temple of Kali!_ I went one day to see these sacrifices. The temple

is a small affair; but all around a great number of other gods,

attracted, doubtless, by the scent of blood, come to establish their

dwelling.

Let us go on. That great straw shed which you see yonder covers an

enormous car, having a great number of very heavy wheels. Many a man

those wheels have crushed. It is the car of Juggernaut, that devil to

whose festivals the English government sent European soldiers only a

few years since; not to maintain order, but to take part in the

procession. _Djaghernatt_ (the Indian name of this idol) remains with

_Bolaraham_ and _Soubâdhra_, his brother and sister, in a temple

opposite the straw shed. A great number of the Indian gods have a

taste for moving about; hence those kiosks that you see everywhere,

and which serve them as resting-places. The prettiest is the shade of

a banyan-tree, with about a hundred stems, a whole wood in itself.

But we must leave the Hindoo gods; we have barely time to pay a short

visit to Chandernagor. Let us take the railroad again, and go on some

minutes' ride further. Another time we shall, if you choose, come by

water, ascending the Hoogly to twenty-one miles north of Calcutta.

There, on the right bank of the broad river, is a strip of land two

miles in length by one in breadth, where some sixty persons live in

European style, with some thousands of Bengalese, who live in Indian

fashion; it is the French colony.

The Indian _employés_ cry with all {394} their might "Chan'nagore!

Chan'nagore!" Let us get down, and out of the terminus, and when we

have crossed that ditch, ten paces before us, we shall be in France.

As the centre of the European habitations is a quarter of an hour's

walk from this point, we throw ourselves here into a four-seated

carriage, and thread our way through roads wretchedly out of repair,

at the risk of upsetting an hundred times, or of getting sea-sick by

the way. I have often passed that place in company with Frenchmen; we

endeavored to feel an impression, by humming

"Vera les rives de France," etc. [Footnote 56]

[Footnote 56: "Toward the shores of France," etc.]

One day when I was making ready to brave those perilous roads in

company with two Irishmen, there came into our carriage a large

gentleman, whose weight would have been formidable to us, had I not

managed to balance his pounds by my kilogrammes. [Footnote 57] By his

appearance I took him for a _Briton_, and, therefore, took no pains to

enter into conversation. But after a little, one of my Irishmen,

annoyed by the jolting of the carriage, said to me in English: "Faith!

these Frenchmen needn't boast of the way they keep these roads of

theirs." At this remark, you should have seen my stout gentleman leap,

and with a menacing air reply to my interlocutor: "I warn you to say

nothing here against the French. I am a Frenchman."

[Footnote 57: A kilogramme is equal to 2 lb. 3 oz. and 4 drms.]

This was said in English. I had not yet opened my mouth. I thought I

would appease my irascible fat man by speaking to him in his own

tongue. "Come, come," said I, "no one here has any intention of

laughing at the French." My man instantly drew in his horns,

stammering three or four syllables which I could not understand.

"Magical effect of the mother tongue!" thought I; and ten yards

further on, in order to perfect a good understanding between us, I

began again to address him in French on any subject that presented

itself. He looked at me with mouth and eyes open. Supposing that he

had not heard what I said, I repeated it. He was then forced to

confess that he did not know a word of French; that he was an

Irishman, an old soldier. In short, he was an original, well known in

the country by his eccentricity, and styling himself _the hero of 132

fights_. Now retired from the service, he is writing his exploits in a

little diary full of fun and humor. He detests England, loves France

in general, and attacks all Frenchmen in particular. Once at his ease,

after his candid confession, he took to chatting, and talked so much

and so well that we forgot the jolting of the carriage, and even the

lofty and magnificent trees that, fringe the road.

After some winding about, and after passing a great number of Indian

huts, and meeting hundreds of Hindoos loaded each with a great pitcher

of water, here we are at last in a street. _Rue de Paris_, if you

please: long and dirty, and ill aired; nothing remarkable; let us pass

on. _Rue Neuve,_in ruins. _Rue des Grands Escaliers_, so narrow that

the slightest staircase before a door would block it up completely.

Let us go on, turn to the left, and here we are at the river side.

Here all is large and wide--quay, river, houses, gardens. Without

stopping now, let us go on immediately to the end of the quay, where

we shall rest and refresh ourselves in a friendly house. It deserves

that name in three ways, for, 1st, it was formerly the house of God,

an ancient chapel of the Franciscans. An old plank yet to be seen

there still bears the following inscription in French, nowise

remarkable for good orthography: "_This church is dedicated to St.

Francis of Assissium._" 2nd, It belongs to the venerable pastor,

Father Chéroutre, who is now our neighbor at Bailloul. And, 3rd, It is

occupied by M. Moyne of Lyons, one {395} of our old pupils, of whom I

have already spoken to you. He stands on the threshold, and receives

us with open arms.

The Franciscans were formerly pastors at Chandernagor; this chapel

served as parish church; their convent is now converted into a hotel.

From one of its windows there is a magnificent and extensive view,

thanks to the river and the level character of the ground. That square

tower to the left is the guard-house; for there is here a French army,

composed of thirty Indians, commanded by a European lieutenant. They

pretend, but erroneously, that these thirty soldiers have but twenty

uniforms amongst them, and that often, when the guard is relieved, the

new comers enter, not only into the functions, but also into the

clothes, of their comrades. It is a calumny of "perfidious Albion;" my

information is certain. I have it from the general-in-chief. Close by

is the police station. With their white tunics, their red pantaloons,

these Indian policemen have very much the look of altar-boys. This

fine house to the left is the house of the administrator, or, as he is

styled by courtesy, the governor. Let us go in. We shall see this

governor, a fat little man, born in the colonies. He will speak a

little on everything, but especially on honor and the happiness, to

him so rare, of receiving a visit from a man of learning. It is very

unlucky that his lady has the influenza at this moment; for she is an

astronomer, and had ever so many questions to ask me whatever day I

should have accepted their invitation. Another time will do as well.

The governor himself is a horticulturist; he has his garden kept in

perfect order by Indian convicts, who drag the cannon ball along his

walks. [Footnote 58]

[Footnote 58: A military punishment.--TRANS. ]

The sun is setting; let us go home. We shall see in the streets of

Calcutta what is seen there every evening; dogs, fireworks, and

marriages.

The Bengal dog is a wretched and cowardly animal, long muzzled,

red-haired; he barks little, but howls incessantly. Be very sure that

he will assail us persistently in the lanes, as we pass now in the

evening, distance being our only security against him. There are also

in the country, and even in the city, a great number of _paria_ dogs,

that prowl around, especially by night; a species of wild beasts; not

very dangerous, however, because of their cowardice. It is said that

dogs of European race gradually degenerate here.

Those rockets that you see going up from all points of the horizon are

a daily amusement in which the Bengalese take much delight. There is

scarcely ever a fire-work worth seeing; but there is fire, smoke, and

crackers, and that suffices. Sometimes they send up little paper

balloons, with a ball of lighted camphor, which burns a good quarter

of an hour.

But look yonder: is not that a fire? A bright light flashes on the

tree-tops and on the European houses. No, it is not a fire; it is a

marriage. The procession is turning the comer of the street; a score

of Indians carry each on his head a plank, on which some fifty candles

are burning; others carry resinous wood burning on the top of a long

pole; in the centre of the procession trumpets, drums, large and

small, pots and saucepans, produce a frightful din, each musician

having no other rule than that of making the greatest possible noise.

Behind the orchestra come one or two open palanquins containing the

brides, around whom "blue lights" are lit from time to time. I defy

you to form any correct idea of this _cortège_, and especially of the

music. They go about thus from street to street for several hours;

then they will eat rice to satiety, gorge themselves with Indian

pastry, and to-morrow will not have a single sou. We see that from our

terrace several times in the week, and, at certain seasons, every day.

{396}

If I am not mistaken, I have said nothing yet of the character of

these poor Indians. In this respect some reserve is necessary. I hear

it said that there is very little resemblance between Bengal, Maduras,

the Bombay territory, the Punjaub, etc. As for the Bengalese, all

agree in regarding them as the most degraded; they are effeminate,

idle, and cowardly by temperament; liars and thieves by education.

They often dispute amongst themselves, but never fight. That cowardice

encourages many Englishmen, who beat them at random when they have

nothing else to do. My idea is that, unless miracles of grace be

wrought for them, it is scarcely possible to make true Christians of

these poor people. The only means of establishing Christianity amongst

the race would be to buy their children, and bring them up, away from

all contact with the others. There are Christians amongst them, who

are oftenest found as cooks or _kansama_ amongst the Europeans; but

they know not the first rudiments of their religion, go to church only

on Good Friday and All Souls' Day, and are generally admitted to be

worse than the pagan servants.

Our day is now ended. If you are fatigued, come and rest yourself on

the college roof, constructed as a platform, like those of all the

other houses in the country. There, evening and morning, but only

then, the heat is bearable. I sometimes go and sit there to think of

my friends. I look back into the past, forget the present, and, as I

do everywhere else, laugh at what worldlings call _the future_. The

future is heaven. It seems to me that I am nearer to it here than in

Europe. May God grant us grace to gain it one day or another!

T. CARBONNNELLE.

----------

THE ROUND OF THE WATERS.

BY ROBT. W. WEIR

"All thy works praise thee, O Lord."

Up, up on the mountains, high up near the sky.

Where the earth gathers moisture from clouds passing by;

Where the first drops of rain patter down full of glee,

As they join hand in hand on their way to the sea;

There the rills, like young children, go prattling along.

Full of life, full of joy, full of motion and song;

And, swelling the brooks, with glad voices they raise,

To him who made all things, their tribute of praise.

Then, as they dance onward, half hidden in spray,

Like bands of young nymphs dress'd in bridal array,

With shouts of wild laughter they leap the deep linn.

Where the broad flowing river at once takes them in.

Now calm their rude mirth as they matronly glide,

Bearing onward rich freight to the blue briny tide.

Where the mist of the mountains once more joins the sea

With its incense, O Lord, ever heaving to thee.

------

{397}

Translated from the German

THE BIBLE; OR, CHRISTMAS EVE,

Christmas Eve had come. The bells of the high towers in majestic and

solemn tones were reminding the faithful that the advent of the Lord

was near. Here and there through the gathering darkness already

glimmered a solitary taper, casting a feeble light upon the streets,

where a throng of people, large and small, young and old, were moving

to and fro with joyful activity, impatiently awaiting the hour when

the treasures and splendor of the Christmas market should be opened to

them. Good mothers were engaged in quietly and secretly baking the

cakes and adorning the Christmas-tree for the children, and shared

beforehand in the delights and surprises of the little ones, while

others, who had perhaps chosen the best part, were preparing

themselves in still devotion and pious meditation for the great

festival.

The young student of theology, Ernest Kuhn, was sitting in his little

upper chamber, watching, with eyes full of deep affection and

sympathy, his dear mother, who, after a confinement to her bed of

several weeks, had been refreshed for the first time by a peaceful

sleep. His countenance was lighted up with an expression of great

interior joy, for on this day the physician had announced to him that

his mother had safely passed through a perilous crisis, and that, with

care, a speedy recovery might be expected.

But he turned his eyes from his dear mother and looked upon the bare

walls, which gave a speaking proof of the poverty of the inmates, then

a cloud of sadness passed over his countenance, his young breast

heaved heavily, as if oppressed by a weight of sorrow. The house-rent

was due, the fire-wood was reduced to a few sticks, hardly enough to

last two days, his little sister needed a new dress, his mother good

strengthening nourishment, the apothecary's bill was to be paid, and

where were the means to be found?

Heavily and slowly he rose from his seat, as if standing would lighten

his burdens, and cast his eyes thoughtfully around the apartment. "The

tables and chairs," he said to himself in an under-tone, "are gone not

to come back, the pictures too are sold, and the clock also; and now

it is your turn, O my books! It cannot be helped; I have spared you

for a long, long time." At these words he stood before the book-case

and gazed on the few but good books by which he had so often been

instructed and counselled, and which had remained with him in joy and

in sorrow. Each of them was dear to him, associated with some dear

remembrance either of joy or sorrow. Sad and wavering, he looked at

them again and again, as if he could never part from them. At last,

after long hesitation, he took down from the shelf a large bound

volume; it was a Bible adorned with beautiful copper-plate engravings.

"I can best spare you," he said sadly, "for I have two more in Greek

and in Latin; I shall meet with the most ready sale and get the most

money for you. My grandfather who is in heaven will forgive me this; I

have other remembrances of him; Agnes will grieve and weep greatly for

the beautiful Bible, but I think I can easily quiet her, and I can

also give my mother a satisfactory explanation."

{398}

He cast a sorrowful glance at the beautiful book which had afforded

him so much enjoyment in his boyhood, and which was so much dearer to

him as a memorial of his pious grandfather, long since dead, whom he

held in great veneration. Then he thought of earlier and better times,

of the present, so full of trouble, and of the blessed future, and his

heart was heavy and his youthful breast heaved painfully.

Then his eye fell as if by chance upon the open Bible, and he read:

"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

And he humbly kissed the consoling words, and a tear of sorrow but

also of the firmest trust flowed down his cheek, and he turned his

true and weeping eyes to heaven as if he would ask pardon of his

Father for his faint-heartedness. He remembered how God had heard his

earnest prayer, and restored his dear mother, how often he had helped

him, and his heart became lighter, and hope once more began to dawn

upon him.

II.

Suddenly the door opened, and his little sister Agnes, a child seven

years old, ran in, joyfully holding up her little writing-book. "Look

here, dear Ernest," she eagerly exclaimed, "only see how beautifully I

have written to-day! That great A is very nice." "Softly, softly, you

noisy little girl," said her brother, putting his hand over her mouth;

"you will wake up mother!" Agnes hastened on tip-toe to her mother's

bedside, softly kissed her white hand, and said beseechingly, as she

watched her slumber, "Do not scold, dear brother, mother is sleeping

so good!"

Ernest smiled and told her that while he attended to some necessary

business she must stay with their mother, and be very quiet and silent

that she might not wake her; but that if she did awake she was to give

her the warm broth upon the stove, and that the bread and butter for

herself was on the window ledge. "Now be very quiet," he added, "for

you know what the doctor said."

The little girl assured him that he might trust her, but, added she,

coaxingly, "When you come back, may I not go with dame Margaret to the

Christmas market?" "That you shall," promised her brother. But Agnes

clung to him, and full of pious simplicity, whispered in his ear: "If

you meet the Christ-child in the street, tell him he must not forget

me, but must look in here."

The brother embraced the little girl with a sad smile, and casting an

affectionate glance upon his mother, left the room.

III.

Ernest had only to turn the corner of the little street to find the

shop of Höss, the antiquary, who had before bought many a book of him,

and to whom he intended to offer the Bible. With a beating heart (for

Höss was a rough, purse-proud man) Ernest entered the shop, which was

crowded with books, maps, and pictures. He greeted the antiquary, who

was busy writing, in a friendly manner, but there was a pretty long

pause before he took any notice of him.

"Ah! it is you, Master Studious," he exclaimed, raising his cap in a

stately manner, "what good thing brings you to me?"

"Something beautiful and good indeed," replied Ernest "See here, you

must buy this of me."

"Always buying," said the antiquary; "when will you begin to buy of

me? I don't like to deal with you. Look at your pictures, that I

bought of you three weeks ago, and for which I paid more than they

were worth on account of your destitute condition; no one will buy

them of me; my good nature played me a trick that time. It shall not

happen again, Master Studious."

"How can you say this, Mr. Höss?" {399} replied Ernest, greatly

disgusted; "did you not have them for a trifle, and was not I present

eight days since when you refused double of what you gave for them,

when it was offered you?"

"You heard wrong," replied the antiquary, displeased and ashamed, "let

me see your articles."

With evident pleasure he turned over the leaves of the book, and

looked at the beautiful and delicately executed engravings.

"Not so bad," thought he. "It is a pity that I have already more than

enough of such trash, as you can see for yourself if you will look at

those shelves. I will take it, however, on account of my regard for

you and your mother, if you don't set your mark too high."

"Only give me," begged Ernest, "the fourth part of what it first

cost."

"And what was that?"

"Six florins, Mr. Hoss."

"You are sharp indeed, young master! Six florins in these hard times!

Such are our young people now-a-days," grumbled the old man.

"Only look at the beautiful pictures, so skilfully and clearly

engraved; I am sure it would bring you double and treble the price you

give for it."

"What do you know of all this, Master Studious? I will give you three

florins and not a penny more, and this only out of pure kindness."

"If you have that, give me more," earnestly pleaded the young man;

"think of my mother's sickness and our poverty."

"Is it my fault that your mother is poor and sick?" sneered the miser;

"why have you not made yourself rich if poverty is so disagreeable to

you? Take your book, or the three florins, whichever you please.

Master Studious; only be quick, for I have something else to do beside

listening to your whining."

It was as if a two-edged sword had pierced the heart of the deeply

distressed young man. He suddenly seized the book; then he thought of

his sick mother, and their extreme need at home, and he strongly

checked the rising words of his just anger. "Take the book, then," he

said, with a look and tone in which the indignation of his deeply

wounded spirit spoke forth--"take it, but you have not dealt with me

as a Christian should deal with a Christian; may God be more merciful

to you in your dying hour than you are now to me." And with these

words he hastened from the shop, and he heard a scornful laugh behind

him.

IV.

He went forth into the street with burning sorrow rankling in his

wounded breast. The December air blew sharp and cold over his glowing

cheeks--he felt it not. People were talking loud and merrily as they

moved up and down the lighted streets, but he heard them not. Sunk in

despondency, he stood motionless in the night air, leaning against the

corner of a house. Never before had he been so wretched. His spirit

was stirred by an indescribable feeling of bitterness, which

threatened to destroy the happiness of his life.

In mild solemn tones the bells sounded anew, and awakened in his soul

the remembrance of him who brought, and is ever bringing to us all,

redemption, help, and consolation; he called to mind the words of

Christ which he a short time before had read, and which had so

wonderfully cheered him; he thought of the resolution he had this day

formed, of his dear mother, of whose entire recovery he had now so

lively a hope. Then he took courage, walked down the street, and went

to the shop of the apothecary Kremer.

V.

The apothecary, a kind, cordial-hearted man, greeted Ernest in a

friendly way as he entered with a "God be with you. Master Theologus.

You want the medicine for your {400} mother? Here it is; and how is

the good woman?"

"Thanks be to God," replied Ernest joyfully, "she is out of danger;

but dear Herr Kremer," added he in an under-tone, '"I cannot pay you

this time; oh! be so good as to bear with me a little longer."

"Have I ever asked anything of you?" said the apothecary; "do not

trouble yourself. I am right glad that your mother is better; I knew

she would recover. But you yourself look so pale and weak! what has

happened to you?"

Then Ernest, encouraged by the kindness of the cordial-hearted man,

related to him how scornfully and hardly the antiquary had dealt with

him.

"Yes, yes," said the apothecary angrily, "that is the way with this

covetous man; I have known him from his youth; it was his pleasure as

a schoolboy to torment us, and, whenever he could, to cheat us. But do

not let this disturb you; sit down at the table out yonder near the

stove," he continued kindly; "after this vexation a drop of wine will

not harm you." Saying this he opened a cupboard, took down a bottle of

wine and a tart, and with good-natured haste filled the glass.

Ernest hardly knew what all this meant. "Oh, sir," he exclaimed,

greatly surprised, "how have I merited such great kindness?"

"You are a brave son, and have acted honorably toward your mother, and

for that I esteem you highly; so drink, drink!" insisted the kind old

man.

"I wish my mother was here in my place," said the good son; "the wine

would do her good."

"Do not let that trouble you," answered the apothecary, deeply moved;

"your mother shall not be forgotten, and your little sister shall not

go without her share; and now eat and drink to your heart's desire."

The kindness of the cordial-hearted old man made Ernest's meal a happy

one; new life flamed through his veins with the wine, his cares began

to lessen, and he felt himself wonderfully refreshed. For a long time

he had not been so light-hearted.

Meanwhile the old man, whose joy was heartfelt at seeing how much the

young student relished his little repast, had taken down a second

bottle of wine from the cupboard, and had made up a parcel of bonbons

and candy for his little sister.

"The wine," said he to Ernest, "is for your mother, and this parcel

for your little sister."

"How can I repay you for all your kindness to us?" asked Ernest,

overpowered with joy and gratitude.

"Oh! that is of no importance," answered the apothecary laughing; "it

is Christmas eve, when the Lord visits all his children, and you have

been a very good child."

"May God reward you for the love you have shown us," said Ernest with

emotion; "my mother and I have nothing but thanks and prayers to

return you."

"Give me the last, dear young man," answered the apothecary, "and

invite me to your first. Remember me to your mother, and freely ask me

for whatever you need. Farewell."

With a heart full of gratitude Ernest pressed die offered hand of the

old man to his heart, took the presents and hastened home.

VI.

Cheered and warmed, refreshed in body and spirit, he entirely forgot

the hard-hearted antiquary. He entertained himself as he went along

with the pleasing surprise he should give his mother and sister, when

they saw the good things he brought them, and raising his eyes to

heaven in gratitude he exclaimed, "Father, there are some good men

still!" When he reached home he found his mother still asleep, his

little sister trying to darn his old socks, but, as yet wholly

unpractised in the art of patching, she {401} more than once pricked

her little fingers till they bled.

"Is it you, dear brother?" she asked affectionately. "Mother has not

waked yet; I have been very good and still."

"For this the little Christ-child has given me something for you,"

said her brother, as he came toward her smiling; "he sends you his

kind greeting, and tells you to study well, never forget to pray, and

love him always!"

Agnes quickly opened the parcel, and, surprised and delighted, beheld

the bonbons, the sugared almonds, and the gingerbread. A flush of joy

lighted up her pretty features, and for some time she could not find

words to speak.

"Oh, brother, only see how good the Christ-child is! Yes, yes, I will

indeed love him, and study and pray hard, that our Heavenly Father and

the good infant Jesus may be pleased with me."

Her brother smiled, moved by her pious joy, but just at this moment

dame Margaret, their good old neighbor, came in, who had shown every

kindness and attention to Ernest's mother during her illness. With joy

he told her the happy news of her recovery; the delighted little Agnes

spread out her sugar-plums and gingerbread, and cordially invited her

to take some. But Margaret thought her teeth were not good enough.

"But come," said she, "when you are ready we will go to the Christmas

market."

"May I go, brother?" asked Agnes. "Yes, indeed you may, only come home

in time," said he; '"and be so good, dame Margaret, as to keep watch

upon the little girl."

"Have no fear, Master Ernest," she replied, "for you know I love her

as if she were my own child."

VII.

Dame Margaret took her way along the street leading to the Christmas

market--holding the Agnes by hand, who every now and then urged her to

make greater haste. From the deep blue sky the stars poured down their

pale silver light upon the dazzling fresh-fallen snow. Crowds of

people were hurrying up and down, talking merrily, or, divided into

groups, stood gazing eagerly and curiously upon the bright display of

the fair. Bright lights were burning in the stands and shops of the

tradesmen, displaying all their treasures to the astonished eye. Here

peeped out the pleasant, friendly faces of dolls with waxen heads,

dressed after the newest fashion in little hoods or Florence hats,

while others stood more retired, like ladies and gentlemen, splendidly

wrapped in cloaks and furs, as if they feared the cold. A varied

medley of hussars in rich embroidered uniform hung there; huntsmen

with, rifle and pouch, chimney-sweeps and Tyrolese, hermits and

friars, Greeks near their mortal enemies the Turks, and Moors,

standing peacefully side by side. The plashing fish swam round in a

glass panel, whilst close by stood a dark oak-wood case, in which

leaden bears and stags were seized by hounds and hunters of the same

metal. Elsewhere was a whole regiment of bearded grenadiers, arranged

in stiff array, with Turkish music. A frightful fortress, with paper

walls and wooden cannon, frowned next a kitchen where was to be seen

the pretty sight of cook, hearth, pans, spits, plates, etc. Here

sweetmeats, choice pastry, tarts, chocolate, almonds, gingerbread,

etc., excited in many a dainty palate long desire and hard temptation.

Golden apples gleamed forth from dark leaves, nuts rattled in silver

bowls, while in another place low cribs, with water, mountain, and

valley, herds and herdsmen, with angels in the air and on the earth,

sweetly represented the new-born child lying in the cradle, carefully

watched by Mary and Joseph.

Little Agnes gazed with delighted eyes upon all this splendor, and

often laid her tender hand upon her youthful breast, as if to repress

its longings {402} and sounds escaped her lips which only too plainly

expressed the joy of her heart.

But at length dame Margaret thought it was time to go home. "Do let us

first go to find Herr Höss," begged Agnes, "his crib is always the

prettiest," and laughing good-naturedly she drew the obliging Margaret

along with her to the antiquary. They found him occupied in attending

upon an elderly lady. Did Agnes see aright? Did her eyes deceive her?

"Yes, yes," she suddenly exclaimed in great distress, "it is my Bible,

my dear picture-book!" and in a moment she released herself from

Margaret and ran up to the lady.

"Oh, dear lady," cried she, eagerly, "do not buy it; you cannot, you

must not buy it; that book belongs to me!" The lady looked at the

little girl in great astonishment.

"What are you dreaming of, you silly little thing?" grumbled the

antiquary, vexed at the unwelcome interruption. "It is mine; I bought

it, and at a high price."

"That cannot be, dear sir," earnestly protested the little girl. "I

beg you give me back my picture-book; I will give you all the money I

have," and saying this she drew out her little purse, which contained,

alas! only four pennies, her little savings. "Take it," said she,

"only give me my picture-book."

"Oh! you little sharper," said the antiquary jeeringly, "that would be

a great profit; I have paid more florins for it than you have

pennies."

"I beg you, for heaven's sake," sobbed Agnes, with folded hands and

tears streaming from her blue eyes. "I tell you, upon my honor, it

belongs to me; only see, there is my name on the title-page, which my

brother wrote there in Latin letters."

The lady turned the leaf over and read aloud, "Frederic Schein!"

"Frederic Schein?" exclaimed suddenly a loud voice, with evident

emotion, and a slender, manly figure wrapped in a cloak, from beneath

which glistened a richly embroidered huntsman's uniform, pressed

through the circle which curiosity had formed around Agnes and the

antiquary. "Frederic Schein?" again he exclaimed, and looked greatly

agitated upon the book. "Permit me, noble lady?" he asked, and hastily

seized the offered Bible. "Good heavens! my suspicions were right, it

is my father's Bible!" and suddenly turning to the little girl: "What

is thy family and baptismal name?"

"Agnes Kuhn," answered Agnes, greatly terrified.

"Is your mother's name Sophia?" he asked urgently and eagerly.

"Yes," answered the child, "my mother's name is Sophia, and my

brother's Ernest."

"Thanks be to God, a thousand thanks!" fervently exclaimed the tall

man, with deep emotion, and ardently pressed Agnes to his heart.

"Agnes," he cried, "I am your uncle; your mother is my sister. Oh!

take me to her."

Agnes, looking at him with astonishment, asked: "Are you my uncle

Frank, of whom my mother has so often told me? Oh! if you are my uncle

Frank," said she coaxingly, "do buy the Bible for me! and then I will

take you to my mother." Her uncle kissed the little girl, and gave her

the book. "I will take the book, sir," said he, "at any price;" and

the antiquary made him a very low bow.

When the bargain was concluded, the tall huntsman moved quickly

through the circle of astonished spectators, leading the little Agnes,

who joyfully pressed the precious picture-book to her heart. Margaret

followed, lost in astonishment.

VIII.

While these things were taking place at the fair, and Agnes

unexpectedly had found the Bible and her uncle, Ernest sat by the

bedside of his mother, enjoying her slumber, which was to him the

sweet pledge of {403} her recovery. Before him lay open the histories

of Holy Writ, and with deep emotion he was reading what the Lord in

his infinite love and mercy had done for sinful men, and how he had

sent them his only begotten Son to redeem and console them, whose

birth-day was now to be joyfully celebrated throughout Christendom.

He had just looked at the fire in the stove, and poured fresh oil into

the expiring lamp, when his mother awoke, and cast a kind,

affectionate glance upon her good son.

"Oh, mother," cried he joyfully, "what a good sleep you have had; you

have been asleep seven whole hours!"

"Yes, I have slept soundly," answered she, "and find myself greatly

strengthened. But what has become of Agnes?"

"I let her go with dame Margaret to the Christmas fair; it is almost

time for her to come back."

"Ah! it grieves me to the heart," sighed his mother, "that I cannot

give you both a little Christmas gift, as I used to do."

"Don't be distressed on that account, dear mother," said Ernest,

soothingly; "you are out of danger, and that is the most beautiful and

best Christmas gift that could be bestowed on us. But the Christ-child

has not forgotten us," and he handed his mother the bottle of wine and

the biscuit.

"Where in all the world did this come from?" asked his astonished

mother.

Ernest now related how he had sold the Bible to the antiquary (whose

unkind treatment he concealed from his mother lest it should disturb

her) for three florins, and how he had called on the apothecary, who

had so hospitably received him, so kindly remembered his mother and

little sister, and had promised not only a larger credit, but every

kind of aid.

His mother could not find words to praise and thank their benefactor.

When Ernest wrapped up the biscuit again as his mother directed, he

remarked upon the cover the hand-writing and name of the apothecary,

and had the curiosity to open the whole paper.

Who can describe his surprise and emotion when he found the wrapper

was a receipt in full, signed by the apothecary, for the eight florins

and thirty pence due to him for medicines delivered.

"God bless our noble benefactor!" prayed his mother with folded hands.

But Ernest shouted, "Mother, we are now relieved of a great care!"

IX.

Dame Margaret just then entered with an unusually quick step, and with

a countenance evidently announcing good tidings, but without little

Agnes.

"Where have you left my Agnes?" inquired the mother anxiously.

"Do not trouble yourself about her; she will soon come, and not alone

either. She is bringing an old acquaintance of yours with her!"

"An old, dear acquaintance?"

"Yes, and from your native place, too."

"From my native place?" asked the mother eagerly.

"He declares that he is very nearly related to you; and he does look

very much like you."

"How does he look?" asked the mother urgently.

"He is tall and slender, with black eyes and black hair, and a scar

over his brow; he looks to me like a huntsman."

"Great God! is it possible? can it be my brother?"

"Yes, it is he," cried the huntsman, as he entered and offered his

hand to his astonished sister. From the arms of his sister he hastened

to embrace his manly nephew, while the joyful Agnes, with the Bible in

her arms, now ran up to her mother, now {404} to her uncle, and then

to her brother, who beheld the book with astonishment, and began

faintly to suspect what happened.

When the first tempest of delight had subsided, and given place to a

more quiet though not less deep joy, question crowded upon question,

and answer upon answer.

The uncle first related how after the marriage of his sister he had

entered into the service of the Count of Maxenstein as upper

game-keeper; how he had often tried to obtain intelligence of his dear

sister; twice had taken a journey himself to their native place, and

could learn nothing of her; how he had searched all the newspapers;

and at length, when all means and efforts had failed, how be

sorrowfully gave up the hope of ever seeing her again. Then he told

her how he had come to this place on business for the count, his

master; had visited the Christmas fair and the stall of the antiquary,

and had there unexpectedly found his father's Bible and Agnes, and

through them his sister and nephew.

Then affectionately clasping Ernest by the hand he begged his sister

to relate her history.

"My history," she replied, "is short, and yet varied with many sorrows

that the Lord has laid upon me. You knew that my husband left his

native place to seek a better living in Eichstadt. But in this he was

deceived. Then, in spite of my entreaties, he entered the French

service as surgeon, and came to Saarlouis, where his regiment lay in

garrison. Soon after his arrival a malignant fever broke out among the

soldiers, which carried away great numbers, and among them my husband.

God give him his kingdom," said she drying her tears. "His death was

the more dreadful for me, because I was alone in a foreign land

without friends or help, and had but just risen from my bed after the

birth of Agnes. In my need I wrote several letters to you and to our

relatives at Settenberg, but received no answer. At first I thought

this was caused by irregularities of the post-route, which was

everywhere embarrassed by the disturbances of the war; but I soon

learned, to my great sorrow, that our Settenberg had been sacked and

burned by the French. Imagine, my dear brother, my condition! What a

happiness for me that, some months after the death of my husband, an

old aunt of his made me the offer to go to her, and she would support

me as well as she was able. I was not terrified by the length of the

way, and received from her a cordial welcome. But, alas! this

happiness was not long to last. My good aunt died, leaving me her

heir, but she had other relations who disputed the will, and, after a

law-suit of three years' continuance, an agreement was made by which

most of the property fell into the hands of the judges and lawyers.

Hardly a fourth part of it remained after the costs were paid. I had

nothing now but care and trouble; but I ever found a firm support in

my dear Ernest. May God reward him! But now, dear brother, now, if I

only have you, again all care will be over." And the good woman,

deeply affected, pressed his hand.

"Oh, my dear ones!" cried he, after listening to his sister's

narrative with lively sympathy, "let us all thank our Heavenly Father

that he has to-day brought us all together again, in so wonderful a

manner, by means of this book; for I had already determined to leave

this place in the morning."

Ernest related how hard it had been for him to part with the precious

book, how he had been encouraged by the passage in Matthew, what mean

treatment he had met with from the antiquary, and how he had almost

made up his mind to take back the book with him.

Little Agnes, on her side, thought it had been no very easy matter to

bring dame Margaret to the antiquary, and she had gone through trouble

and {405} terror enough "until the Christ-child sent my uncle."

He pressed the little one to his heart, but she seized him fast by the

hand, and coaxingly begging him, said: "Now uncle, you never will go

away; you will stay with us?"

"How could I leave you so soon, my dear ones, just as I have found you

again? No, no, we will never separate; we will always remain

together," cried the uncle. "You must go with me to Peinegg, sister,

where I am head-forester; it is a beautiful and splendid place there,

and I have everything in abundance."

"With you and my children I would go to the ends of the earth," said

she cheerfully.

Then Ernest, upon a hint from his mother, brought out the bottle of

wine and the biscuit, and offered them to his uncle. A slight meal,

prepared in haste by dame Margaret, seasoned with cheerful

conversation, enlivened the evening, to which Ernest and his mother

had looked forward only a few hours before with such pain and anxiety.

Joy and deep satisfaction lighted every countenance, but the mother

said with deep feeling: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall

be comforted."

"Amen," responded the uncle, devoutly raising his eyes to heaven.

Ernest and Agnes wept tears of joy and gratitude.

X.

It was not long before their mother was entirely recovered and

accompanied her beloved brother to Peinegg, where he arranged

everything in a manner to make her life agreeable. It may easily be

imagined that the Bible was not forgotten. Every Christmas evening was

passed with far more festivity and joy than the evening which united

again the long separated. At the end of two years Ernest celebrated

his first mass at Peinegg. The good apothecary was invited to be

present, and esteemed this day as the happiest of his life. Sixteen

years after, Ernest was established as parish priest at Peinegg, where

he still exercises his holy office with extraordinary zeal.

------

From The Month.

THOUGHTS ON ST. GERTRUDE.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

When a voice from the thirteenth century comes to us amid the din of

the nineteenth, it is difficult for those interested in the cause of

human progress not to feel their attention strongly challenged. Such a

voice appeals to us in a work which has now first appeared in an

English version. [Footnote 59]

[Footnote 59: "The Life and Revelations of St. Gertrude, Virgin and

Abbess." By a Religious of the Order of Poor Clares.]

We owe it to a religious of the order of Poor Clares; a daughter of

St. Francis thus paying to St. Benedict a portion of that debt which

all the religious orders of the West owe to their great patriarch. The

book possesses a profound interest, and that of a character wholly

apart from polemics. The thirteenth century, the noblest of those

included in the "ages of faith," was a troubled time; but high as the

contentions of rival princes and feudal chiefs swelled, we have here a

proof that

"Birds of calm sat brooding on the charmèd wave."

Not less quieting is the influence of {406} such records in our own

time. They make their way--music being more penetrating than mere

sound--amid the storm of industrialism and its million wheels.

Controversialists may here forget their strifes, and listen to the

annals of that interior and spiritual life which is built up in peace

and without the sound of the builder's hammer, much less of sword or

axe. There is here no necessary or direct contest between rival forms

of belief. Monasteries have been pulled down and sold in Catholic as

well as in Protestant countries; and in the latter also are to be

found men whose highest aspiration is to rebuild them, and restore the

calm strength and sacred labors which they once protected. Such books

are not so much a protest against any age as the assertion of those

great and universal principles of truth and peace which can alone

enable each successive age to correct its errors, supply its defects,

and turn its special opportunities to account. It is not in a literary

point of view that they interest us chiefly, although they include not

a little which reminds us of Dante, and reveal to us one of the chief

sources from which the great Christian poet drew his inspiration.

Their interest is mainly human. They show us what the human being can

reach, and by what personal influences, never more potent than when

their touch is softest, society, in its rougher no less than in its

milder periods, is capable of being moulded.

The "Revelations of St. Gertrude" were first translated into Latin, as

is affirmed, by Lamberto Luscorino in 1390. This work was, however,

apparently never published; and the first Latin version by which they

became generally known was that put forth under the name of

"_Insinuationes Divinae Pietatis_," by Lanspergius, who wrote at the

close of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century. The

work has appeared in several of the modern languages; but the French

translation, by which it has hitherto been chiefly known among us, has

many inaccuracies. The present English translation has been carefully

made from the Latin of Lanspergius and the original is frequently

quoted in the foot-notes. The "_Insinuationes_" consist of five books.

Of these the second only came from the hand of the saint, the rest

being compiled by a religious of her monastery, partly from personal

knowledge and partly from the papers of St. Gertrude. Two works by the

saint, her "Prayers" and her "Exercises," have lately appeared in an

English version.

St. Gertrude was born at Eisleben, in the county of Mansfield, on the

6th of January, 1263, just sixty-nine years after the birth of St.

Clare, the great Italian saint from whose convent at Assisi so many

others had already sprung in all parts of Europe, and whose name had

already become a living power in Germany and Poland, as well as in the

sunny south. [Footnote 60] St. Gertrude was descended from an

illustrious house, that of the Counts of Lackenborn. When but five

years old she exchanged her paternal home for the Benedictine Abbey of

Rodersdorf, where she was soon after joined by her sister, afterward

the far-famed St. Mechtilde. When about twenty-six she first began to

be visited by those visions which never afterward ceased for any

considerable time. At thirty she was chosen abbess; and for forty

years she ruled a sisterhood whom she loved as her children. The year

after she became abbess she removed with her charge to another but

neighboring convent, that of Heldelfs. No other change took place in

her outward lot. Her life lay within. As her present biographer

remarks, "she lived at home with her Spouse."

[Footnote 60: An interesting life of this saint and of her earlier

companions has lately been published in English: "St. Clare, St.

Colette, and the Poor Clares: by a Religions of the Order of Poor

Clares." J. F. Fowler, Dublin.]

The visions of St. Gertrude are an endless parable of spiritual

truths, as well as a record of wonderful graces. From the days when

our divine Lord himself taught from the hillside and {407} the

anchored ship, it has been largely through parables that divine lore

has been communicated to man. Religious and symbolic art is a parable

of truths that can only be expressed in types. The legends through

which the earlier ages continue to swell the feebler veins of later

times with the pure freshness of the Church's youth are for the most

part facts which buried themselves deep in human sympathies and

recollections, because in them the particular shadowed forth the

universal. It is the same thing in philosophy itself; and that

_Philosophia Prima_ which, as Bacon tells us, discerns a common law in

things as remote as sounds are from colors, and thus traces the "same

footsteps of nature" in the most widely separated regions of her

domain, finds constantly in the visible and familiar a parable of the

invisible and unknown. The very essence of poetry also consists in

this, that not only in its metaphors and figures, but in its whole

spirit, it is a parable, imparting to material objects at once their

most beautiful expression and that one which reveals their spiritual

meaning. So long as the imagination is a part of human intellect, it

must have a place in all that interprets between the natural and the

spiritual worlds.

The following characteristic passage, while it shows that St. Gertrude

made no confusion between allegory and vision, yet suggests to us that

so poetical a mind might, under peculiar circumstances, be more easily

favored with visions than another:

"Whilst thou didst act so lovingly toward me, and didst not cease to

draw my soul from vanity to thyself, it happened on a certain day,

between the festival of the resurrection and the ascension, that I

went into court before prime, and seated myself near the fountain;

and I began to consider the beauty of the place, which charmed me on

account of the clear and flowing stream, the verdure of the trees

which surrounded it, and the flights of the birds, and particularly

of the doves--above all, the sweet calm--apart from all,

considering within myself what would make this place most useful to

me, I thought it would be the friendship of a wise and intimate

companion, who would sweeten my solitude or render it useful to

others; when thou, my Lord and my God, who art a torrent of

inestimable pleasures, after having inspired me with the first

impulse of this desire, thou didst will also to be the end of it;

inspiring me with the thought that if by my continual gratitude I

return thy graces to thee, as a stream returns to its source; if,

increasing in the love of virtue, I put forth, like the trees, the

flowers of good works; furthermore, if, despising the things of

earth, I fly upward, freely, like the birds, and thus free my senses

from the distraction of exterior things, my soul would then be

empty, and my heart would be an agreeable abode for thee" (p. 76).

If in this passage we see how the natural yearning for sympathy and

companionship may rise into the heavenly aspirations from which mere

nature would divert the heart, we find in the following one a type of

that compensation which is made to unreserved loyalty. The religion of

the incarnation gives back, in a human as well as a divine form, all

that human instincts had renounced. "It was on that most sacred night

in which the sweet dew of divine grace fell on all the world, and the

heavens dropped sweetness, that my soul, exposed like a mystic fleece

in the court of the sanctuary, having received in meditation this

celestial rain, was prepared to assist at this divine birth, in which

a Virgin brought forth a Son, true God and man, even as a star

produces its ray. In this night, I say, my soul beheld before it

suddenly a delicate child, but just born, in whom were concealed the

greatest gifts of perfection. I imagined that I received this precious

deposit in my bosom" (p. 85). One of the chief tests as to the divine

origin of visions consists in their tending toward humility; for those

{408} which come from a human or worse than human source tend to

pride. The humility of St. Gertrude was profound as the purity of

which humility is the guardian was spotless. "One day, after I had

washed my hands, and was standing at the table with the community,

perplexed in mind, considering the brightness of the sun, which was in

its full strength, I said within myself, 'If the Lord who has created

the sun, and whose beauty is said to be the admiration of the sun and

moon; if he who is a consuming fire is as truly in me as he shows

himself frequently before me, how is it possible that my heart

continues like ice, and that I lead so evil a life?'" (p. 106).

There can be no stronger argument in favor of the supernatural origin

of St. Gertrude's visions than their subjects. The highest of her

flights, far from carrying her beyond the limits of sound belief, or

substituting the fanciful for the fruitful, but bears her deeper into

the heart of the great Christian verities. She soars to heaven to find

there, in a resplendent form, the simplest of those truths which are

our food upon earth. As the glorified bodies of the blessed will be

the same bodies which they wore during their earthly pilgrimage, so

the doctrines, "sun-clad," in her "Revelations" are still but the

primary articles of the Creed. Her special gift was that of

realization: what others admitted, she believed; what others believed,

she saw. It was thus that she felt the co-presence of the supernatural

with the natural, the kingdom of spirit not to her being a future

world, but a wider circle clasping a smaller one. From this feeling

followed her intense appreciation of the fact that all earthly things

have immediate effect on high. If a prayer is said on earth, she sees

the scepter in the hand of the heavenly King blossom with another

flower; if a sacrament is worthily received, the glory on his face

flashes lightning round all the armies of the blessed. That such

things should be seen by us may well seem wonderful; that they should

_exist_ can appear strange to no one who realizes the statement, that

when a sinner repents there is joy among the angels in heaven.

A vision, from which we learn the belief of one of God's humblest

creatures that something was lost to his honor by her compulsory

absence from choir, but that he was more than compensated for the loss

by the holy patience with which she submitted to illness (p. 180), is

not more wonderful than the fact that God's glory should be our

constant aim, or that God should have joy in those that love him. The

marvel is, that the saint was always believing what we profess to

believe. She lived in an everlasting jubilee of divine and human love:

it was always to her what a beaming firmament might be to one who for

the first time had walked up out of a cave. She was ever seeing in

visible types the tokens of a transcendent union between God and man

--a deification, so to speak, of man in heaven. Is this more wonderful

than the words that bow the foreheads and bend the knees of the

faithful, "He was made man?" If such things be true, the wonder is,

not that a few saints realize them, living accordingly in

contemplation and in acts of love, but that a whole world should stand

upon such truths as its sole ground of hope, and yet practically

ignore them.

Neither in ordinary Christian literature nor in the ordinary Christian

life do we find what might have been anticipated eighteen centuries

ago by those who then first received the doctrines of the incarnation

and the communion of saints. How many have written as if Christianity

were merely a regulative principle, introduced to correct the

aberrations of natural instincts! Yet even under the old dispensation

the sacred thirst of the creature for the Creator was confessed: "As

longeth the hart for the water-springs, so longeth my soul after thee,

O Lord." The royal son of the {409} great Psalmist had sang in the

Book of Canticles the love of the Creator for the creature. What might

not have been expected from Christian times!

How much is not actually found in all those Christian writings the

inspiration of which, in the highest sense of the word, is _de fide!_

How supernatural at once and familiar is that divine and human

relationship set forth by our Lord in his parables! What closeness of

union! what omnipotence of prayer! Some perhaps might say, "If our

Lord were visibly on earth as he was during the thirty-three years,

then indeed the closeness of intercourse between him and his own would

be transcendent." But the exact contrary is the fact. The closest

intercourse is in the spirit, and apart from all that is sensual; the

sense is a hindrance to it. So long as he was visibly with them, the

affection of the apostles themselves for their Lord was too material

to be capable of its utmost closeness. Even earthly affections are

perfected by absence, and crowned by death. Till they are purified by

the immortalizing fire of suffering, sense clings to the best of them

more than we know; not by necessity corrupting them, but limiting,

dulling, depressing, and depriving them of penetration and buoyancy.

While he was with them, the apostles sometimes could not understand

their Master's teaching--where to the Christian now it seems

plain--and replied to it by the words, "Be it far from thee!" When the

feast of Pentecost was come, they loved him so that they did not fear

to die for him; but they no longer so loved him as to see in him but

the restorer of a visible Israel, and to lament his death. But this

Pentecost has continued ever since in the Christian Church! What,

then, was to be expected except a fulfilment of the earlier promises:

"I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh;" and as a natural

consequence of perfected love, the development of the spiritual sight:

"Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy; your old men shall dream

dreams, and your young men shall see visions" (Joel ii. 28)? Such was

the condition of that renewed world for which the apostles wrote, and

to which they promised the spiritual gift and the hidden life. More

plainly than the Jewish king they proclaimed that the union between

the Creator and the creature was no dream, but that the servants of

sense and pride were dreamers; and, in words like a musical echo from

the canticle of Canticles, they affirmed that between Christ and his

Church there exists a union, the nearest type of which is to be found

in the bridal bond. This was the doctrine that made the world in which

St. Gertrude lived. The clear-sighted will see that the charges

brought against her and her Church are charges brought against the

Bible no less.

But all is not said when it is affirmed that the ascetics, like the

apostles, enjoyed a closer union with their Lord in his spirit because

he had withdrawn his visible presence from the earth. Sense may

separate those whom it seems to unite; but there is a nearness

notwithstanding, which has no such paradoxical effect. No one can even

approach the subject of the visions of the saints unless he duly

appreciates the real presence, not only as a doctrine, but in its

practical effects. The saints had a closeness to their Lord denied to

the Jewish prophets. He was absent as regards visibility; but he was

present in the blessed eucharist. If the absence made the love more

reverential, the presence made it more vivid. A large proportion of

the visions of the saints were connected with the blessed sacrament.

In it the veil was not lifted; but the veiled nearness quickened that

love which perfects faith. To sense all remained dark; but the spirit

was no longer enthralled by sense, and it conversed with its

deliverer.

There are those who could not be happy if they did not believe that

the {410} world abounds in persona nobler than themselves. There are

others who are affluent but in cavils. The visions of saints must,

according to them, be illusory, because they are not demonstrably

divine! But are the ordinary graces of Christians distinguished from

illusions by demonstration? Is penitence, or humility, or simplicity

demonstrable? Do we believe that nothing is an object of prayer, or an

occasion for thanksgiving, till it is proved to be such? Those who

know that religion has its vast theological region of certainty know

also that there exists an outward region in which, though credulity is

an evil, yet needless contentiousness is the note of a petty mind. Or

the visions must be fabulous, because the caviller does not understand

the mode of spiritual operation to which they are referable! But how

much do we know as to the separate or joint action of our bodily,

intellectual, and moral powers? We believe in results; but we

understand little of processes.

The only visions received as _de fide_ are those recorded in the Holy

Scriptures. Do we know by what process even these came to exist? Were

they external manifestations, such as, if shown to two persons, must

have worn for both the same semblance; or may they have had an

existence only within the mind of the seer? Is not the real question

this--whether or not they had a divine origin; not whether he who sent

them worked on the mind from without, or stimulated its action from

within? In this case the visions of some event--such as the

crucifixion--possessed by two different saints, might not have been

the less authentic although different from each other in some

particulars. Who can say to what extent habitual grace may not

determine the action of the imaginative faculty, as of other

faculties, so as to produce vision in one man while it produces

prudence or wisdom in another? That grace acts on the mind as well as

on the heart no one will deny, since some of the gifts of the Holy

Ghost are of an intellectual order, and it is through spiritual

discernment that we understand religious truth. It seems, indeed, but

natural to suppose that grace should operate on the imagination, and

thus counterwork the seductions by which an evil power assails that

faculty--a form of temptation often, but not consistently, insisted on

by those who scoff at visions. If this be granted, then, as we can

neither measure the different degrees in which grace is granted, and

increased by co-operation, nor ascertain the intellectual shape and

proportions of those to whom it is accorded, who can affect to

determine to what extent that grace may not suffice, in some cases, to

produce vision, even when accorded mainly for other purposes?

But this is not all. The imagination does not act by itself; the other

faculties work along with it; by them also the vision is shaped in

part; and as they are developed, directed, and harmonized in a large

measure by grace, in the same degree the vision must, even when not

miraculous, be affected by a supernatural influence. Once more: God

works upon us through his providence as well as through his grace; and

the color of our thoughts is constantly the result of some external

trifle, apparently accidental. A dream is modified by a momentary

sound; and a conclusion may be shaped not without aid from a flying

gleam or the shadow of a cloud. Our thoughts are "fearfully and

wonderfully made," partly for us and partly by us, and through

influences internal and external, which we trace but in part. We can

draw a line between the visions which command our acceptance and those

which only invite it; but in dealing with the latter class, it seems

impossible to determine _à priori_ how far they may or may not be

accounted supernatural. It will depend upon their evidence, their

consequences, their character, and the character of those to whom they

belonged.

{411}

"But," the caviller will object, "unassisted genius has visions of its

own." What then? Does that circumstance discredit all visions that

claim to be supernatural? Far from it; the visions of genius are

elevated by virtue. They are not only purified thus, but edged with

insight and enriched with wisdom. Has virtue, then, nothing of the

supernatural? or would Dante have "seen" as much if, instead of

following her voice, he had followed that of the siren? Again,

simplicity of character, and what Holy Scripture calls "the single

eye," have a close affinity with genius; for which reason the poor

possess many characteristics of it denied to the rich--its honest

apprehension of great ideas, for instance, and the inspiration of good

sense; its power of realizing the essential and of ignoring the

accidental; its freshness in impressions and loyalty in sentiment. But

simplicity is a divine gift. Above all, faith communicates often what

resembles genius to persons who would otherwise, perhaps, have narrow

minds and wavering hearts. It appears, then, that the whole of our

moral and spiritual being--which is of course under supernatural

influence--admits of such a development as is favorable to genius,

and may eminently promote that natural "vision" which belongs to it.

Education and life may do the same. What disperses the faculties over

a vast field of heterogeneous knowledge saps genius; what gives unity

to the being strengthens it. It evaporates in vanity; it is deepened

by humility. Society dissipates its energies and chills them; solitude

concentrates and heats them. Indulgence relaxes it; severity

invigorates it. It is dazzled by the importunate sunshine of the

present; its eyes grow wider in the twilight of the past and the

future. All the circumstances, exterior and interior, that favor

genius are thus indirectly connected with grace or with providence.

What, then, is not to be thought in a case like that of St. Gertrude,

in which we find, not genius trained on toward sanctity, but sanctity

enriched with genius?

It is, however, to be remembered that we in no degree disparage the

claim to a divine character possessed by St. Gertrude's visions in

admitting that some of them may not claim that character. In one

favored with such high gifts, it is not unphilosophical to suppose

that the natural qualities, as well as supernatural graces, which lend

themselves to visions would probably exist in a marked decree. We have

no reason, indeed, to conclude that the Hebrew prophets, to whom

visions were sent by God, never possessed, when not thus honored,

anything that resembled them--anything beyond what belongs to ordinary

men. They, too, may have had unrecorded visions of a lower type, in

which the loftiest of their thoughts and deepest of their experiences

became visible to them; and if so, they had probably something

ancillary to vision in their natural faculties and habits,

independently of their supernatural gifts. Among the peculiar natural

characteristics of St. Gertrude may be reckoned an extraordinary

_literalness_ of mind, strangely ignited with a generalizing power.

She had a value for everything as it was, as well as for the idea it

included. There was a minuteness as well as a largeness about her.

These qualities probably belonged to that pellucid simplicity which

kept her all her life like a child. This childlike instinct would of

itself have constantly stimulated her colloquies with him who was the

end of all her thoughts. In the spiritual as in the intellectual life,

the powers seem augmented through this dramatic process, as though

fecundated from sources not their own. The thoughts thus originated

seem to come half from the mind with which the colloquy is held, and

half from native resources.

Let us now pass to another cavil. Devotions such as those of St.

Gertrude have sometimes been censured because they are full of love.

There {412} is here a strange confusion. Most justly might dislike be

felt for devotions in which love is not supplemented by a

proportionate veneration. Among the dissenting bodies devotions of

this sort are to be found, though we should be sorry rudely to

criticise what implies religious affection, and is a recoil from

coldness. The fault is not wholly theirs. An age may be so

characterized that it cannot be fervent, even in its prayers, without

being earthly; but such an age is not religious, and may not judge

those that were. In them reverence and love are inseparable. God

reigns in man's heart through love and fear. True devotion must,

therefore, have at once its fervid affection and its holy awe. Thus

much will be conceded. It does not require much penetration to

perceive also that the more it habitually possesses of awe, the more

it admits of love. If the expression of divine resembles that of human

affection, this results by necessity from the poverty of language.

Those who object to the use of the word "worship" in connection with

God's saints as well as with God (though of course used in a different

sense) see nothing to surprise them in the circumstance that the terms

"love" and "honor" possess equally this double application. Yet when

expressions of real and zealous love are addressed to Almighty God,

they are sometimes no less scandalized than when worship (that is,

honor and veneration) is addressed in a subordinate sense to the

saints! In both cases alike they labor under misconceptions which may

easily be removed.

To abolish the resemblance between the expression of divine and human

affections, it would be necessary to break down the whole of that

glorious constitution of life by which human ties, far from being

either arbitrary things or but animal relations improved upon, are

types of divine ties. The fatherhood in heaven is admitted to be the

antetype of human parentage; and the adoptive brotherhood with Christ,

the second Adam, to be the antetype of the natural brotherhood. Can

any other principle prevail in the case of that tie which is the

fountain whence the other domestic charities flow? Not in the judgment

of those who believe, with St. Paul, that marriage is a type of that

union which subsists between him and his Church. If there be an

analogy between divine and human ties, so there must be between the

love that goes along with them and the blessedness that is inseparable

from love.

In such cavils as we have referred to there is a latent error that

belonged to the earliest times. The caviller assumes that an element

of corruption must needs exist in religious affections which betray

any analogy to human affections, whereas it is but a Manichean

philosophy which affirms the necessary existence of corruption in the

human relations themselves. Human relations are not corrupt in

themselves either before or since the fall; but human beings are

corrupt and weak, and do but little justice to those relations.

Praise, both in heaven and on earth, is held out to us in Holy

Scripture as one of the rewards of virtue. It may not be the less

true, on that account, that few orators have listened to the

acclamations that follow a successful speech without some alloy of

self-love. Possessions are allowable; it may be, notwithstanding, that

few have had "all things" as though they "had nothing." It is not in

the human relations that the evil exists (for they retain the

brightness left on them by the hand that created them), but in those

who abuse them by excessive dependence on them, or by disproportion.

It is mainly a question of due subordination. Where the higher part of

our being is ruled by the lower, or where the lower works apart from

and in contempt of the higher, there evil exists. Where the opposite

takes place--where a flame enkindled in heaven feeds first upon the

spiritual heights of our being and descends by due degrees through the

{413} imagination and the affections--there the whole of our being

works in a restored unity, and there proportionately the senses are

glorified by the soul. This has ever been the teaching of that Church

which encircles the whole of human life with its girdle of sacraments.

It has naturally come to be forgotten in those communities which admit

the legal substitution of divorce, and polygamy for the sanctity and

inviolability of Christian marriage.

That those who do not understand the relation of human to divine ties

should not understand the devotions of saints is far from strange. The

expressions of the saints are bold because they are innocent. They

have no part in that association of ideas which takes refuge in

prudery. The language of St. Gertrude is that of one on whose brow the

fillet had dropped when she was a child, and who had neither had any

experience of earthly love nor wished for any. It is indeed the

excellence of the domestic ties that they are indirect channels of

communication with heaven. But in her case the communication was

direct and immediate--a clear flame rising straight from the altar of

perpetual sacrifice. The beautiful ascent of affections from grade to

grade along the scale of life had in her been superseded by a yet

diviner self-devotion. She had not built upon the things that are

lawful within due measure, but upon those counsels the rewards of

which are immeasurable. She had reaped immortal love in the fields of

mortification. She had begun where others end. She had found the union

of peace with joy. Had there been added to this whatever is best in

the domestic ties, it could to her have been but a rehearsal, in a

lower though blameless form, of affections which she had already known

in that highest form in which alone they are capable of being realized

in heaven.

Expressions associated with human affections are to be found in St.

Gertrude's devotions, because she _had_ human affections. In the

monastic renunciation the inmost essence of them is retained; for that

essence, apart from its outward accidents, is spiritual. What is the

meaning of the incarnation, if God is not to be loved as man? To what

purpose, without this, the helpless childhood, the fields through

which he moved, the parables so homely, the miracles of healing, the

access given to sinners, the tears by the grave of him whom he was

about to restore to life, the hunger and the weariness, the reproach

for sympathy withheld? These domestic memories of the Church are

intended to give the higher direction to human affections before they

have strayed into the lower, in order that the lower may receive their

interpretation from the higher. Nothing is more wonderful than to see

the natural passing into the supernatural in actual life; nothing more

instructive than to see this in devotions. It is not the presence of a

human element in them, but the absence of a divine element, that

should be deplored. The natural may be shunned where the supernatural

is not realized. It can only be realized through love; and love is

perfected through self-sacrifice, the strength and science of the

saints.

It is easy to distinguish between devotions that are really too

familiar and those of the saints. The latter, as has been remarked,

are as full of awe as of love. Their familiarity implies the absence

of a servile fear; but everywhere that filial fear, the seat of which

is in the conscience, reveals itself. Again, if they regard our Lord

in his character of lover of souls, they regard him proportionately in

his other characters, as brother and as friend, as master and as Lord,

as creator and as judge. The manhood in Christ is ever leading the

heart on to his divinity; and the incarnation, as a picture of the

divine character, is the strongest preacher of Theism. Again, the love

that reveals itself in them has no pettiness, no narrowness; it exults

in the thought of that great army of the elect, each member of {414}

which is equally the object of the divine love, as a single drop

reflects the firmament no less than the ocean of which it is a part.

Once more: in such devotions the thirst after the divine purity is as

strongly marked as that for the divine tenderness; and death is ever

welcome, that God may be seen in the spirit.

"But in these devotions," it is said, "we trace the yearnings of a

woman's heart." And why not? With what else is woman to love God? May

not the devotion of a child be childlike, and of a man be manly? Why

are female affections alone to strain themselves into the unnatural,

instead of advancing to the supernatural? In such sneers there is as

little philosophy as charity. The whole structure of our

being--together not only with all its experiences, but with all its

capacities--is that which, yielding to divine grace, constitutes the

mould in which our devotion is cast. It is not religion alone, but

everything--art, science, whatever we take in--that is colored by

whatever is special to the faculties or the dispositions of the

recipient. Religion is the only thing that holds its own in spite of

such modification. It does so on account of its absolute simpleness.

But it does much more than hold its own. It is enriched. Religion is

as manifold as it is simple. The faculties and instincts of the mere

isolated individual are too narrow to allow of his fully accepting the

gifts which it extends to us. But fortunately our incapacities balance

each other; the characteristics of religion least appreciated by one

being often those which will most come home to another. Not only

individuals but nations and ages, both by what they have in common and

by what they have of unlike, unconsciously help to make up the general

store. Christianity has become in one sense to each of us what it was

to an à Kempis as well as what it was to an Aquinas; and why not also

to what it was to a Gertrude or a Theresa? All things subserve this

vast scheme. How much we are enriched by those different aspects of

religion presented to us by the chief authentic architectures! In the

Gothic, which is mystic, suggestive, infinite, it is chiefly the

spirituality of religion that is affirmed. In the Roman basilica,

orderly and massive, it is the "law" that is insisted on. In the

Byzantine style, precious marble and beaming gold, and every device of

rich color and fair form, preach the inexhaustibility of Christian

charity and the beauty of the Eden it restores. These aspects of

religion are all in harmony with each other. The mind that embraces

them is not endeavoring to blend contradictions into a common

confusion, but to reunite great ideas in the unity from which they

started. Still more is the manifold vastness of religion illustrated

by those diversities of the _religious sentiment_ which result from

diversities in the human character.

All modern civilization rests on reverence for woman, both in her

virginal and maternal character; the Mother of God, from whom that

reverence sprang, being in both these relations alike its great type.

In the restored, as in the first humanity, there is an Eve as well as

an Adam; and it has been well remarked, that among the indirect

benefits derived from this provision is the circumstance that there

thus exists a double cord, by which the two great divisions of the

human family are drawn to the contemplation of that true humanity.

From the beginning woman found herself at home in Christianity; it was

to her a native country, in which she fulfilled her happiest

destinies, as paganism had been a foreign land, where she lived in

bondage and degradation. In the days of martyrdom the virgins took

their place beside the youths amid the wild beasts at the Coliseum. In

the days of contemplative monasticism the convents of the nuns, no

less than those of the monks, lifted their snowy standards on high,

and, by the image of purity which they had there exalted, rendered

intelligible the {415} Christian idea of marriage--thus refreshing

with ethereal breath those charities of hut and hearth which

flourished in the valleys far down. In those convents, too, the

scholastic volume, and the psalm sustained by day and night, proved

that the serious belonged to woman as well as the soft and bright.

Since the devastations of later times womanhood has won a yet more

conspicuous crown. Through the active orders religion has measured her

strength with a world which boasts that at last it is alive and

stirring. By nuns the sick have been nursed, the aged tended, the

orphan reared, the rude instructed, the savage reclaimed, the

revolutionary leader withstood, the revolutionary mob reduced to a

sane mind. There are no better priests than those of France; yet they

tell us that it has been in no small part through the Sisters of

Charity that religion has been restored in their land. In how many an

English alley is not the convent the last hope of purity and faith? On

how many an Irish waste does not the last crust come from it?

The part of woman in Christianity might have been anticipated. For it

she is strengthened even by all that makes her weak elsewhere. In the

Christian scheme the law of strength is found in the words, "When I am

weak, then I am strong." It is a creaturely, not self-asserting

strength; it is not godlike, but consists in dependence on God. In

proportion as self is obliterated, a Divine Presence takes its place,

which could otherwise no more inhabit there than the music which

belongs to the hollow shell could proceed from the solid rock. To

woman, who in all the conditions of life occupies the place of the

secondary or satellite, the attainment of this selflessness is perhaps

more easy than to man. Obedience is the natural precursor of faith;

and to those whose hands are clean the clearer vision is granted.

Moreover, religion is mainly of the heart; and in woman the heart

occupies a larger relative place than in man. Paganism, with the

instinct of a clown, addressed but what was superficial in womanhood,

and elicited but what was alluring and ignoble. Christianity addressed

it at its depths, and elicited the true, the tender, and the

spiritual. The one flattered, but with a coarse caress; the other

controlled, but with a touch of air-like softness. In pagan times

woman was a chaplet of faded flowers on a festive board; in Christian,

it became a "sealed fountain," by which every flower, from the violet

to the amaranth, might grow. Even the chosen people had forgotten her

claims;--but "from the beginning it was not so." Christianity

reaffirmed them; it could do no less. It addresses distinctively what

is feminine in man, as well as what is manly. It challenges, at its

first entrance, the passive, the susceptive, the recipient in our

nature; and it ignores, as it is ignored by, the self-asserting and

the self-included.

That which Christianity claims for woman is but the readjustment of a

balance which, when all merit was measured by the test of bodily or

intellectual strength, had no longer preserved its impartiality.

Milton's line,

"He for God only: she for God in him,"

is more in harmony with the Mohammedan, or at least the Oriental, than

with the Christian scheme of thought. It is as represented both by its

stronger and its gentler half, that man's race pays its true tribute

to the great Creator. The modern poet gives us his ideal of man in the

form of a prophecy:

"Yet in the long years liker must they grow:

The man he more of woman--she of man."

[Footnote 61]

[Footnote 61: Tennyson's "Princess."]

Singularly enough, this ideal of humanity was fulfilled long since in

the conventual life. The true nun has left behind the weakness of her

{416} sex. The acceptance of her vocation, implying the renunciation

of the tried for the untried, the seen for the unseen, is the highest

known form of courage--

"A soft and tender heroine

Vowed to severer discipline."

[Footnote 62]

[Footnote 62: Wordsworth's "Ode to Enterprise," ]

Her vow is irrevocable; and thus free-will, the infinite in our

nature, stands finally pledged to the "better part." In her life of

mortification, and her indifference to worldly opinion, she reaches

the utmost to which fortitude may aspire; yet she perfects in herself

also the characteristic virtues of woman--love, humility, obedience.

The true monk also, while more of a man than other men, includes more

of the virtues that belong least often to man. It is pre-eminently the

soul within him that has received its utmost development, and become

the expression of his being. The highest ideal of the antique world,

_mens sana in corpore sano_, implied, not the subordination of the

body to the mind, and of both to the soul, but the equal development

of the former two, the soul being left wholly out of account. Such a

formula, it is true, rises above that of the mere Epicurean, who

subordinates the mind to the body, and makes pleasure the chief good.

It leaves, however, no place for the spiritual. By the change which

Christianity introduced, virtues which paganism overlooked or despised

became the predominant elements in man's being. Purity, patience, and

humility bear to Christian morals a relation analogous to that which

faith, hope, and charity bear to theology. The former, like the

latter, triad of virtues will ever present to the rationalist the

character of mysticism, because they rest upon mysteries--that is,

upon realities out of our sight, and hidden in the divine character.

The earthly basis upon which they are sometimes placed by defenders

that belong to the utilitarian school is as incapable of supporting

them as the film of ice that covers a lake would be of supporting the

mountains close by. These are Christian virtues exclusively, and it

was to perfect them that the convents which nurtured saints were

called into existence.

We know the hideous picture of monastic life with which a morbid

imagination sometimes amuses or frightens itself. Let us frankly

contrast with it the true ideal of a monastic saint. No ideal, of

course, is fully realized; but still it is only when the ideal is

understood that the actual character is appreciated. The monastic life

is founded on the evangelical counsels, the portion of practical

Christianity most plainly _peculiar_ to the Christian system. It is

obedience, but the obedience of love. It is fear, but the fear of

offending, far more than the fear of the penalty. It is dependence

glorified. It is based on what is feminine as well as on what is

masculine in our nature; on a being which has become recipient in a

sacred passiveness. It lives by faith, which "comes by hearing;" and

its attitude of mind is like that indicated by the sweet and serious,

but submitted, face of one who listens to far-off music or a whisper

close by. In the stillness of devout contemplation the soul,

unhardened and unwrinkled, spreads itself forth like a vine-leaf to

the beam of truth and the dews of grace. In this perfected Christian

character we find, together with the strength of the stem, the

flexibility of the tendril and the freshness of the shoot. For the

same reason we find the consummate flower of sanctity--a Bernard or a

Francis--and with the flower the fruit, and the seed which has sown

Christianity in all lands; for monks have ever been the great

missionaries. The soul of the monk who has done most for man has thus

most included the womanly as well as the manly type of excellence. It

has unity and devotedness. It has that purity which is not only {417}

consistent with fervor, but in part proceeds from it. It shrinks not

only from the forbidden, but from the disproportionate, the startling,

and the abrupt. It is humble, and does not stray as far as its limit.

It regards sin, not as a wild beast chained, but as a plague, and

thinks that it cannot escape too far beyond the infection. It has a

modesty which modulates every movement of the being. It has

spontaneity, and finds itself at home among little things. It is

cheerful and genial, with a momentary birth of good thoughts, wishes,

and deeds, that ascend like angels to God, and are only visible to

angels.

Nor is this all. It is in the conventual life that the third type of

human character--that of the child--is found in conjunction with the

other two. In the world even the partial preservation of the child in

the man is one of the rare marks of genius. In the cloister the union

is common. Where the character is thus _integrated_ by harmoniously

blending the three human types--viz., man, woman, and child--then man

has reached his best, and done most to reverse the fall. It is among

those who have most bravely taken the second Adam for their example

that this primal image is most nearly restored. We see it in such

books as the "Imitation," and the "Confessions" of St. Augustine. We

see it in the old pictures of the saints, where the venerable and the

strong, the gracious and the lovely, the meek and the winning, are so

subtly blended by the pencil of an Angelico or a Perugino. We see it

within many a modern cloister. It has its place, to the discerning

eye, among the evidences of religion.

In the north the world now finds it more difficult than in the south

to appreciate such a character as St. Gertrude. If it is sceptical as

to visions and raptures, still more is it scandalized by austerities

and mortification. The temperament of the south tends too generally to

pleasure; but the great natures of the south, perhaps for that reason,

renounce the senses with a loftier strength. They throw themselves

frankly on asceticism, leaving beneath them all that is soft, like the

Italian mountains which frown from their marble ridges over the

valleys of oranges and lemons. The same ardor which so often leads

astray, ministers, when it chooses the soul for its residence, to

great deeds, as fire does to the labors of material science. In the

north, including the land of St. Gertrude, many of the virtues are

themselves out of sympathy with the highest virtue. Men can there

admire strength and industry; but they too often believe in no

strength that is not visible, no industry that is not material.

Mortification is to them unintelligible. Action they can admire; in

suffering they see but a sad necessity, like the old Greeks, to whom

all pain was an intrusion and a scandal.

Christianity first revealed the might of endurance. It was not the

triumph over Satan at the temptation that restored man's race; though

Milton, not without a deep, unintended significance, selected that

victory as the subject of his "Paradise Regained." It was not

preaching, nor miracle, but Calvary. Externally, endurance is passive;

internally, it is the highest form of action--the action in which

there is no self-will, the energy that is one with humility. The

moment the Church began to live she began to endure. The apostles

became ascetics, "keeping the body under," and proclaiming that

between spirit and flesh, between watching and sloth, between fast and

feast, there was not peace but war. While the fiery penance of

persecution lasted, it was easy to "have all things as though one had

nothing." There then was always a barrier against which virtue might

push in its ceaseless desire to advance, and to discipline her

strength by trial. When the three centuries of trial were over,

monasticism rose. In it again was found a place for mortification--

for that detachment which is {418} attachment to God, and that

exercise which makes Christians athletes. There silence matured divine

love, and stillness generated strength. There was found the might of a

spiritual motive; and a fulcrum was thus supplied like that by which

Archimedes boasted that his lever could move the world.

It is difficult to contemplate such a character as that of St.

Gertrude without straying from her to a kindred subject--that

wonderful monastic life, with its rapturous visions and its as

constant mortifications, to which we owe such characters. Without the

cloister we should have had no Gertrudes; and without the

mortification of the cloister the ceaseless chant and the incense

would have degenerated into spiritual luxuries. It is time for us to

return, and ask a practical question: What was this St. Gertrude, who

found so fair a place among the wonders of the thirteenth century, and

whom in the nineteenth so few hear of or understand? What was she even

at the lowest, and such as the uninitiated might recognize? She was a

being for whom nature had done all nature could do. She was a

noble-minded woman, pure at once and passionate, more queenly and more

truly at home in the poverty of her convent than she could have been

in her father's palace. Secondly, she was a woman of extraordinary

genius and force of character. Thirdly, she was one who, the child of

an age when the dialectics of old Greece were laid on the altar of

revealed truth, dwelt habitually in that region of thought which, in

the days of antiquity, was inhabited by none, and occasionally

approached but by the most aspiring votaries of the Platonic

philosophy. This was the human instrumentality which sovereign grace

took to itself, as the musician selects some fair-grained tree out of

which to shape his lyre. There was in her no contradictory past to

retrieve. Without a jar, and almost without consciousness, she passed

with a movement of swanlike softness out of innocence into holiness.

Some have fought their way to goodness, as others have to earthly

greatness, and won the crown, though not without many a scar. But she

was "born in the purple," and all her thoughts and feelings had ever

walked with princely dignity and vestal grace, as in the court of the

great King. Her path was arduous; but it stretched from good to

better, not from bad to good. She did not graduate in the garden of

Epicurus, nor amid the groves of Academus, nor amid the revel of that

Greek society in which the glitter of the highest intelligence played

above the rottenness of the most corrupt life. She had always lived by

faith. The spiritual world had been hers before the natural one, and

had interpreted it. Man's supernatural end had ever for her presented

the clue to his destinies, and revealed the meaning of his earthly

affections. Among these last she had made no sojourn. She had

prolonged not the time, but done on earth what all aspire to do in

heaven: she had risen above human ties, in order to possess them in

their largest manifestations. The faith affirmed that we are to have

all things in God, and in God she resolved to have them. Her heart

rose as by a heavenward gravitation to the centre of all love. A

creature, and knowing herself to be no more, her aspiration was to

belong wholly to her Creator. To her the incarnation meant the union

of the human race, and of the human soul, with God. Her devotions are

the endless love-songs of this high bridal. They passed from her heart

spontaneously, like the song of the bird; and they remain for ever the

triumphant hymeneal chant of a clear, loving, intelligential spirit,

which had renounced all things for him, and had found all things in

him for whom all spirits are made.

{419}{420}

From The Lamp.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

BY BESSIE RAYNER PARKES.

Christmas comes, Christmas comes.

Blessing wheresoe'er he roams;

And he calls the little children

Cluster'd in a thousand homes.

"Stand you still, my little children,

For a moment while I sing,

Wreath'd together in a ring,

With your tiny hands embracing

In a snowy interlacing.

And your rich curls dropping down--

Golden, black, and auburn-brown--

Over bluest little eyes;

Toss them back in sweet surprise

While my pretty song I sing.

I have apples, I have cakes,

Icicles, and snowy flakes.

Hanging on each naked bough;

Sugar strawberries and cherries,

Mistletoe and holly-berries,

Nail'd above the glorious show.

I have presents rich and rare.

Beauties which I do not spare,

For my little children dear;

At my steps the casements lighten,

Sourest human faces brighten.

And the carols--music strange--

Float in their melodious change

On the night-wind cold and drear.

Listen now, my little children:

All these things I give to you,

And you love me, dearly love me

(Witness'd in your welcome true).

Why do I thus yearly scatter.

With retreating of the sun.

Sweetmeats, holiday, and fun?

There must be something much the matter

Where my wine-streams do not run.

Once I was no more than might be

Any season of the year;

No kind tapers shone to light me

On my way advancing here;

No small children rush'd to meet me,

Happy human smiles to greet me.

True, it was a while ago;

But I mind me it was so,

Then believe me, children dear.

Till one foggy cold December,

Eighteen hoary centuries past

(Thereabouts as I remember),

Came a voice upon the blast.

And a strange star in the heaven;

One said that unto us was given

A Saviour and a Brother kind;

The star upon my head shed down

Of golden beams this living crown.

The birthday gift of Jesus Christ,

Whereby my glory might be known.

You all keep your little birthdays;

Keep likewise your fathers', mothers',

Little sisters', little brothers';

To commemorate _this_ birth,

Sings aloud the exulting earth!

Every age and all professions,

In all distance--parted nations,

Meet together at this time

In spirit, while the church-bells chime.

Little children, dance and play,--

We will join,--but likewise pray

At morning, thinking of the day

I have told you I remember

In a bleak and cold December,

Long ago and far away."

------

From The Popular Science Review.

EPIDEMICS, PAST AND PRESENT--

THEIR ORIGIN AND DISTRIBUTION.

Epidemics, derived from the two Greek words [Greek text], _among_, and

[Greek text], _people_ are those diseases which for a time prevail

widely among the people of any country or locality, and then, for a

longer or shorter period, either entirely, or for the most part,

disappear. There are few diseases to which the human race is liable

that may not, under favorable circumstances, take on the epidemic

form. For example, diseases of the organs of respiration are very apt

to become epidemic in seasons characterized by extreme coldness or

dampness of the atmosphere, or by great and sudden alternations of

temperature. In a strict sense, however, the term {421} epidemics is

not usually employed in reference to the diseases of individual organs

of the body, but is restricted to those derangements of the entire

system depending upon the absorption of some poison, or the action of

some "influence," from without. In the latter class of maladies the

individual organs may become diseased, and the derangement of their

functions may modify the symptoms resulting from the primary poison or

"influence;" but then the local diseases are the secondary result of

the general disorder of the constitution, and not the source and

origin of all the mischief.

Some epidemic diseases possess the power of self-propagation; that is

to say, the poison or influence may be communicated by infected

persons to persons in health, and the disease is then said to be

contagious, [Footnote 63] while others are entirely destitute of any

such property. Scarlet-fever and small-pox are familiar examples of

the former class; ague and influenza of the latter.

[Footnote 63: The terms "contagion" and "contagious" are here used

in their widest signification, and are applied in this essay to all

diseases capable of propagation by infected individuals to persons

in health.]