What we have thus far said disposes of t_The Catholic World, Vol. 10, October, 1869 to March, 1870

and sufficiently relieves the State from the charge of discriminating

in favor of Catholics, as well as the church from the charge of

intriguing for special favors. She has never asked or received

any special favors from the Legislature. The other matters in the

article merit no special reply. The writer attempts to be witty,

but succeeds only in being abusive. Wit does not appear to be his

strong point, and his attempts at it only provoke a smile at his

expense. His strong point is hatred of the church. He hates her with

a hatred equal to that of the wicked Jews for our Lord whom they

crucified between two thieves. Her very presence annoys him; her

independence enrages him; and nothing appears able to appease him but

her subjection to the state, and the subjection of the state to the

intolerant Protestantism of which he is a mouth-piece.

The _Magazine_ is hard to please. It condemned, in July last, the

church as our established church; we made answer that she neither

is nor wishes to be the established church. It now, in December,

condemns her no less as the unestablished church. It blames us both

for opposing and for not opposing the common schools, for agreeing

and for not agreeing with our own church, and for opposing and for

not opposing religious liberty. Both the church, and we, personally,

must be wrong anyhow. If its specific charges against her are false,

then the contrary must be true and equally charges against her. If

she is not the synagogue of Satan, she is the church of God, which

is just as bad. Nothing can disconcert it or prove it in the wrong,

since it sees no inconsistency in urging charges that refute each

other. Yet it represents and speaks for the _enlightened_ portion of

mankind!

The _Magazine_ labors at length to prove that the church opposes,

and quotes the _Syllabus_ to prove that she must oppose, the common

school system as it is; and yet sees in this fact no reason why

Catholics cannot, with a good conscience, send their children to

them. We are opposed to the common schools as they are, because our

church condemns them; that is, because founded on what we hold to

be a false principle, and hostile alike to religion and society;

but if Protestants want them for themselves, they can have them;

for the church legislates only for Catholics, not for non-Catholics

who reject her authority. Hence, we oppose the system as a system

for Catholics, not as a system intended for Protestants. We do not

approve the system even for them, any more than we do their heresy

and schism, which we account "deadly sins;" but if they insist on

having godless schools for their children, they can have them; we

cannot hinder them. The system might be modified so that we could

accept it; but it depends on them so to modify it or not, for they

have the power.

The _Magazine_ withdraws its false statement as to the millions

of property held in fee-simple by the five bishops in the State,

but blames the law of 1863, which incorporates the church in the

several New York dioceses, as securing to her advantages of which

the non-Catholic religious denominations are deprived. This is a

mistake. It only secures to her the rights secured to these under

the general law for creating, continuing, and reviving religious

societies and parishes, and which are not secured to her under

that general law. That law proceeds on the assumption that in

ecclesiastical organizations the parish is the unit, which is not

true with regard to the church. With us the unit is the diocese, and

the bishop, not the parochus, is, strictly speaking, the pastor. To

proceed on the contrary supposition would be to interfere with the

internal constitution and discipline of the church, and to deprive

her of that control over her own temporalities which is possessed by

every Protestant denomination in the State. The law objected to only

secures to the church equal rights with the sects--only it does it

by another method made necessary by the fact that the diocese, not

the parish, in her constitution, is the unit. The law only places

the church on a footing of equality, before the state, with the

Protestant sects, and no friend of religious liberty can reasonably

object to it. It secures the public against abuses, the application

of the property held to church purposes, and the church the free

management of her own temporalities.

The _Magazine_ complains that the law is no longer equal, because

it is not the same for all religious denominations. Has it never

occurred to it that one and the same law for all would operate

unequally, for all have not the same internal constitution? The

law very proper and just for Presbyterians, whose organic unit

is the parish, could in no manner secure the same rights to the

church, whose organic unit is the diocese. Here is precisely where

Protestants usually err in their legislation, and violate the equal

rights they profess to approve. They overlook the fact that the

same law can bear equally only on denominations that are organized

after one and the same model, and that for the state to set up a

model, and outlaw all denominations that do not, or in so far as

they do not conform to it, is a violation of religious liberty

and of equal rights. It is practically to establish one form of

church organization and deny its protection to all churches that do

not see proper to adopt it. Religious liberty requires that each

denomination be left free, so far as the civil power is concerned,

to adopt such form of church organization in relation to its own

temporalities as well as spirituals as it chooses; and the equal

rights of all require the state to respect and protect each in

the full possession and enjoyment of its own particular form of

organization. The law must not be simply the same for the Catholic

and the Congregationalist, but must be so framed as to give each the

same rights; to the church, with her constitution and discipline, all

the freedom and protection that it does to the Congregationalist,

with his congregational organization and discipline. This is what the

law of this State enacted in 1863 attempts to secure, and partially,

if not wholly, succeeds in doing. The Protestant, that is, the rabid

Protestant, objects to that law, not because it discriminates in

favor of Catholicity, but because it gives to the church the same

legal protection that it does to non-Catholic churches, and does not

discriminate in favor of Protestantism as all previous legislation

on the subject had done, at least in its practical operation.

We are accused, because we say the church here desires no

establishment by law--for she has what is better than such

establishment--of contradicting the _Syllabus_, and going against

the supreme pontiff. We accept the _Syllabus_ without the slightest

reserve, though probably not the _Magazine's_ sense. The _Syllabus_

condemns those who demand the separation of church and state in the

sense of the European liberals; but not us for not requiring the

church to be established by law as the state church. Those liberals

mean by the separation of church and state the independence of the

state, and its right to pursue its own policy irrespective of the

rights and interests of religion. In that sense we also condemn the

separation, and are continually warring against it as political

atheism. But we deny that in that sense, or in the sense of the

_Syllabus_, we do or ever have advocated the separation of church

and state. That separation does not and ought not to exist in this

country. This is not an infidel, a godless country, though it may be

fast becoming so; and Christianity is, as it should be, the supreme

law of the land, as it is part and parcel of the Common Law. An act

of the Legislature of the State or the nation forbidding Christianity

or authorizing acts directly against it would be null and void from

the beginning, and be treated by the courts as would be a _jus

muncipium_ in violation of the _jus gentium_.

The rights of Christianity are by our civil institutions recognized

as paramount to all others. They are called by us the rights of

man, rights which are held not from the state, but immediately from

the Creator, and therefore are more properly called the rights

of God than the rights of man. These rights limit the rights and

authority of the state; for it is bound to respect them as sacred and

inviolable, and to protect and defend them for each and every person

within its jurisdiction to the full extent of its power. Among these

rights is the right of conscience, which, in fact, is the chief, the

very basis of all our so-called natural and inalienable rights. My

right of conscience is the law for the state, and prohibits it from

enacting any thing that violates it. My conscience is my church, the

Catholic Church; and any restriction of her freedom, or any act in

violation of her rights, violates or abridges my right or freedom of

conscience, which, where equal rights are recognized, the state has

no right to do in my case any more than in that of any other.

My church, the Catholic Church, is, by virtue of my citizenship

and my right of conscience, the law of the state so far as her own

freedom is concerned, and as is necessary to protect and defend her

in the free and full enjoyment of her rights. The church is free in

and to the full extent of my freedom of conscience; and though I

have no right to impose my conscience on another, I have the right

to protest against any and every act of the state that is repugnant

to it or contrary to my church. The state is just as much bound to

respect, protect, and defend the Catholic Church in her faith, her

constitution, her discipline, and her worship, as if she were the

only religious body in the nation. Other religious bodies exist

and have, not before God, but before civil society, equal rights

with her; and if the state can do nothing to violate their rights of

conscience, it can do nothing to violate hers, as it in fact does

in its legislation in regard to marriage and divorce, both here and

in nearly all European states and empires. It cannot violate the

Catholic conscience in order to conform to the Protestant conscience.

Here is the way in which we understand the separation of church and

state, as it exists in this country, and we feel quite sure that we

do not incur the censure of the _Syllabus_. We have here done nothing

but set forth in its true light the religious liberty recognized by

our American system of government, and which forms the basis of our

civil liberty. Our church is here with all her freedom, in all her

integrity, by right, not merely tolerated; and by a right which is

not a civil grant and revocable at will, but by the irrevocable grant

of God. Her full and entire freedom is recognized by the fundamental

principle of the American state, and we demand that the civil law

respect and protect her freedom against all gainsayers. So much we

demand on the ground of equal rights and in the name of inviolable

conscience. When we go farther and ask more from the state than

equality with the sects, we give _Putnam's Magazine_ full liberty to

denounce us, and to condemn us as the enemies of religious liberty.

FOOTNOTE:

[143] See Debates in the New York State Convention, 1867 and 1868,

vol. iii. pp. 2736-2744.

A POLISH PATRIOTIC HYMN.

In an obscure corner of the Mazarine Library, at Paris, was lately

discovered by its director or librarian in chief, Mr. Philarète

Chasles, a small black prayer-book; an oblong duodecimo, gilt-edged,

although printed on poor gray paper. It was in the Polish tongue,

with the exception of the vesper-hymns and some canticles of the

church in Latin. No catalogue chronicled its existence, and it was,

evidently, a despised waif, rejected as of too little importance to

be entitled to a place in the dignified alcoves.

On examination, it was found to contain the following original Latin

ode--a remarkable composition in many respects, touchingly beautiful

in a simplicity at once tender and vigorous, and an exquisite

combination of piety and patriotism.

It was doubtless sung in the churches of Poland about the year 1740,

when Europe stood aloof in silent ingratitude to those who, following

Sobieski's sword, had saved her from the Turk; when England was of

course indifferent to the fate of a Catholic nation; when France was

without sympathy for the faithful, and her kings proved then, more

than ever, that Catholicity would have been better off without their

aid; when Catharine of Russia gilded her cupidity with philosophical

maxims, and Frederick of Prussia, called the Great, calumniated those

he robbed.

As we read the hymn, we can well imagine the crowd in front of the

altar, covered with flowers, in some rude, white-walled village

church. They kneel before the infant Jesus in his mother's arms.

Peasants in their national costume--a long, white blouse reaching to

the knee, the curved sabre in the belt--children, soldiers, women,

young girls. They chant one of those peculiarly wild Slavonic rhythms

in 6/8 or 3/8. There, prostrate, with clasped hands, their weeping

eyes on the infant Saviour, the child Liberator, they intone these

beautiful Latin strophes, a rare specimen of spontaneous and popular

poetry:

AD PARVULUM CHRISTUM CONTRA HOSTES PATRIÆ.

Benevolus audi

Quæ tuæ sunt laudi,

O Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Tu solus es agnus

Et fortis et magnus!

Qui perfidum Turcam

Compellis ad furcam!

Patriam! patriam! patriam

Defende!

Mercifully listen to those who praise and implore thee, O tender

Infant! Defend our country. Thou alone art the Lamb, alone

powerful! alone great! Exterminator of the treacherous Turk. Our

country, our country, ah! defend our country.

Barbarous and artificial strophes, perhaps you think? Yes, measured

by Lucretius and Virgil, they may be; poor, thin, leonine verses like

those of the twelfth century Benedictine monk who wrote,

Gloria factorum temere conceditur horum,

singing verses without prosodial measure, their vehement and rapid

rhyme answering for every thing. And yet this learned barbarism,

borrowed from the seventh century, from a poetry in ruins, gives life

to the ardent flame and the tragic sorrow it expresses. It is a deep

cry of anguish from the innermost depths of a stricken people's heart.

We hear the divine and child-like victim invoked in his feebleness by

a vanquished nation, and appealed to in his shivering nakedness (_et

friges et taces_) by the oppressed in tears, and these cries form a

sad though sublime harmony. The unknown ecclesiastical minstrel--for

the poetry is anonymous--continues:

O nefas! O crimen!

Mors transit limen!

O Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Jam victima sumus,

Et pulvis et fumus.

Patriam!

Patriam defende!

O injustice! O crime! Death advances! O tender Infant! defend our

country. Already are we victims, naught but smoke and dust. Our

country, etc., etc.

Tu nudus hic jaces

Et friges et taces!

O Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Minusculum pectus,

Duriusculus lectus!

Nihilominus telo

Pugnabis e coelo!

Patriam!

Patriam defende!

All naked as we see thee, and cold and silent! O tender Infant!

defend our country. Delicate is thy breast. Hard is thy couch! And

yet, from heaven on high, wilt thou combat for us! Our country,

etc., etc.

This people's poet and clever Latinist is liberal of his diminutives,

_minusculum_, _duriusculus_, and displays, withal, a curious

affectation of rhyming richness, _Turcam, furcam_; _lectus, pectus_;

_laudi, audi_; _magnus, agnus_. And yet there is deep emotion and

profound lyric agitation compressed into the shortest possible

strophes, all vigorously concise and eloquently expressive. We omit

several beautiful verses:

Grassantur,

Furantur,

Prædantur,

Bacchantur!

O Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Nil tutum

Nil ausum,

Nil satis est clausum!

Nil foedera valent.

Cum hæreses calent.

Patriam!

Patriam defende!

Devastating, raging, slaying, in orgies they ruin. O tender

Infant! defend our country. Naught is safe with us, naught

withholds them. Heresy triumphs! Treaties are trampled upon! Our

country, etc., etc.

Polonia perit

Et spolium erit.

O Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Tu fregeris nisi

Vim hostis invisi,

Oppresseris facem

Et dederis pacem!

Patriam!

Patriam defende!

Poland perishes. A prey she becomes. O tender Infant! defend our

country. Sealed is her fate, unless thou breakest the force of the

enemy that crushes her; unless thou givest peace. Our country,

etc., etc.

Est tempus, est hora

Ne, quæso, sit mora!

Parvule delicate!

Patriam defende!

Vicini laborant,

Et aliud orant!

Quod perfidus hostis

Nos, superi, nostis!

Patriam!

Patriam defende!

The time and the hour have come. Oh! delay not, I implore. O

tender Infant! save our country. With other things our neighbors

are occupied. Thou, O God supreme! knowest the designs of the

enemy. Defend, defend our country!

How admirable the popular simplicity preserved here--an infantine

tenderness, a Slavonian murmur, a solemn melody resembling the

moaning sigh of weeping willows, an echo of those charming Lithuanian

ballads finding voice in the grand old ecclesiastical Roman idiom.

THROUGH DEVIOUS WAYS.

CHAPTER I.

I was given to psychological studies in those days; was fond of

attributing vagaries of disposition and eccentricities of temper to

inherited perversions, insurmountable in themselves, and consequently

the misfortunes--not faults--of their possessors. At that time I

firmly believed in the mysterious attraction of soul to soul; in the

mutual recognition of kindred spirits, and their sympathy with each

other from behind the barriers of flesh and blood. I do not say I

have quite abandoned the opinion now; but there is a reservation.

I had dipped a little into German mysticism; had sifted, as I

thought, all creeds to the bottom--all save one. For Catholicity and

its "superstitions" I had always entertained too profound a contempt

to seek to acquire a further knowledge of its doctrines than any

intelligent American can learn from the well-read (?) theologians

who form its antipodes, and who launch forth anathemas against

Rome on high-days and holidays when other subjects weary or grow

flat. I flattered myself that my acquaintance with this particular

form of idolatry was quite thorough for all practical purposes;

the contamination extended no further; and yet I believe my case

would represent that of nine tenths of the thinking, intelligent

Protestants of this peculiarly-favored and grace-illumined country.

It was--for me--the first party of the season. January had almost

danced itself away, and the fashionables were beginning to anticipate

Lent; but until to-night I had persistently refused all invitations

from friends and acquaintances. Of the former I had very few; I

had grown tired of the world, of pleasure-seeking, of myself. What

wonder, when, in the great city of New York, with its hundreds of

thousands of throbbing hearts, there was not one to whom in solemn

truth I could hold out the right hand of friendship; not one upon

whose sympathies I could anchor, should the tide of fortune turn and

leave me, a rich man to-day, the sport of her cruel waves to-morrow?

I prided myself on being cynical, turning out of the way of all

stepping-stones that might have led to a happier existence; there was

little faith in human nature in my heart, no religion in my soul.

Dissatisfied with my own aimless life, I sought no mirror in the

lives of others; self-sufficient and cold, I avoided kindness and

sympathetic associations. I was just at that point when satiety and

disgust render the world and its attributes almost unendurable.

On the evening before mentioned, I had been introduced to young

ladies by the dozen; had mentally criticised, weighed, and found

wanting each one upon whom I had inflicted the bane of my company

through a dance. Tired and ill-humored, I was about going forward to

take leave of the hostess, when a few words spoken just behind me

made me pause and look around, curious to know who the "sweet singer"

might be.

It was a woman's voice, clear and sweet, and the words were, "No,

thank you; I never dance the round dances."

But a surging crowd of feverish waltzers drifted by me at the moment,

as the delirious strains of Strauss's _Zamora_ floated up from the

balcony, and the face I would have scanned was lost amid the throng.

As I moved off a little from the dancers, and watched cheeks flush

and bright eyes grow brighter at the call of voluptuous music, I

could not but wonder at the inconsistency of fate and fortune that

had brought into this ultra-fashionable gathering a lady, certainly

young, and probably beautiful, who "did not dance the round dances."

I passed into the adjoining room. Several of the waltzers, tired

and heated, had left the crowded _salon_ before me; here and there

a stray wall-flower tried to look unconscious and happy in the midst

of desolation; but my eye psychological wandered in vain up and down,

seeking a face that would seem to indicate the owner of the voice

heard a few moments before. At length a very young girl issued from

a group that had been standing near an open window, and, as I marked

the expression of her faultless mouth and soft blue eyes, I said to

myself, "That is the one." But at the moment a gay young West-Pointer

stepped forward to meet her, and in another instant my Madonna was

whirling through the giddy maze.

"Pshaw!" I ejaculated half aloud, disappointed to find my

intuitiveness at fault, and turned as I did so to encounter an old

friend, not seen for some time, who entered from the conservatory in

company with a lady.

Surprise and pleasure caused us momentarily to forget politeness, so

that several sentences were interchanged before Armitage recollected

himself, and said, "Allow me, Helen. My friend, Mr. Moray, Miss

Foster." I muttered something--the young lady bowed; that was all.

The couple passed on; and I am bound to confess that I did not notice

the color of the lady's eyes or hair, and never once thought of her

expression, psychologist as I was.

I recognized no kinship of feeling or sympathy as we stood within

the circle of each other's magnetism; and yet my "destiny" had come

to me, and the soul within me, that was to have risen and grown

conscious at the approach, stood mute and made no sign.

After that, Fred Armitage called at my rooms several times, and

succeeded in winning me away from my exclusiveness, in so much that

I promised to be at his disposal for New Year's day, on condition

that his visits of congratulation would be few and well chosen. He

laughed at my conceit, as he was pleased to call it. "I don't fancy

every body any more than you do, Ed," he said; "but one must make

allowances and be sociable with the world. There's a difference

between friends and acquaintances. One need not have the former if

one doesn't wish; but the latter are indispensable, unless you give

up the amenities of civilization at once." After which remark we

sallied forth.

Toward evening, and when I had vowed for the fourth time that each

successive call would be my last, Fred paused before a handsome house

on Fifth Avenue.

"I am not going in," I said, almost savagely, as he announced his

intention of entering.

"Only here," he answered, "and I promise I'll go home with you. I

must call. I should have made this one first; but I wanted to save

the best morsel for the last. Come; Helen would never forgive me if I

neglected her to-day."

"And what claim has the young lady on your time and affections?" I

asked, somewhat more quietly than before, "you are not in love, or

engaged, or any thing of that kind?"

"_Ni l'un ni l'autre_; it is my cousin, Helen Foster. I introduced

you at Mrs. Parry's."

I had not time to say more; for the door opened at this juncture,

and we were ushered into a large and elegantly furnished parlor,

where sat two ladies--one old, and very charming in her old age; the

other young and beautiful. Not lovely; there was nothing airy or

fragile about her; but radiant, with a fresh, bright color in her

cheeks that made one think of long walks taken on wintry mornings;

with large brown eyes, which, while they did not fall or fear as they

looked into yours, yet had a shade of reticence, almost bashfulness,

in their untroubled depths; with a wealth of rippling hair, golden

brown, crowning the well-poised head and defining the delicate ear;

with a hand that felt warm, soft, and friendly, as mine closed over

it.

"We have met before, I believe," she said, as Armitage repeated my

name; then, turning to the other lady, "Mr. Moray, grandmamma, a

friend of Fred's." And the dear little figure in the arm-chair rose

and greeted me most kindly.

"Has there been no one here to-day, Helen?" asked Fred; "you look

as though you were quite fresh, and not at all fatigued from the

exchange of compliments, hand-shaking, etc."

"Oh! yes, there have been some few," she said. "But grandmamma lives

entirely at home, and you know I patronize society but seldom;

consequently, we have been spared the dear five hundred particular

friends, and flatter ourselves we feel quite as comfortable,

notwithstanding. Isn't it so, grandmamma?" And she placed her hand

affectionately on the old lady's arm. As the tones of her clear,

well-modulated voice reached my ear, a vision of lights and flowers

and flying feet rose before me, and I almost heard the bewildering

waltz-music float through the air. And then, lifting my eyes to the

face of the lady before me, I recognized my _rara avis_ of that

evening--the girl of the period who did not dance round dances.

To say that I was not interested in her from the first, would be to

say an untruth. Her personality affected me pleasantly, and somewhat

strangely. There was a freshness and elasticity about her that did

not proceed from inexperience or unacquaintance with the world; for

dignity and self-possession characterized her every movement, and

yet she seemed entirely unconscious of any claim to originality or

naturalness; because she _was_ so natural. Our call, that was to have

been so short, lengthened itself into an hour. Fred and his cousin

made themselves mutually agreeable. I addressed myself to the elder

lady, now and then exchanging a few words with the others.

When Fred arose to take leave, I felt no disposition to join him, and

very unaccountably and inconsistently reproached him in my own mind

for being in a hurry.

For the first time in many months I had felt sociably disposed,

and had endeavored to make myself agreeable; and I was reluctant

to leave that quiet, home-like parlor and its occupants, both so

different from the brilliant, giddy butterflies within the flutter

of whose wings I had been vacillating all that day. As we passed out

into the still, cold night, I looked up at the quiet stars with a

kindly feeling. Fred talked in an unbroken stream until we reached

my rooms. Arrived there, we spent the rest of the evening smoking

and chatting. I expressed myself pleased with his cousin and her

grandmother, whose only grandchild and sole heiress he informed me

she was. The clock struck twelve as he rose to go. After I had come

back to the fire, I remember the wholly strange, almost sorrowful

feeling that possessed me. Gazing into the dying embers, I dreamed

a half-waking dream, wherein the ghosts of other New Years dead and

gone took form and shape, and with shadowy, reproachful gestures,

seemed to beckon me away, back through old scenes and hopes and

yearnings--faded--buried--vanished all for ever.

CHAPTER II.

One afternoon in early spring, I happened to pass the cathedral

just as service was over. I had spent the previous evening with

Miss Foster--an event of not unusual occurrence now, although I

never called unless when accompanied by Armitage. The current of my

thoughts flowed pleasantly as the crowd of devout worshippers issued

forth from their devotions. A lady passed out of the gate, and I

immediately recognized the figure as that of Miss Foster. "Eccentric,

certainly," I thought; "just like what I would imagine she might do.

Strange that some of our most intelligent and highly educated women

can fancy this attending Catholic churches."

I quickened my steps, and in a moment was at her side.

"Have you been at vespers, Mr. Moray?" she asked, as though it were

the most natural thing in the world that I should have been there.

"Not I," I replied laughingly; "but you have, I presume?"

"Yes," she rejoined, "grandmamma will be scolding me, I am afraid. I

went up-stairs to lie down after dinner, having a slight headache.

But once in my room, I felt as though a walk would benefit me more,

so I stole out."

"A crowded church is not the best place in the world in which to get

rid of the headache," I responded.

"Mine has vanished, however," was the reply. "It had quite

disappeared before I reached the church."

"Do you affect Catholic ceremonies generally, Miss Foster?" I asked;

"or rather do you admire Catholicism in the abstract? Or is it the

incense and music and wax tapers that possess charms for you?"

"All these collectively have attractions for me," she answered; "but

not in the way you imagine. You are inclined to believe, no doubt,

that it is some romantic and impressionable vein in my nature that

sends me within the influence of Catholic ceremonies and their

accessories. But we are all liable to error; and you will not be

deeply wounded, I hope, if I venture to advise you of your mistake in

this instance. I am a Catholic, and hold all these things as a part

of my faith."

"A Catholic!" I exclaimed in undisguised astonishment. "A Catholic!

Not a Roman Catholic, Miss Foster? You mean that you are one in the

true sense of the term?"

"I hope I do--I think that is what I mean. I am, by the grace of God,

a Roman Catholic." And it seemed to me she spoke almost maliciously,

as though deliberately to wound my dearest prejudices.

"You will the more readily excuse me for my inability to realize

this information," I replied, "when I tell you that until now my

acquaintance with members of your church has been very limited,

and that those whom I have met have always belonged to the lowest

classes of society. I find it difficult to convince myself that you

can profess a belief whose tenets have always appeared to me to be a

web of superstition. My associates have been altogether Protestant,

and my prejudices, as you would call them, very decided wherever

Rome was concerned. You may think me blunt, even impertinent; but

allow me at the same time to acknowledge that I feel confident there

must be something good and beautiful in a religion that one of your

intelligence and refinement admires and professes."

"There is something good and beautiful in all religions," she

answered, "or they would not be worthy of the name--mere attempts

and half promises as most of them are. But in ours all is goodness

and beauty. I can pardon, even understand your prejudices; for I

shared them once. I was born and educated in the Presbyterian faith;

a faith hard, cold, and unconsoling. I can remember the time when

I regarded Catholicity as but another form of heathenism. For your

estimate of my intelligence and refinement I can only thank you--all

the more as you have never had opportunity to judge correctly of

either; consequently I must take the verdict for what it is worth.

But here I am at home, and the lamps are lighted. How late it must

be. Thank you again, and good evening."

With a little rippling laugh she left my side, and almost before I

had time to answer her parting salutation, she had tripped up the

steps and entered the house.

A crowd of conflicting thoughts pursued each other in my mind as I

continued my walk. A consciousness that I endeavored vainly to ignore

grew stronger as I reflected on what had passed, and weighed more

minutely all the circumstances of our meeting and acquaintance. And

with it was mingled a feeling of disappointment, almost of vexation

and pain, as though I had been touched and assailed by some detested

enemy.

I grew restless; nothing satisfied me. People said I looked ill. No

wonder, when I sat up half the night trying to divert my mind from

the study of its own problems, to those of incomprehensible German

philosophy. I reasoned with what I was pleased to term my weakness.

But what could I do? I had kept out of the way of temptation; I had

avoided assemblies where I knew she was likely to be; twenty times

I had stood upon the threshold of her home, and as often turned and

retraced my steps. One night I sat alone in my room, and almost vowed

to put the thought of her from my mind at once and for ever. As I

mused, Armitage entered unannounced.

"Desolate and melancholy as ever," he said cheerfully, and the sound

of his happy voice made me desperate. Suddenly, involuntarily, I

might say, I found myself answering him,

"I am tired of being desolate and melancholy though;" then

carelessly, "What if we saunter down to Miss Foster's?"

Fred was all willingness, while surprised at my change of mood. We

walked leisurely along. When we reached the house, Fred remarked that

the shutters were closed, and that there was some probability of the

young lady being out. I said nothing, but made a solemn compact with

myself while we waited. "If she is not at home," I thought, "that vow

shall be registered and kept; if she is, _che sera sera_."

Miss Helen was at home, the servant said. She reproached me for

not having called in such a length of time, and wondered if the

revelation made at our last meeting had not helped to keep me away.

Then turning, to her cousin she said laughingly, "Mr. Moray was

horrified the other day, to hear of my being a Catholic."

"The other day?" I answered. "It is fully three months ago, and I

have not yet been able to reconcile my mind to the fact."

"It is a fact though, Ed," said Armitage; "and greatly as I deplored

the calamity when it happened four years ago, I must confess that

Helen has changed for the better in the interval. You see, she was

most irrepressible, some time since--before her conversion, as she

calls it--doing every thing by fits and starts, and holding every one

under the severest of despotisms; but I actually believe this little

devotion she has, this habit of confessing, has toned her down and

made her the rational creature we see her. That's how you account for

the change, isn't it, coz?"

"Fred, you are unconscionable. Mr. Moray knows you as well as I do,

no doubt, and weighs your veracity proportionately. You don't admire

Shelley, Mr. Moray?" interrogatively, as I turned over the pages of

a richly bound edition of that author which lay upon a little table

near me.

"No; and yet I do not look at him from the same point of view as you

probably would. I think he was crazy. You, I suppose, would pass a

more merciless judgment."

"Let us be charitable," she said, "and hope that he was insane. But

unhappily his was a species of insanity of which there are but too

many instances."

After that, the talk fell upon books generally. The hours slipped by,

and eleven o'clock had struck before we took leave. Before I left her

that night, I had thrown down the barriers crumbling so long; I had

seen and recognized a true, womanly woman, and, all unknown to her,

had accepted what I knew to be the inevitable.

After this I went often to the enchanted castle. My fairy princess

was nearly always accessible, but so she was to the rest of the

world as well. How could I hope to be the favored knight, when her

smiles were bestowed on all so generously? She was invariably kind

and cordial; sometimes slightly sarcastic and critical, but never

moody or sad. I often wondered from what source she drew her abundant

cheerfulness, and how she managed to preserve it.

Never by word or look had I intimated my own feelings toward her;

something told me to linger at the gate of paradise, content to

see the roses blooming without daring to venture in. I felt that

a suspicion once aroused in her mind would change our relations

completely; and I had not begun to hope.

As things stood, we grew to be excellent friends. Our views differed

widely on many points, but religion was the only really sensitive

topic. More than once I had noticed a look of pain in her face when

I startled her with some of my materialistic views, and at last

we tacitly avoided the subject altogether. While I admired her

beautiful simplicity and faith, I could not understand then, as I

do now, how any aspersion cast upon that faith could wound her as

deeply as though it sought herself, and I had never wished to take

it from her. In hopeful moments, few and far between, when I had

dared to think of her as my wife, the thought of her religion and

the absence of it in me had, strangely enough, never intruded itself

upon me. Consequently, it was from no desire to weaken or alter her

convictions in any particular that I became almost involuntarily

instrumental in bringing matters to a crisis.

We had been reading French together, or, to speak more correctly,

I had been reading it to her, one evening of every week, with the

ostensible purpose of improving my pronunciation under her tutelage;

for she spoke the language beautifully.

One day an old Parisian who lodged in the house with me, and who

occasionally made my sitting-room the theatre of a homily on Victor

Hugo, Sainte-Beuve, and their _confrères_, laid upon my table a copy

of Renan's "_grand succès_."

"Read it," he said; "read it in the original; it loses by

translation."

I promised to do so. That evening I took it with me to Miss Foster's.

As I walked leisurely along, the thought struck me that my "teacher"

might probably not admire the "_grand succès_;" but it only lingered

a moment, and troubled me but little. "No harm in bringing it, any

how--the style is good," I soliloquized, and rang the bell in a

happier frame of mind than I had known for weeks. Fred usually joined

us on French evenings, but to-night another engagement claimed him.

Helen was sitting alone when I entered the parlor.

"Grandmamma has a headache this evening, and will not be down," she

said apologetically.

I sat down, made a few trifling remarks, to which she responded, and

then arose to bring the book we had been reading.

"Wait, I have something else to-night," I said, taking the volume

from the table where I had placed it.

"What is it?" she asked, resuming her seat.

"Renan's book," I replied confidently. "I thought I would bring it

with me. He has an excellent style--unique and polished. He is the

last sensation, you know."

"I will not read it," she said in a low tone.

"I'll read and you will listen," I answered. "That is the usual

arrangement, is it not?"

"I will not listen;" she replied, and I saw by the angry flush

mantling her forehead that I had committed a grave error; that she

misunderstood my motives and was vexed.

"Pardon me," I said. "We will not read it, if you so desire; but

at the same time there can be no harm in informing one's self on

opposite views from our own. This is the spirit in which I should

read the book, not fearing that it would bias my mind either one way

or the other. Can you not be as liberal?"

She left her seat and began fingering in a nervous way the ornaments

that lay upon the mantel.

"I have no wish to hear my God and my religion railed and blasphemed

at either at first or second hand," she said. "It would be none the

less painful coming from the lips of one whom I had almost learned

to call friend; but who has to-night in a very few words shown me

my mistake. For my religion I have long been aware that you cherish

an undisguised contempt; for myself I had hoped you entertained no

contemptuous feeling. Surely, I have never given you reason for your

action of this evening."

While she was speaking I had shaped my course. Precipitate as it

might be, there was nothing left me now but a declaration of my

real sentiments, unless I would forfeit her esteem for ever. Fully

conscious of the disadvantages of time and circumstance as I was, and

without any presumption of success, I then and there resolved to tell

her the whole truth. It was but a hastening to the end.

"Stop one moment," I replied; "a word with you. You have wronged me

by intimating that I purposed aught of disrespect to you or your

religion by what I have unthinkingly done this evening. I could do

neither; for I love you. How deeply, I, who have struggled with that

love for months, alone can know; how entirely and unselfishly, you

perhaps might learn, could you find it in your heart to let me show

you; how vainly, my own heart tells me while I watch your face.

Surprised you may be--I have no doubt you are; displeased too, but

I take no blame to myself for that. An honest man dares lift his

eyes to a noble woman; and whatever be my faults, and they are many;

wherever lie my errors, and they are thickly sown, I still can call

myself an honest man."

She moved further away from where I stood, and once or twice, while I

was speaking, made a movement as though to interrupt me. As I uttered

the last words, I saw her eyes flash, and a half sarcastic smile

wreathe itself about her lips.

"You call yourself an honest man," she said; "an honest man! What

is your code, and who the lawgiver? Is it honest to leave untilled

and brier-strewn the soil that has been given you in trust for an

endless harvest-time; to waste the talents that have been bestowed on

you with lavish hand; to spend days and months and years in pleasant

idleness, as you have done, and as you do? Is it honest to wrap

yourself in a mantle of false and hollow cynicism, lest your better

nature might have opportunity to assert its capacities and prove its

possibilities; to scoff at all creeds and professions of religion

as so many shams and superstitions, because from the nature of the

life you lead your own ideal must be both hypocrisy and sham? I am

only a woman, and such men as you place but little confidence in a

woman's judgment and far-sightedness. But I have read you deeper

than you suppose. Evening after evening, while you sat here reading,

talking to me, I have been studying you. I have recognized emotions

that your pride would call weaknesses; thoughts that your worldly

wisdom seeks to cover with a jest or smile; great capabilities of

sacrifice that your every-day exterior conceals under _dilettante_

tastes and careless ways. I have seen that in your eye, heard that in

your voice, which has made me marvel how a soul like yours could be

content with husks and bitterness. For you, yourself, I could have

sympathy; but I scorn the evil spirit that is in you."

I had loved her before; but as she stood there taxing me with that

to the consciousness of which I was but just awakening, my love gave

one great bound and seemed to sit enthroned high above sight or

sound of human passion, even while, with every word she uttered, the

knowledge of its vain endeavor fastened itself more firmly upon me.

I was about to speak, but she interrupted me, and the words came more

slowly now, and more kindly.

"I may have spoken harshly," she said. "Indeed, I am sure I have.

But it was of yourself with regard to yourself, and in what I said

there was no thought of my own connection with the subject. As to

that part of it, I can have none; but I think, however much or little

a woman esteems a man, there must be something especially tender in

her dealings with one who has made her the offering of his love. You

will believe me, then, when I say that I am pained, deeply pained,

that you should have given yours to me, or deemed its acknowledgment

necessary. Words are idle and superfluous here. I can and do

appreciate it; I can be, I am your friend. Forgive me if I have been

harsh; in calmer moments you will come to think of me as one whose

words were quick and too impulsive, but who had your interest at

heart. Now let me go. Do not speak further, I beg of you; it would

only pain us both."

"But a few words," I said; "a very few. You have aimed surely, and

struck deep. I do not blame you for my mistake, nor for that which

you term harshness. I cannot, since I recognize its truth. The

difference between you and most women is, that you are brave enough

to speak that truth; for you are too free from vanity or falsity of

any kind, I know, ever to speak other than your earnest thoughts. I

may have scoffed at creeds; I have never scoffed at God; give me at

least this merit. I have dreamed a dream--we all do at some time, I

believe; may yours be happy realizations always. Good-by."

With a sudden glare the firelight flashed upon the wall, and the

red glow shone full upon her face, paler than usual, but calm.

There were tears in her eyes as they met mine; but what woman with a

woman's heart could be unmoved at such a moment?

"Good-by," she answered, almost inaudibly. I paused to hear no more;

the next moment the door closed behind me, and I was in the street.

CHAPTER III.

I went abroad, through the principal cities of the old world, and by

quiet ways to unpretending places, where travellers seldom go. My

heart sought rest and quiet; my soul was beginning to shake off the

torpor that had enchained it; taking in, almost unconsciously, silent

influences that pervaded my whole being. Truths forced themselves

upon me unawares, and my ears did not refuse to hear them. Across

the wide Atlantic some one was praying for me, although I did not

know it while she prayed--one whose face I vainly strove to banish

from my memory, whose voice ran through the current of my troubled

dreams. And yet it was with no hope of winning her love in the future

that I opened my heart and mind to the study of sacred things. That

idea never came to me. The whole purpose of my life seemed changed.

How often I thought of her denunciation of my aimless existence, my

"_dilettante_ tastes and careless ways." How often I thanked her

that, all unconsciously though it were, she had opened to me new

avenues of thought and action. "Better to have loved and lost than

never to have loved at all," and so the work went on. Silently but

surely my heart unclosed to the heavenly dews that fell upon it and

renewed it. I remained some time in France and Italy, spent a few

months in Germany, and then returned to England. At the feet of one

of the fathers of the Oratory in London I made my first confession,

and tasted the ineffable sweetness of divine compassion.

Nearly two years had passed, and the _dolce non far niente_ life, so

natural once, grew wearisome now. At home there was work for me to

do; there lay my field and my mission. I did not attempt to disguise

from myself the pain and renewal of old wounds that must inevitably

follow my return. However, I resolved to nerve myself for the ordeal,

and promised my timidity the struggle would be short, and then the

world lay before me. A world in which there were great things to be

learned and conquered.

I had written to Armitage once after my departure, and received an

immediate answer, asking me to continue the correspondence. To his

letter I had not replied, and I was almost entirely ignorant of

affairs at home.

I landed in New York one bright September day, and the first feeling

of strangeness vanished as I walked through the crowded streets, and

recognized the familiar faces of former acquaintances. My whilom

landlady received me with open arms; my old quarters had just been

vacated, and I was speedily reinstalled. I had not been in town

two days, when Armitage rushed in one evening, glad to see me, and

brimful of news.

"Strange freak of yours that, Ed," he said. "I came around here one

night by appointment; old lady met me with the information that you

had sailed that day. I couldn't believe it. Went to Helen's, to see

if she knew any thing about it; but she didn't. Then I felt sure the

whole thing was a joke. You and she were such friends that I could

not think you'd have gone off in that way, without saying good-by.

That solitary letter of yours was worse than none at all; provoking

in you to relapse into silence again, when a fellow thought he had

got on your track. How soon do you intend to be off again?"

"Not for a while yet," I answered. "I think I shall remain at home

now. By the way, how is Miss Foster?--or is she Miss Foster yet?--and

her grandmother?"

"The old lady died the winter after you left New York; but Helen is

living in the homestead yet. A married sister of mine is domiciled

there too, at present--Laura; you've heard me speak of her. She was

living in Baltimore when you were one of us. Helen is not married;

not for the want of suitors though; she has refused between ten and

fifty splendid offers, to my certain knowledge."

"Of course she makes you her confidant?" I said quizzingly.

"_Pas du tout_--a fine one I'd be; but I guess all these things. She

_is_ an odd girl. Not too pious, although a devout Catholic, but hard

to please. By the way, I am due at Helen's to-night; won't you come?

You can't expect her to call on you."

I made some excuse; and Fred went off without me, promising, however,

to report me "safe and sound." Although I knew that, sooner or later,

I should meet her, I could not face the ordeal as yet; and preferred

that, when it did take place, the meeting should be accidental.

The next week I attended a concert at the Academy of Music. Directly

in front of me two seats remained unoccupied until the _prima donna_

had made her first bow to the audience, and was preluding her song

with a few prefatory trills.

I turned my eyes from the stage to meet those of a lady who passed

to one of the vacant chairs; and the next moment Fred Armitage was

saying, "You here, Moray? I am glad we are near you. He has changed,

Nellie, don't you think?" as his companion extended her hand in

silence. Then, as I greeted her, a single "welcome home" fell from

her lips, and that was all.

No change in her. The same pure, truthful eyes; the old-time

sweetness in her voice and smile; the old-time charm about her still.

As I looked at her, and heard her speak, I realized how vain had been

the delusion that prompted me to seek peace and disenchantment within

the sphere of her influence. Once, during a pause in the music, she

asked my opinion of the singer. I must have appeared constrained and

awkward; for I have a half recollection of muttering some indistinct

answer. I left before the performance was over. I did not care to

court misery--my present situation was deplorable enough--and I was

anxious to get away from Fred's pertinacity, which I knew would

assert itself if we went in company from the music-hall.

Afterward I steadily resisted all solicitations from Armitage to

call at his sister's; although he often expressed a desire to

introduce me. However, having met him one day in company with his

brother-in-law, I promised the latter gentleman to call at his

residence. Not to have done so would have made my conduct appear

eccentric and ridiculous. About dusk the next evening Fred came in.

"Come to Auvergne's with me to-night," he said. "Walter has gone to

Baltimore on business, and Helen with him. She intends spending the

winter with some relatives there. Laura is alone, and may be we could

cheer her up. I am sorry Walter and Nellie are absent; but you'll get

acquainted with the best little woman in the world."

There was no help for it. The present, too, afforded the best

opportunity. I went, and received a cordial welcome from Mrs.

Auvergne, who was all that her brother had described her, and more.

"So this is Mr. Moray," she said, as Fred introduced me. "I have

heard of you so frequently that I know you already. And Helen has

sometimes mentioned you."

The evening passed pleasantly. As we were about leaving, our hostess

warmly invited me to renew the visit. "Come soon, and as often as you

like," she said; "we shall be always pleased to see you."

Inconsistently enough, I departed from my proposed line of conduct

in so far as to accept her invitation. It was lonely sitting in my

bachelor abode those long winter evenings; and, after five or six

weeks' acquaintance, I had called so frequently at Mrs. Auvergne's as

to feel more at home there than anywhere else in New York. I did not

think much of the future, of the difficulties that must arise when

another member of the family should resume her place in the circle;

or, if I did, I was wise or foolish enough not to anticipate them.

Meeting Mr. Auvergne near home one evening, he brought me _nolens

volens_ in to tea. We found his wife in the parlor, with her three

charming little girls, who had become great friends of mine, and who

knew me under the title of "Uncle Fred's brother."

"Something for you, Laura," said Paterfamilias, as he threw a letter

into her lap.

"From Helen, is it not?"

"Yes; excuse me, Mr. Moray, while I glance over it. I always

give Helen's letters two or three readings. She is growing quite

dissipated. 'I have been to three parties this week,' she writes;

'much against my inclination, you will imagine. But Maud and Alice

lead such gay lives that one is kept in a perpetual round of

sight-seeing and enjoyment--as the world goes. I could never be

content to live this way; and feel dubious as to whether I can find

it compatible with real duties at home to remain the promised time.

You reproached me before I went away with being low-spirited, Laura.

Your panacea has not proved beneficial. I am, if not melancholy, not

half so cheerful in my mind, as Fred would say, as when I left you.

So don't be surprised to see me any morning about breakfast time.

Tell the children, Cousin Helen is glad they have found a new friend;

but"--here the reader paused; and, after a hurried perusal of the

remainder, replaced the missive in its envelope.

"Foolish Helen!" she said, as though talking to herself; then, supper

being announced, there was nothing more said on the subject.

On Christmas eve I called with some presents for the children. I

had promised them to enlist Santa Claus in their favor, and waited

until I thought they would be asleep to bring what toys and trinkets

they had told me confidentially would be acceptable. Ushered into

the parlor, I did not at first perceive in the dim light that some

one was standing near the window. The noise of the door closing

caused the occupant of the room to look round, and, as she did so, I

recognized Miss Foster.

"Excuse me," I managed to articulate in my surprise; "I did not know

you had returned, or that you were expected."

"I was not expected," she answered smilingly. "But I grew homesick

as Christmas approached, and astonished them all this morning at

daylight. Will you sit down, Mr. Moray?" And she drew a chair forward.

"Thank you," I replied, "not this evening. I have merely brought

some trifles for the little ones. We are great friends. I have become

quite at home with them during your absence."

"So Laura tells me," she answered; "and they have not been silent

either. They are very lovable children."

"I have found them so," I rejoined. "I suppose they are all three

dreaming of Santa Claus at this moment. But I must be going. Be kind

enough to present my compliments to Mrs. Auvergne, who is probably

busy this evening. And allow me to wish you a very merry Christmas."

As I ceased speaking, the parlor door opened and the mistress of the

house entered, bonneted and shawled for a walk, and accompanied by

Fred, who announced himself a complete wreck from a frolic in the

nursery.

"Good evening, Mr. Moray," said the little lady cordially. "These

for the children? Thank you; you are very kind; they will be so

delighted. You see our wanderer has returned. Is she not looking

well? Sit down, you must not go yet. Rather late for a lady to go

shopping, is it not? But I want something down-town, and Fred has

volunteered to accompany me. We shall not be absent long; you must

stay till we return. You and Helen are old friends, I know, and can

manage to pass an hour pleasantly together."

I fancied Helen looked at me imploringly, as though to say, "Do go

away," and I ventured to remonstrate.

"I am inexorable," was the reply. "You are to remain till we come

back. Fred, take his gloves; and Helen, ring for lights."

There was no withstanding such importunity. Reluctantly, but with as

good grace as I could summon, I allowed myself to succumb to the

force of circumstances. Seeing there was no help for it, my companion

in distress took some fancy knitting from a table near her, and soon

appeared lost in its intricacies. For fully five minutes after the

door closed on Mrs. Auvergne and her brother we sat in embarrassing

silence--silence that at length grew unendurable.

"You are sitting too far from the fire," I said, by way of endeavor

to mend matters; "there must be some draught from that window too."

"I prefer being near the light," she answered, without looking up;

"and I am not at all cold."

Another five minutes of silence. What should I say next? Could I sit

there much longer? I did not think so. I felt as though I must make a

desperate move and take my leave.

Suddenly, pealing out upon the silent night, I heard the sound of

bells. She heard them too, I knew, for I saw her lift her head to

listen.

"The Christmas chimes," I said; "how beautifully they sound. I have

heard them in Rome and Naples; last year I was in England at this

season; but home music has charms peculiar to itself, and dearer than

all other--at least so it seems to me."

"You believe in Christmas, then, as an institution?" she answered

smilingly, and with a touch of the old sarcasm in her voice.

"Surely," I replied gravely, "since I believe in Christ. Inasmuch as

a Catholic believes and reverences all that his church teaches and

believes."

I looked at her face to see what effect my words would have, but it

evinced no emotion of surprise. She answered quietly and assuredly,

as though our ways had never been separate,

"Yes, we who are Catholics enjoy the capacity of feeling and

appreciating these things as none do beside. Especially converts such

as you and I, who have known the experience of doubt and fear."

"I was not aware," I rejoined, "that you knew of my conversion."

"No?" she replied. "I have known it some time, having seen you

several times at Mass and Benediction. I do not believe you would

make the sign of the cross unless you held it to be the sign of

salvation. And you do make it, I think."

"No doubt the discovery surprised you, Miss Foster," I continued.

"No, it did not," she answered. "I did not think the change would be

accomplished so soon, but I hoped great things for you."

"Even when you accused me most bitterly?" Why tread on dangerous

ground; but the words were spoken, and I could not recall them.

"Even when I accused you most bitterly," she said, in a low tone.

"You are far-sighted, I perceive. Perhaps you may also have some idea

of the manner in which this change was brought about. Perhaps I may

have felt, may still feel, an indebtedness to some one, to whom it

has been a matter of doubt with me as to whether I should acknowledge

the obligation, or suffer it to go unpaid."

"I may have an idea," she replied, "yet not just such a one as that

to which you make allusion. Some one may have been instrumental in

awakening thought on the subject. But I have not been able to advance

the idea further."

For a moment I sat silent. "Shall I tell her what she has done for

me?" I asked myself; "shall I open the old wound and let it bleed

afresh? Will it be any sacrifice of my manliness if I tell her what a

few moments ago I held it my duty and purpose to conceal?"

I drew my gaze from the fire and directed it toward her. The ivory

needle flew in and out between her slender fingers; it seemed she had

a task to do. My resolve was taken. But there was not the shadow of

a hope in my soul when I spoke. Something impelled me--something, I

knew not what; a desperate spirit, I thought it then; my good angel,

I know now.

"There is a debt and an obligation," I began, "and an acknowledgment

which I am proud to make, although the fact of its existence be

almost death to me. A little more than two years ago, circumstances

led to the revelation of that which but for those circumstances might

have been unrevealed to-day. I offered you a love that had grown

in my heart until it interpenetrated every fibre of my being. You

rejected it; and that you did so, or why, I find no fault or blame.

The folly was mine; I alone have borne the consequences. But while

you disabused my mind of any wild hope it might have cherished in

moments quite as wild, you told me some unpalatable truths. Until I

met you I had lived a selfish, useless life. After I met you, the

germs of something better in me stirred now and then, and impulses

that I more than once fought down knocked at secret doors where the

dust and cobwebs of the world had gathered. Then the _dénouement_

came, and after it the change in me."

Still knitting, the soft wool flew through her fingers faster and

faster, as though she bade defiance to my moan. She did not look up

as I paused, but her lips were compressed and her cheek brightly

flushed.

"I went away loving you. Far away from your visible influence, the

thought of you followed me through all my journeyings. I passed

through new scenes and experiences loving you; I come back loving you

still. I am here to-night with no intent of pleading a lost cause,

with no hope of drifting from desolate seas into pleasant waters,

with no dream of Lethean draughts to be taken from your hands. As

in the former instance, circumstances have forced it all upon me.

To-morrow I shall wonder at the folly which prompts me to say what

I am saying. But to-night, before I close the book for ever, let me

thank you for what you have done for me; let me leave you with the

knowledge that, while I have been rash and presumptuous, I have not

offended you or caused you pain."

She had risen from her chair while I was speaking. Standing for a

moment irresolute, with lips half parted and eyes downcast, she made

a passionate gesture with her clasped hands, as though impatient with

herself.

"I do not forget," she said, "any part of what I told you that night,

two years ago. I was harsh--unnecessarily so. But it all came on

me so suddenly that I hardly knew what I did say. I remember there

was something about misused talents and a wasted life, of what you

might be and were not, of great possibilities slighted and contemned.

But," here her voice faltered and the words came slowly, "I do not

remember telling you then or at any other time that I did not, could

not love you. Do you remember it?" Looking up, her gaze met mine half

smilingly, half tearfully.

"No, I do not remember it," I said; "but you sent me away from you,

and I have not forgotten that there was nothing of encouragement

for the future in your dismissal of me. Can it be--dare I hope

that--that--?"

Somehow two warm, soft hands were clasped in mine, and the Christmas

bells pealed out a tuneful chime, now softly low, now musically

clear. And then she told me what I had never even fancied in my

dreams: of the love that had dwelt in her heart of hearts so long;

of fears that had assailed her when she grew conscious of it; of a

hope in the future and its unborn possibilities that had filled her

soul when she seemed most indifferent and cold; of prayers that from

their fervency had been heard and answered.

"I knew you would come back to me," she said; "I knew that God would

do great things for you. And even if you had not come; if some one

else had taken my place, or some ambition occupied your heart, it

would have been the same in the end, or nearly so. I think I could be

contented to love you silently all my life long, if I knew you to be

in thought and purpose what I had so longed to have you; if I felt

that my prayers for you were heard and answered."

O wonderful unselfishness of woman's love! O marvellous constancy

of woman's faith! How often do ye burn and die away unheeded and

unprized on hollow altars!

* * * * *

Three short bright years have passed, and it is Christmas eve.

Outside I hear a group of merry boys, battling with the bitter wind

and laughing at its fierceness. Frost glitters on the window-panes

and chills the air to-night; and blazing fires roar up the chimneys,

pouring forth a welcome as they go. Here, in this quiet room, there

is an atmosphere of peace and calm content that almost fills me with

a reverential fear lest the sweet spell should float away and leave

me desolate.

I can watch her all unnoticed as she sits in the deep shadow of the

firelight, the angel of my hearth and home. The face is perhaps a

shade more thoughtful than of old; but the bright head, golden brown,

has still the same graceful poise and movement; the truthful eyes are

still as kind and tender as of yore.

And as she sits there musing, I lay down my busy pen, and my full

heart throbs with gratitude and thankfulness, as I think how lonely

life would be without her this happy Christmas Eve.

MISCELLANY.

THE COUNCIL.--It is said that the Cardinals de Reisach and Cullen,

and the Archbishops Manning and Spalding, have been appointed on

the commission for treating with those Protestants who may come

to the council for that purpose. Bishops and priests speaking

twenty-eight different languages had applied to the cardinal vicar

for permission to say mass, and confessionals for confessors speaking

eighteen languages are provided in St. Peter's. The great variety of

complexions and costumes now to be seen in Rome excites much remark

in the letters of correspondents. The Archbishop of Lima, who is

ninety-four years of age, being unable to attend the council, has

sent to the Pope a pastoral staff of gold valued at two thousand

pounds. The students of Quito University have sent him all their

gold and silver medals of honor, and the President of the Republic

of Ecuador has sent a jewelled medal given him by the state as an

official decoration. An Italian priest, D. Mariano Matteini, has

himself designed and made a small bell for the Pope's use during the

council, which is a perfect gem of artistic ornamentation. It bears

the appropriate inscription,

Invocatâ Immaculatâ, Pius Nonus pastor bonus, per concilium fert

auxilium. Mundus crebris tot tenebris, implicatus, obcoecatus, per

hoc Numen et hoc lumen, extricatur, illustratur.

The early date of going to press forbids our giving any notice of the

solemn opening of the council in the great Basilica of St. Peter,

which will have taken place before this number is published. We hope

to have constant and authentic communications respecting the council,

directly from Rome, in our ensuing numbers.

* * * * *

ABJURATION OF THE PROTESTANT MINISTER OF CORDOVA.--Don Antonio Soler,

an apostate priest, who has for the past nine years officiated as

Protestant pastor at Cordova, in Spain, has publicly abjured his

heresy in presence of the clergy, magistrates, and a large concourse

of the people of the city.

* * * * *

EASTERN AFFAIRS.--The _Civilta Cattolica_ gives a very interesting

account of a council of bishops of the Latin rite, in the East,

held at Smyrna last Pentecost. Mgr. Spaccapietra, Latin Archbishop

of Smyrna, presided as apostolic delegate; three other archbishops,

five bishops, and a deputy from the Latin church at Constantinople

were present. The sessions were conducted with great splendor,

and attended by vast crowds, both of Catholics and schismatics. A

council of the Catholic hierarchy of the Armenian rite was celebrated

at the Armenian cathedral of St. Mary, in Constantinople, on the

seventeenth of July. The patriarch presided, and eighteen bishops

were in attendance. On this occasion a large relic of St. Gregory

the Illuminator, presented by Pius IX., was brought to the church

in procession, and there deposited. The splendid procession of the

bishops, accompanied by a large body of the clergy, was escorted by

a detachment of Turkish soldiers, and witnessed by a vast concourse

of people. Solemn mass was then celebrated by the patriarch, and the

council inaugurated. This was the most open and splendid display of

the Christian religion which has ever been made in Constantinople

since it came under Mohammedan rule. Since that time, the same

church has witnessed a ceremony of equal if not greater splendor and

significance, on the occasion of the visit of the Empress Eugénie.

At the close of the high mass, at which the empress assisted in

state, she gave an illustrious example of that piety and Christian

humility so frequent among royal personages in former times, but

now so rare among the great. Rising from her throne to exchange the

customary marks of respect and honor with the bishops who passed

before her, when the patriarch bowed to her, and was about to move

on, she requested him to pause a moment; bending over, she kissed his

ring, and, descending from the dais of the throne, prostrated herself

before him to receive his blessing. This was done in presence of her

brilliant suite of French and Turkish officers, and of the _élite_ of

the Christians of Constantinople. We trust the example of the most

illustrious lady of Christendom will not be lost on Christian women

in a high social position throughout the world.

It appears from the Greek papers that Nilus, the so-called Patriarch

of Alexandria, whose impertinent reply to the Pope's missive

of summons to the council gave so much joy to our Episcopalian

neighbors, was an intruder. This monk was for a time supported in

his position as designated successor to the actual patriarch, and

administrator, by the viceroy. Giving out that the patriarch was

ill, and had intrusted him with delegated powers, he kept him as

a prisoner in his palace. He was denounced by the Patriarch of

Constantinople, and at length abandoned by the viceroy, and, as says

the _Byzantine Telegraph_, "this vainglorious monk, not being able

any longer to resist the popular outcry and contempt, abandoned by

the government and by his few friends, succeeded in escaping the

anger of the people by leaving Egypt."

A letter from the Patriarch of Constantinople to the Archbishop of

Canterbury has been published, which is a masterpiece of Greek

irony. With a profusion of compliments, he acknowledges the receipt

of a copy of the acts of the Pan-Anglican Synod, and of the Anglican

Prayer-Book, and then proceeds to condemn the latter as heretical

and insulting to the Eastern Church in a manner which cannot be

very palatable to those who have sought to win from him a nod of

recognition.

* * * * *

HINDOSTAN.--Every one who has read the accounts published in the

papers of the new Hindoo sect, under the direction of Baboo Chunder

Sen, called the _Brahmo Somaj_, must have seen the great interest

and importance of this movement. _The Dublin Review_ furnishes

us with a great deal of valuable information about this matter,

and the relation generally of Hindooism to Christianity in India,

accompanied by most curious extracts from publications of the party

of Chunder Sen, written in very nervous but peculiar English. It is

surprising to see with what force and keenness these educated Hindoos

pierce and destroy the inconsistent fabric of Protestantism, which

they call a system of "paper revelation and second-hand religion,"

whose untenable position is shown by the fact that it gives twenty

different interpretations of the same t book. We are most happy

to learn that Bishop Meurer, S.J., the Vicar Apostolic of Bombay,

is about to recommence the missionary enterprise of De Nobili, so

shamefully and stupidly thwarted by the enemies of the Jesuits.

He intends to found a missionary college, whose pupils will be

thoroughly instructed in Brahminical and Buddhist literature, and

when they are sent out on missions, will enrol themselves in one

of the high castes, adopting their dress and customs. In this way

the Catholic religion will be brought in contact with the educated

Hindoos, who at present know it only through the misrepresentations

of Protestant missionaries.

* * * * *

M. LECOINTRE ON THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.--M. Lecointre, a graduate

of the Polytechnic School and chief engineer of the iron works

connected with the Suez Canal, has investigated, with the assistance

of M. de Lesseps, the question of the place where the Israelites

crossed the Red Sea, and publishes his conclusions in the _Etudes

Religieuses_ of Paris, accompanied by a map. He gives, in the first

place, a _résumé_ of the events of the march out of Egypt. Pharaoh

feared an immense conspiracy under the leadership of Moses, and, as

Josephus relates, formed an army of 250,000 men, which was assembled

at Memphis. The events related in Exodus forced him to give the

denied permission to the Israelites to go into the wilderness to

sacrifice. He well knew the real intention of Moses, which was no

secret, either, to the people themselves, to quit Egypt for ever.

The orders for preparing to celebrate the passover on the 14th of

Nisan had been given by Moses through the chiefs of tribes some

days before. These orders had the effect of arranging the people in

little groups under a head, as the best organization for a sudden

march; for which they were well prepared by a substantial meal and

the enlivening effect of a festivity. The signal of departure was

probably given by signal-fires previously arranged. The march to

Palestine was not expected to occupy more than twenty or twenty-five

days, by a route well known and provided with water, and the flocks

and herds which they took with them assured them a plentiful

subsistence. The main body left from Rameses, a city where a great

proportion of them dwelt, the others starting from the other places

of their residence and moving toward a common rendezvous. Their first

halting-place was Succoth, where they waited for those who were

behind to come up; the second at Etham, on the border of the desert,

from whence they expected to go directly into the desert above the

Red Sea, and to take a direct route for Palestine. But Moses changed

his route, brought them back along the coast of the Red Sea, and

encamped in the plain of Pi-hahiroth, between Magdal and the sea,

where they were surprised by Pharaoh's army in a situation which

rendered flight in any direction impossible. The miraculous events

which followed are well known. The point of passage is placed on

the twentieth parallel of latitude, which nearly bisects the larger

one of the Bitter Lakes, now separated from, but formerly forming a

part of the Red Sea. The events related by Moses would then probably

have occurred as follows. On the night of the 15th, the nucleus of

the host made a short stage from Rameses to Succoth, waiting from the

morning of the 15th to the morning of the 16th for the entire host to

arrive. Distance travelled, five kilometres. Distance from Succoth

to the most remote points of Gessen, where the Israelites lived,

forty to fifty kilometres, easily travelled in twenty-four hours.

Moses and Aaron could have made the journey from Memphis on the 15th

on horseback, a distance of one hundred and twelve kilometres, in

ten or twelve hours. On the 16th, from Succoth to Etham, twenty-two

kilometres. On the 17th, from. Etham to Pi-hahiroth, twenty to

twenty-two kilometres. From the evening of the 17th to the evening

of the 20th, encampment at Pi-hahiroth. The change of route at Etham

is supposed to have alarmed the Egyptian commander at that post, who

sends a courier on the morning of the 17th to Memphis, one hundred

and twenty-four kilometres, a distance which could be passed in

twelve or fifteen hours by a swift horse or dromedary. On the 18th,

the army marches from Memphis in a straight line for Beelsephon, a

distance of one hundred and twelve kilometres. On the morning of the

20th, the advance-guard of cavalry, after a march of forty-eight

hours, arrives on the heights of Beelsephon, cutting off the retreat

of the Israelites. A heavy fog separates the two armies. The Egyptian

infantry comes up on the 21st. During the night of the 20th, the

Israelites pass the Red Sea, whose width was from ten to twelve

kilometres; they are followed by the cavalry and chariots on the

morning of the 21st, who traverse five or six kilometres, when they

are overwhelmed by the returning waters, the main body witnessing the

catastrophe from the heights behind. The march from Memphis requires

for the cavalry two stages of fifty-six kilometres and for the

infantry three of thirty-eight, which the author says is within the

power of fresh, well-equipped troops.

* * * * *

REFORM MOVEMENT AMONG THE JEWS.--The recent convention of Jews at

Philadelphia appears to have been the work of a party bent on radical

and destructive reforms. The orthodox and conservative Jews condemn

it wholly. We should be very sorry to see the synagogue converted

into a poor imitation of the most radical Protestant sects, and

this ancient, wonderfully preserved nation blended with the mass of

other peoples. The ancient and venerable observances of Judaism,

and the continued distinct existence of the people descended from

the patriarchs, are a palpable, living witness to the divine origin

of revelation, and the inspired truth of the writings of Moses

and the prophets, the basis of Christianity. The reforming Jews

are the successors of those who imitated the heathen in the reign

of Antiochus and of the infidel Sadducees. Their approximation

to Protestantism is not an approximation to Christianity but to

infidelity, and, if carried out successfully, would destroy their

nation. This cannot be done, however. We believe firmly that

the nation is indestructible, is destined to be restored to the

possession of Palestine, and to fulfil literally the predictions of

the ancient prophets in such a manner as to furnish the most splendid

proof of the truth of the divine religion handed down through Sem,

Abraham, Moses, the Prophets, to the Messiah to whom shall be the

expectation of nations. _Alieni non transibunt per Jerusalem amplius;

nam in illa die stillabunt montes dulcedinem, et colles fluent lac

et mel, dicit Dominus._ It is the infidel party among the Jews of

Europe that is leagued with infidels of Christian origin in the war

on the Catholic Church. Those who adhere strictly to their law have

many principles in common with Catholics. Their law of marriage with

those of their own nation exclusively harmonizes with that of the

Catholic Church, which forbids intermarriage with them. Their genuine

and ancient ritual bears witness to the antiquity of the liturgical

and ceremonial idea embodied in Catholic worship. Their principle

that the education of the youth should be religious is identical with

ours, and we hope they will insist on the right of having separate

schools and their just quota of the funds raised by taxation for

purposes of education. So long as they remain in exile from their

proper home, and separated from us in religion, we cannot desire any

thing else than to see them adhere to their ancient customs. They

do not seek to proselyte; their prosperity is therefore in no way

dangerous to the Catholic Church. The more splendid their synagogues

and the observance of their traditional rites, the more brilliant is

the testimony they give to those facts and events in sacred history

denied by infidel Jews and infidel Christians alike.

* * * * *

THE EDUCATION QUESTION.--_The New-Englander_, as the organ of the

venerable Yale University, has recently contained some admirable

articles on the methods of promoting the higher education. It

makes war upon bogus universities, colleges, and systems with

calm but resolute force. Among the sound and sensible suggestions

it makes, these are some of the chief ones: (1) The preparatory

schools should be improved by a more thorough and extensive course

of study in the classics, and in some of the modern languages.

(2) The collegiate course should be correspondingly improved, and

modified, by imitating in part the tutor system of the English

universities; but, by no means, changed into the loose system of

misnamed universities. (3) The university should be gradually formed

as a sequence of the improved collegiate system, and should consist

of the college proper, together with post-graduate courses of higher

studies in all the branches of science. The necessity of religious

instruction is unanswerably proved, and the especial fitness of

clergymen for the work of education well defended and advocated. The

necessity of having every college under the religious care of some

one denomination is also satisfactorily shown. We wonder that the

remarkably frank and candid writer in _The New-Englander_ does not

see, however, that he has proved this necessity as a _pis aller_, and

indirectly furnished a terrible argument against his own sect and all

Protestantism. He directly acknowledges that it is necessary to have

_sectarian_ teachers; that, nevertheless, sectarianism is too narrow

a thing for a liberal university, and that the teachers must suppress

their sectarianism and teach in a sort of catholic spirit. This is

as clear a proof as we could wish to have that Protestantism is

incompetent to the function of a religious teacher, and, therefore,

that a perfect university cannot exist except in the Catholic Church.

We hope, at all events, that the influence of New Haven will be

thrown fully and consistently against godless schools of all sorts,

and in favor of the right of parents to have schools where their

children can be taught the religion which they themselves profess.

* * * * *

THE CHRISTIAN WORLD ON THE REV. H. SEYMOUR.--This organ of the

anti-Catholic crusade deserts Mr. Seymour and Mr. Bacon, in their

attack on Catholic morality. The November number furnishes us with

the following editorial remark, the last clause of which we would

especially recommend to the attention of all our opponents, the

editors of _The Christian World_ included: "The interest awakened

by the present discussion of this subject leads us to print the

foregoing. There is much of force in Mr. Seymour's statements and

reasonings respecting the matter of homicide, even though a double

or treble percentage is allowed for Protestant England. But we

are constrained to say, in the interest of fair dealing, that the

remaining statistics of Mr. S. respecting illegitimacy seem to us

to lack the precision and discrimination essential to a conclusive

argument in that direction. Moreover, the force of these statistics

is, to say the least, greatly counteracted by the admitted facts

respecting foeticide charged against certain Protestant communities.

In conducting the issue with Romanism it is wiser to avoid every

_questionable_ position."

* * * * *

DR. BELLOWS THREATENING CIVIL WAR.--_The Liberal Christian_ is

proving itself the most illiberal of all our religious journals of

late. It recently violated literary courtesy by charging upon the

editor of this magazine a deliberate falsehood, without any other

reason than an unauthorized and incorrect conjecture that he was

the author of an article published in our columns entitled, "Free

Religion." In its issue for November 20th, it publishes a most

arrogant and inflammatory article, by Dr. Bellows, on "Romanism

and Common Schools," which is quite in the spirit of several other

utterances of that gentleman, who appears to have contracted a taste

for civil war that was not satiated by our late one. Whoever seeks to

disturb the civic peace existing between Catholics and Protestants in

this country, to rouse their angry passions, to array them against

each other as hostile political factions, is the greatest enemy of

his country, and deserves to be classed with the men who endeavored

to fire our hotels, and those who stirred up the mobs of Charleston,

Philadelphia, and New-York. Happily, Dr. Bellows's fits of ill-humor

are so well understood that they make but slight impression on any

one.

* * * * *

CARICATURING AS A FINE ART.--One of our popular magazines

(_Harper's_) has recently sought to distinguish itself in this line,

and has succeeded both in its articles on Catholic questions, and

in its burlesque illustrations, in producing something strictly

_sui generis_ and far exceeding, in the strict exclusion of every

other element except caricature, the feebler efforts of artists less

skilled in the work of distortion. We may say without exaggeration

that it has attained the _ne plus ultra_ of caricaturing as a fine

art.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE OECUMENICAL COUNCIL AND THE INFALLIBILITY OF THE ROMAN

PONTIFF: A Pastoral Letter to the Clergy, etc. By Henry Edward,

Archbishop of Westminster. London: Longmans, Green & Co. Pp. 151.

We have received within the past two months five or six dissertations

on the question of the infallibility of the _ex cathedrâ_ judgments

of the sovereign pontiffs and other closely connected topics,

written by some of the best theologians in Europe. They handle the

subject with great learning and ability, and in a manner much more

satisfactory and to the point than is usually found in treatises on

the same topic in our theological text-books or popular expositions

of doctrine. The reason is, that the controversy has been revived

and assumed a new importance since the indiction of the council, and

that the advocates of what is commonly called ultramontane doctrine

have applied themselves intently to seize hold of and minutely

analyze and refute the objections of the opposite party, who have

themselves endeavored to bring up anew all these objections with as

much force as possible. Archbishop Manning has given us one of these

learned dissertations in the form of a pastoral letter, which makes a

considerable pamphlet, divided into four chapters. The first chapter

is on the effect of the council already felt in England and France.

The second is on the opportuneness of defining the infallibility of

the Roman pontiff, in which he discusses (1) The reasons against

the definition; (2) answers to these reasons; (3) reasons for the

definition. In the third chapter he makes a concise but very copious

exposition of the tradition on the subject, tracing it backward from

the Council of Constance to that of Chalcedon, and afterward giving

a history of the Gallican controversy since the time of the Council

of Constance. The fourth chapter is on the effect which the council

is certain to produce on the evidence and proposition of the faith,

and on the relations of civil governments to the church. A postscript

is added on the recent defence of Gallican doctrine by Mgr. Maret.

The most noteworthy and distinctive feature of this very learned and

lucidly written document is, the manner in which the reasons why

the council should issue a clear and precise definition of the true

doctrine held by the church are presented. The illustrious archbishop

argues with great force that an omission to make such a definition

will be interpreted as a tacit permission to hold and teach the

Gallican opinions as sound and safe probable opinions. There can be

no doubt that his views and those of prelates in equally eminent

positions who have publicly expressed themselves in equivalent

terms will receive that grave consideration from the bishops of the

Catholic Church in council which they merit. Undoubtedly, also, those

who may hold different opinions will have the most ample liberty

of arguing their side of the question. The decision of the council

must be accepted by all as final and infallible; and if such a

decision is rendered, the controversy will be set at rest for ever; a

consummation, in our opinion, devoutly to be wished.

We will venture to add a few words of our own to the point of the

argument presented by the Archbishop of Westminster. The ultramontane

doctrine has been almost universally held and taught in the Catholic

Church in the United States. Nevertheless, the manner of handling

the Protestant controversy in many English books, some of which are

translations from French authors, has been such as to create an

impression that the doctrine of the infallibility of the pope in

definitions of faith is merely a pious opinion. This is supported by

the fact that the opposite opinion has not been formally condemned,

and that those who held it have been recognized as in full communion

with the Roman Church, and even raised to eminent positions in the

hierarchy. This same impression has been created in other countries

as well as in our own, and exists to a very great extent in the

mind of the Catholic laity as well as to some extent in that of the

clergy. The real facts in the case are not fully known. It is not

generally known that those who have carried the Gallican opinions

so far, and reduced them to practice in so consistent a manner, as

to refuse implicit obedience and unreserved interior submission to

the pontifical decretals, or who have appealed from papal decisions

to an oecumenical council, have been condemned under censure of

excommunication, that the whole church has given their assent to this

judgment, and that it is a point of the canon law. The truth is, that

the holy see has always regarded the Gallican opinions as erroneous,

although it has judged it wisest to tolerate them thus far, and to

proceed by the way of instruction and inculcation in teaching the

opposite doctrine, waiting until the complete discussion of the

subject by theologians and the pastoral teaching of the bishops

should have brought such a flood of light on the subject that the

truth should gain over the intelligence of enlightened Catholics,

before pronouncing a formal and definitive judgment. There is a great

danger, however, that this cautious and indulgent treatment of those

who have held Gallican opinions in good faith and with a practical

submission to the supreme authority of the holy see, may give an

advantage to bold and indocile spirits to make the toleration of

these opinions a _point d'appui_ for a resistance to the teaching of

the sovereign pontiffs _ex cathedrâ_, having in it a schismatical

and heretical tendency. The defenders and advocates of sound

doctrines are placed at a disadvantage by the lack of a definitive

judgment declaring the sense of the church in such a manner as to

preclude all dispute or ambiguity of interpretation. There can

be no question that the holy see, and the great body of bishops,

including those of France with few exceptions, hold the doctrine of

the papal infallibility to be a certainly revealed truth contained

in Scripture and tradition, and consequently regard the contrary

opinion as an error which has only been for a time tolerated. The

whole action of the church is regulated by this view, and will always

be so regulated. There appears, therefore, to be a very strong reason

why the present council should put the whole question at rest for

ever by a final decision and a definition _de fide_. We can answer

for the clergy and laity of the United States that they will welcome

such a decision with the greatest joy. As for the objection that it

will place an obstacle in the way of conversions, it is groundless.

Those who are solidly converted from Protestantism in this country

are converted to Catholicity pure and simple, and not to Catholicity

with a Gallican reservation.

* * * * *

THE WOMAN WHO DARED. By Epes Sargent. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

1870. 18mo, pp. 210.

We have every disposition in the world to treat Mr. Epes Sargent with

respect, and to speak well of this his latest poem; for he has a name

in the literary world, and his poem is not without some artistic

merit; but, unhappily, we can do neither with a good conscience.

We cannot tolerate false doctrines, mischievous sophistry, and bad

morals, because expressed in chaste language and attractive verse.

Mr. Sargent has poetic feeling and talent; but we do not accept

the doctrine that art is necessarily moral or religious. It may be

used to embellish error as well as truth, vice as well as virtue,

to corrupt as well as to purify and ennoble. In the poem before us

the poet has used all his art, genius, and talent to seduce his

readers to swallow as a wholesome Christian beverage a most poisonous

compound of spiritism, free-lovism, woman's-rightsism, rationalism,

and all sorts of radicalism.

No doubt we shall be told that the poet is sincere, and that he

really believes that he is chanting a great truth, and laboring

in downright earnest to develop and confirm a purer and higher

civilization than the world has ever yet known. It is not unlikely

that Eve thought as much when, seduced by the subtle reasonings and

false promises of the serpent, she reached forth her hand, plucked

and ate the forbidden fruit, and gave of the same to her husband; but

this did not excuse her for violating the command of God, or save her

from expulsion from paradise. Men who have no infallible criterion of

truth and falsehood, no infallible standard of right and wrong, have

no authority from God to teach, and no right to open their mouths

on any subject that seriously affects the interests or the conduct

of life. No one, on the strength of his own personal conviction

alone, has the right to arraign and condemn what the common sense

and experience of mankind in all ages and nations have sanctioned.

It is no justification, no valid excuse even, for a man who

promulgates and does his best to get accepted false and mischievous

doctrines--doctrines which weaken the hold of religion on the

conscience, pervert the moral sense, render the family impossible,

and sap the very foundation of society--to say, "I am sincere; I

really believe I am laboring for a true and much needed reform." Do

you _know_ it? Do you not know that you do _not_ know it? Do you not

know that all the presumptions are against you? Uncertain as you

are and must be if you ever think, why attempt to teach at all? Who

compels you? Men are accountable for the thoughts and intents of the

heart no less than for outward acts, and God will bring every man

into judgment for every thought and word as well as for every deed.

Every man is bound to conform his thoughts, words, and deeds to the

law of God, and to use with all diligence his faculties to ascertain

that law and what it enjoins. Invincible ignorance excuses from sin,

it is true, one in that whereof one is invincibly ignorant; but an

ignorance that may be overcome by due diligence and the proper use

of the means within one's reach, is not invincible, but vincible,

and therefore no excuse. The man or the woman that can seriously

entertain the doctrine and morals of Mr. Sargent's poem cannot plead

invincible ignorance; but must be under a delusion never possible in

the case of the pure in heart, or to any but those who take pleasure

in iniquity.

We have no intention of reopening the discussion of the woman

question, or that of spiritists and spiritism; the questions of

divorce and free religion have also been amply discussed, at least

for the present, in this magazine. We can touch here only on two

questions raised by the author--that of free-love and that of the

right and propriety of female wooing. The aim of the author has

been to defend the woman who dared woo openly and in plain words

the man she wished to be her husband and the father of her child.

He contends, in the smoothest and most seductive blank-verse he

is master of, that this is proper, and woman's right; and that

it is only the tyranny of a barbarous custom, created by male

predominance, that requires the woman to wait till she is sought.

Linda Percival, the bastard daughter of a bigamist, is for him the

model woman. She dares break through this custom and proposes to

a very respectable young gentleman; but gets at first the mitten,

and succeeds finally only by buying him up for a hundred thousand

dollars in hard cash, paid down to his swindled and bankrupt father.

Yet Linda is a combination of incompatible qualities, an impossible

woman, a monster in nature, and her conduct is no precedent for the

sex. She is a man-woman, and the last in the world that a real man

could love or marry. The woman who does not instinctively shrink

from soliciting a man to marry her could appreciate no argument that

would prove its impropriety or the gross immorality that would result

from the practice, were it once held reputable. Mr. Sargent knows

well enough, without our telling him, that nature has made woman

strong for defence, but weak when acting on the offensive. When she

solicits a man to be her husband and "the father of her child," she

steps out from her strong fortress of modesty and reserve, throws

off her defensive armor, and places herself at his mercy. Resistance

afterward avails nothing. She has surrendered at discretion. No

training on either side can protect her virtue, secure her respect,

or belief in the purity of her intentions; for no education or

training can reverse nature. The practice, if adopted and become

general, would degrade woman to the lowest level, put an end to

marriage, extinguish the family, and with it society and the race.

Mr. Sargent, whether he intends it or not, advocates free-love as

he does free religion. Love, he says, must be free, and bound by

no chain but its own silken cords. The least constraint kills it.

The marriage is all in the mutual love; and when that leaves, the

marriage is dissolved. To compel a couple who do not mutually love

to come together, or, after the love is dead, to live together, as

husband and wife--we beg pardon, as wife and husband--is downright

tyranny, outrageous cruelty. This is the cant of nearly all female

and much of male popular literature, which relies for its tragic

interest on the obstacles thrown in the way of true love by an

imperious mother, a despotic father, a hard-hearted old uncle,

barbarous custom, or cruel and tyrannous marriage laws. This

literature, the only literature except newspapers this restless,

busy age reads, has already corrupted modern society, made away

with parental authority, obliterated the love and reverence of

children for their parents, and rendered a happy household well-nigh

impossible.

This popular doctrine mistakes the love marriage demands as well

as the nature and end of marriage itself. The love it extols is at

best only a romantic sentiment, which in its own nature, like all

sentiments, is capricious and evanescent. It can give no security to

marriage, for it can neither control the senses nor be controlled

by reason. Suppose it as pure and as lofty as that of the fabled

knight of chivalry for his "ladie fair," to whom he devotes his

sword and worships as a distant star pure and serene in the heavens

above him, it cannot survive possession, and never does and never

can exist between husband and wife. The reason why love matches are

so seldom happy is, that they are formed with the expectation that

the chivalric and romantic love of the lovers will survive in the

spouses. But this is never the case, and never should be; for it is

incompatible with the duties of life. The love that makes marriage

blessed and is its true basis must indeed be free from coercion;

but, while unconstrained by power or external force, it must be

constrained by duty and subject to laws. It must be a love that it

depends on one's own will to give or to withhold.

Marriage requires the free assent of the parties; and when that free

assent is refused by either party, there is no marriage, and we are

aware of no law of church or state that treats it as a marriage,

at least of any professedly Christian state. That the assent, when

once given by the parties competent and free to give or withhold

it, should be held to be irrevocable, is no hardship. The parties

understand and intend--nay, desire--the contract in forming it to be

during their natural life, or so long as both continue to live. The

nature of the contract, the purposes for which it is entered into,

require that it should be indissoluble, save by death only; and this,

too, even without taking into the account its sacramental character.

In extreme cases the law does not oblige the parties to live

together, and grants a divorce _a mensa et toro_; but the Christian

law allows never a divorce _a vinculo_; for the end of marriage is

not primarily nor chiefly the happiness of the husband and wife,

but the preservation of purity, the founding of the family, and the

rearing and training of children, on which depend the continuance

of the race and the existence of society. Even if the sentimental

love be wanting, with good-will on each side and a diligent study of

each to perform the duties of their state, which it depends on each

to have and to do, and which neither is free to neglect, the little

repugnances and incompatibilities of temper may be easily got over,

a solid friendship spring up, and much genuine happiness after all

be enjoyed. There may not be much romance; but romance and romantic

love end always with marriage, and never survive, and ought not to be

expected to survive, the "honeymoon." But happily, what is better

for this work-day world, duty may take its place.

Mr. Sargent is mistaken in saying in his notes that the church does

not regard marriage between Protestants as indissoluble. The case he

cites is not in point; for the marriage he supposes was dissolved

was no valid marriage in Brazil, in consequence of the _disparitas

cultus_, which, where the discipline of the Council of Trent is in

force, is an _impedimentum dirimens_. So also is he mistaken in

his assertion that "up to the time of Charlemagne ... concubinage

and polygamy were common among Christians, and countenanced by the

church." The church has never countenanced either; and if either has

ever been practised by Christians, it has been only in violation

of her express laws. In point of fact, at no time has either been

common; but some of the Merovingian kings wished to continue, after

professing to be Christians, the old practice by the pagan German

princes and higher nobles of polygamy, and the church, no doubt, had

great difficulty in forcing them to conform to the Christian law.

But it, as concubinage, was in the eyes of the church always illicit

and sinful. On this subject the law or discipline of the church has

never changed. The poet is not well qualified to speak of Catholic or

Christian subjects.

* * * * *

THE PASTOR AND HIS PEOPLE; OR, THE WORD OF GOD AND THE FLOCK OF

CHRIST. By Rev. Thomas J. Potter. Dublin: James Duffy. New-York:

Catholic Publication Society. 1869. Pp. 337.

Father Potter has written this volume to give pastors some practical

hints in regard to the instruction of their people. The book is

really the second volume of a work published some years since, under

the title of _Sacred Eloquence; or, The Theory and Practice of

Preaching_. That work set forth the great theoretical principles of

pulpit oratory; this volume reduces those principles to practice.

The contents of the volume are arranged under three general heads:

Holiday Preaching, Familiar Instruction, and Delivery. In the first

of these divisions we find minute instruction concerning the material

that should be used in what is known as the "set sermon." Not merely

for sermons that are preached on holidays though, but for every

occasion on which a formal discourse is suitable. A chapter in this

portion of the work is well devoted to a defence of these elaborate

sermons. Not that such preaching will be the most useful or the

most expedient, as a general rule; but simply this, that there are

occasions on which the faithful have a right to expect a carefully

prepared sermon. These are called set sermons, because they are

composed in conformity with the fixed rules of oratory. They suppose

a chaste and elevated style; and, more than this, they suppose even

that the subject should be treated grandly. At such a time the

preacher, by the dignity of his manner, forces us to recognize him

as truly the "ambassador of Christ." We feel that the divine word

is treated, as it deserves to be, with the same respect as the body

of Christ. But it is true that sermons such as these can only be

preached on rare occasions, because they are expected to accomplish

extraordinary results. Their frequent repetition would destroy the

very effect that they are intended to produce. The people, habituated

to these stirring appeals, would cease to be moved by them, until at

length it would be impossible to rouse them even by the most fervent

and skilfully planned discourse.

Father Potter does not give too prominent a place to this elevated

and polished form of preaching. By far the largest portion of

his work is taken up with the most valuable hints regarding the

familiar instruction of our people. He tells us that it has been

"his unvarying purpose to throw out substantial ideas, to suggest

leading thoughts, and to indicate lines of study." Nowhere is this

object accomplished more completely than in the section of the work

which explains the nature and excellence of "Familiar Instruction."

No part of the book has pleased us more than this. Simple, clear,

suggestive, and practical in its suggestions, the zealous pastor

will scarcely rise from reading the chapters on the Homily, on the

Commandments, on the Sacrament, and on Prayer, without feeling a

renewed desire to teach these elementary though essential truths

which the Catholic people of a missionary country do not know, or at

least only know in an extremely vague and indefinite way.

* * * * *

THE ILLUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY ALMANAC FOR THE UNITED STATES FOR

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1870. New York: The Catholic Publication

Society, 126 Nassau St. 1869.

An almanac for the family has long been an imperious American

necessity. Judging from the success of the Catholic Publication

Society's Almanac for the year now drawing to an end, a Catholic

almanac was much needed and greatly desired by our Catholic

population throughout the United States, and that it should have

met with a large sale was not surprising when we remember that, in

addition to all the useful information furnished by all well-prepared

almanacs, _The Catholic Family Almanac_ provided agreeable, edifying,

and instructive literary matter profusely and admirably illustrated

with superior engravings.

In size, amount of matter, illustrations, and literary merit, the

Catholic Almanac for 1870, just published, is a decided improvement

upon its predecessor, and must receive universal approbation.

* * * * *

THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. From authentic Spanish and

Italian Documents. Compiled from the French of Rosselly de

Lorgnes. By I. I. Barry, M.D. Boston: P. Donahoe. 1869.

The translator or compiler of this work states in his preface that

he has had to condense the matter of some pages into almost as many

lines. We feel compelled to add that neither history nor literature

would have suffered if he had gone on condensing indefinitely, even

if, in the process, the book had been compressed to the vanishing

point. Rosselly de Lorgnes, a veteran writer, the author of _Le

Christ devant le Siècle_, and other works well known in Europe, is

entitled to all respect and honor for his sincere and enthusiastic

vindication of the memory of Columbus, and of his claims to

veneration as a man of saintly character, over and above all his

other well-known merits; but his work, in two volumes of nearly six

hundred pages each, independently of other objections to it, sadly

wants brevity and method.

The truth is that, notwithstanding the praiseworthy efforts of M.

De Lorgnes, and of various authors who have preceded and followed

him in this field, the life of Columbus is yet to be written. More

than that, it can only be well written in Spain and with Spanish

materials. When that country has a historian who is not afraid of

telling the truth about the king of Spain who was the husband of the

noble Isabella of Castile, and will use without fear or favor the

writings of Columbus himself--for, after all, such a great soul is

his own best interpreter--we shall have a life of Columbus, and not

until then.

* * * * *

THE IMPROVISATORE. THE TWO BARONESSES. Romances by Hans Christian

Andersen. New York: Hurd & Houghton.

These two volumes, from the fascinating pen of the great Danish

novelist, we recognize as old friends in new garments, and hasten to

bid them welcome.

Andersen, who charms the little ones with the beauty and naturalness

of his fairy tales, is equally a favorite with children of a larger

growth.

His powers of description are surpassed by few writers in any

language, and the places he has visited, Rome, Naples, Vesuvius,

Venice, Copenhagen, with the islands nestling about Denmark, stand

before the reader in living colors, glowing with light and truth.

One feels that these graphic representations are not drawn from a

highly-wrought imagination, but that they are living realities.

The narratives of the ascent of Vesuvius, the _Infiorata_, the

first impressions of Venice, are wonderful samples of this power of

delineation.

What we have thus far said disposes of the _Magazine's_ statistics,