"The fact is that, in one respect, the rude, ignorant peasantry

of the middle ages were a great deal more learned than the pupils

of our modern schools. In a certain sort of way, every child was

rendered familiar with the language of the Church. From infancy

they were taught to recite their prayers, the antiphons, and many

parts of the ritual of the Church, in Latin, and to understand the

meaning of what they learnt; and hence they became familiar with a

great number of Latin words, so that a Latin discourse would sound

far less strange in their ears than in those of a more educated

audience of the same class in the present day. In many cases,

indeed, the children who were taught in the priest's, or parochial

school, learned grammar, that is--the Latin language; but all were

required to learn the church chant, and a considerable number of

Latin prayers, and hymns, and psalms. This point of poor-school

education deserves more than a passing notice. Its result was,

that the lower classes were able thoroughly to understand and

heartily to take part in the rites and offices of Holy Church.

The faith rooted itself in their hearts with a tenacity which was

not easily destroyed, even by penal laws, because they imbibed

it from its fountain source--the Church herself. She taught her

children out of her own ritual, and by her own voice, and made

them believers after a different fashion from those much more

highly educated Catholics of the same class who, in our day,

often grow up almost as much strangers to the liturgical language

of the Church as the mass of unbelievers outside the fold. Can

there be any incongruity more grievous than to enter a Catholic

school, rich in every appliance of education, and to find that,

in spite of the time, money, and method lavished on its support,

its pupils are unable to understand and recite the church offices,

and are untrained to take part in church psalmody? The language

of the Church has, therefore, in a very literal sense, become

a dead language to them, and it is from other and far inferior

sources that they derive their religious instruction. Thus they

are ignorant of a large branch of school education, in which the

children of a ruder and darker age were thoroughly trained; no

doubt, on the other hand, they know a great many things of which

children in the middle ages were altogether ignorant; and the

question is simply to determine which method of instruction has

most practical utility in it. Without dogmatizing on this point,

we may be permitted to regret that through any defect in the

system of our parochial schools, Catholic congregations should in

our own days be deprived of the solemn and thorough celebrations

of those sacred offices which in themselves comprise a body of

unequalled religious instruction; and that, in an age which makes

so much of the theory of education, we should have to confess our

inability to teach our children to pray and sing the prayers of

the Church as the children of Catholic peasants prayed and sang

them six hundred years ago. The English schools of that period

enjoyed the benefit of no other inspection than that of the parish

priest and the archdeacon, 'the eye of the bishop,' as he was

called; and if their pupils knew little about 'monocotyledons,'

the 'crustacea,' or grammatical analysis, they were able to recite

their Alma Redemptoris and their Dixit Dominus with hearty,

_intelligent_ devotion.[146] They knew the order of the church

service, and could sing its psalms and antiphons in the language

of the church, and to her ancient tones."

The last words of this most interesting extract will spare us the

trouble of insisting at any great length upon the point chiefly in

question. The sacred offices of the Church, to whose due celebration

and to their intelligent participation in them the faith and piety of

our ancestors is in great measure to be ascribed, and the peculiar

and inimitable melodies, yet, happily, undivorced from their language

of prayer, ever formed one inseparable whole.

A revival of those offices in the spirit of their ancient fidelity

to the ritual is, as all must allow, a revival of Gregorian chant.

The project of substituting in its place a selection of solos,

duets, etc., either culled from threadbare compositions of the

two last centuries, notorious for their sensuousness of style and

over-wrought "word-painting," or such melodies of the modern schools

as our present masters are able to produce, would be unhesitatingly

ridiculed on all sides.

Far be it from us to be guilty of the presumption of questioning the

wisdom of the Church in permitting to the clergy the individual and

private recitation of the Divine Office; but it is beyond dispute

that so much of it as is enjoined to be performed publicly, _in

choir_, on Sundays and festivals, is not absolved by the _bravura_

singing of some "choice musical selections" in an organ-gallery,

and the private recitation of the real office meanwhile by a lonely

celebrant in the sanctuary. Moreover, the people are thereby greatly

hindered in their devotions and deprived utterly of the spiritual

fruit the sacred office so abundantly affords. If we gave the people

a chance, we would very soon see how joyfully they would sing their

Credo, and heartily chant their Dixit Dominus, as of old. "I do

not like the Vespers in ---- street," a well-instructed servant

was lately overheard to say; "it is nothing but a concert of four

opera-singers, and I'm all astray while it's going on. Nobody seems

to make it out but the Protestant ladies and gentlemen, who do

nothing but talk about it all the time. Give me the singing at Father

----'s church, where all the clergy sing, and where I can sing in the

Tantum Ergo myself at benediction, if I like."

What we are arguing for is a strict, rubrical celebration of High

Mass and Vespers, the two public offices enjoined upon the clergy

in this country. When the rubrics for these offices are observed to

the letter, we shall have no fear for the fate of plain chant, which

has proved itself by the experience of so many centuries to be the

only adequate and satisfying expression of the spirit of prayer that

breathes through all the solemn ritual service of the Holy Church.

The words of the pious and erudite Benedictine monk, Dom Gueranger,

Abbot of Solesmes, are again ringing in our ears. We cannot refrain

from closing our article with a quotation from the preface to his

_Liturgical Year_, the beauty of which will be a sufficient apology

for its length:

"The prayer of the Church is the most pleasing to the ear and

heart of God, and therefore the most efficacious of all prayers.

Happy, then, is he who prays with the Church, and unites his

own petitions with those of this Spouse, who is so dear to her

Lord that he gives her all she asks. It was for this reason that

our Blessed Saviour taught us to say _our Father_, and not _my

Father_; _give us, forgive us, deliver us_, and not _give me,

forgive me, deliver me_. Hence, we find that, for upward of a

thousand years, the Church, who prays in her temples seven times

in the day, and once again during the night, did not pray alone.

The people kept her company, and fed themselves with delight

on the manna which is hidden under the words and mysteries of

the divine liturgy. Thus initiated into the sacred cycle of the

mysteries of the Christian year, the faithful, attentive to the

teachings of the Spirit, came to know the secrets of eternal

life; and without any further preparation, a Christian was not

unfrequently chosen by the bishops to be a priest, or even a

bishop, that he might go and pour out on the people the treasures

of wisdom and love which he had drunk in at the very fountain-head.

"But for now many past ages, Christians have grown too solicitous

about earthly things to frequent the holy _vigils_ and the

mystical _hours_ of the day. Long before the rationalism of the

sixteenth century became the auxiliary of the heresies of that

period by curtailing the solemnity of the divine service, the

days for the people's uniting exteriorly with the prayer of the

church had been reduced to Sundays and festivals. During the rest

of the year, the solemn and imposing grandeur of the liturgy

was gone through, and the people took no share in it. Each

new generation increased in indifference for that which their

forefathers in the faith had loved as their best and strongest

food. Social prayer was made to give way to individual devotion.

Chanting, which is the natural expression of the prayers and even

of the sorrows of the Church, became limited to the solemn feasts.

That was the first sad revolution in the Christian world.

"But even then Christendom was still rich in churches and

monasteries, and there, day and night, was still heard the sound

of the same venerable prayers which the Church had used through

all the past ages. So many hands lifted up to God drew down upon

the earth the dew of heaven, averted storms, and won victory for

those who were in battle. These servants of God, who thus kept up

an untiring choir that sang the divine praises, were considered

as solemnly deputed by the people, which was still Catholic, to

pay the full tribute of homage and thanksgiving due to God, his

Blessed Mother, and the saints. These prayers formed a treasury

which belonged to all. The faithful gladly united themselves in

spirit to what was done. When any affliction, or the desire to

obtain a special favor, led them to the house of God, they were

sure to hear, no matter at what hour they went, that untiring

voice of prayer which was for ever ascending to heaven for the

salvation of mankind. At times they would give up their worldly

business and cares, and take part in the office of the church, and

all still understood, at least in a general way, the mysteries of

the liturgy.

"Then came the _Reformation_, and, at the onset, it attacked the

very life of Christianity--it would put an end to the sacrifice of

man's praise of his God. It strewed many countries with the ruins

of churches; the clergy, the monks, and virgins consecrated to

God were banished or put to death; and in the churches which were

spared the divine offices were not permitted. In other countries,

where the persecution was not so violent, many sanctuaries were

devastated and irremediably ruined, so that the life and voice of

prayer grew faint. Faith, too, was weakened; rationalism became

fearfully developed; and now our own age seems threatened with

what is the result of these evils--the subversion of all social

order.

"For, when the Reformation had abated the violence of its

persecution, it had other weapons wherewith to attack the Church.

By these, several countries, which continued to be Catholic, were

infected with that spirit of pride which is the enemy of prayer.

The modern spirit would have it that _prayer is not action_--as

though every good action done by man were not a gift of God; a

gift which implies two prayers: one of petition, that it may be

granted; and another of thanksgiving, because it is granted! There

were found men who said, _Let us abolish all the festival days of

God from the earth_; and then came upon us that calamity which

brings all others with it, and which the good Mardochai besought

God to avert from his nation, when he said, _Shut not, O Lord, the

mouths of them that sing to thee!_

"But, by the mercy of God, _we have not been consumed_; there have

been left remnants of Israel; and the number of believers in the

Lord has increased. What is it that has moved the heart of our

God to bring about this merciful conversion? Prayer, which had

been interrupted, has been resumed. Numerous choirs of virgins

consecrated to God, and, though far less in number, of men who

have left the world to spend themselves in the divine praises,

make _the voice of the turtle-dove heard in our land_. This voice

is every day gaining more power; may it find acceptance from

our Lord, and move him to show the sign of his covenant with

us, the rainbow of reconciliation! May our venerable cathedrals

again reëcho those solemn formulæ of prayer which heresy has so

long suppressed! May the faith and munificence of the faithful

reproduce the prodigies of those past ages, which owed their

greatness to the acknowledgment, which all, even the very civic

authorities, paid to the all-powerfulness of prayer!

"For a long time a remedy has been devised for an evil which was

only vaguely felt. The spirit of prayer, and even prayer itself,

has been sought for in methods, and prayer-books, which contain,

it is true, laudable, yea pious thoughts, but, after all, only

human thoughts. Such nourishment cannot satisfy the soul, for it

does not initiate her into the prayer of the Church. Instead of

uniting her with the prayer of the Church it isolates her. Of this

kind are so many of those collections of prayers and reflections

which have been published, under different titles, during the

last two hundred years, and by which it was intended to edify the

faithful, and suggest to them, either for hearing mass, or going

to the sacraments, or keeping the feasts of the church, certain

more or less commonplace considerations and acts, always drawn up

according to the manner of thought and sentiment peculiar to the

author of each book. Each manual had consequently its own way of

treating these important subjects. To Christians already formed

to piety, such books as these would, indeed, serve a purpose,

especially as nothing better was offered to them; but they had not

influence sufficient to inspire with a relish and spirit of prayer

such as had not otherwise received them.

"But this liturgical prayer would soon become powerless were the

faithful not to take a real share in it, or, at least, not to

associate themselves to it in heart. It can heal and save the

world, but only on the condition that it be understood. Be wise,

then, ye children of the Catholic Church, and get that largeness

of heart which will make you pray the prayer of your mother. Come,

and buy your share in it, fill up that harmony which is so sweet

to the ear of God. Where would you obtain the spirit of prayer if

not at its natural source? Let us remind you of the exhortation

of the apostle to the first Christians: _Let the peace of Christ

rejoice in your hearts--let the word of Christ dwell in you

abundantly, in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in

psalms, hymns, and spiritual canticles, singing in grace in your

hearts to God_."

FOOTNOTES:

[145] Introduction to _Extracts from the Roman Gradual and other

Liturgical Books_, in course of publication by the Rt. Rev. Louis

Lootens, D.D.

[146] St. Godric is said to have learned (in a poor school at Durham)

many things of which he was before ignorant, "by hearing, reading,

and _chanting_ them." In the parochial schools, even from St.

Dunstan's time, children of the lower orders were taught grammar and

_church music_. Schools of greater or less pretensions were attached

to most parish churches, and the scholars assembled in the porch.

Thus, in 1300, we read of children being taught to _sing_ and read

in the porch of St. Martin's, Norwich. At Stoke-by-Clare there was,

besides the extensive college, a school in which boys were taught

"grammar, _singing_, and good manners." To which answer the pictures

in Chaucer of the schools in which children were taught,

"That is to say, to singe and to rede,

As small children do in their childhede."

Again:

"As he sate in the scole at his primere,

He Alma Redemptoris heard sing," etc.

HINTS ON HOUSEKEEPING

BY A GRANDMOTHER.

To one who has long been accustomed to a retired and solitary life,

an occasional glimpse of the busy world and its ways, a peep "through

the loopholes of the retreat," has a relish and an interest scarcely

to be appreciated by the actual participants in the turmoil and

bustle of those scenes.

In the quiet routine of rural life, undisturbed by great excitements,

and to a great measure removed from the influences of stirring

events, it is almost impossible to keep pace with the changes that

are constantly taking place in the great outer world. I think this

must be more especially true of our American society than of any

other nation. We are such a restless race, so impatient of monotony,

so eager for excitement and variety, that what is most in vogue

to-day is forgotten to-morrow, and the most earnest pursuits of the

present are liable to be rapidly superseded by others of a widely

different nature.

After an absence of only a few months from the social circle with

which it is my delight occasionally to mingle, I often find myself

much in the predicament of poor Rip Van Winkle, after his long repose

in "Sleepy Hollow," and dare not, upon my reappearance, open my lips

until I have listened long enough to catch the key-note, as it were,

of the topics at present engaging attention, lest my remarks and

inquiries may appear as ill-timed and excite as much surprise as did

those of that redoubtable victim of vagrancy and the broomstick.

Among all the changes that have come over our American world, since

we who are now grandmothers could call ourselves young, there are

none more utterly astounding--perhaps because, having long claimed

our careful attention, they are more familiar and interesting to

us--than those embraced in the household and home economy. Now,

although I am not disposed to undervalue the improvements of modern

times, or to decry the advance of modern ideas in other departments,

I am wholly unwilling to yield the palm to modern housekeeping. In

spite of every advantage furnished by the superior appliances of

these days, and every facility offered by the inventive genius of

our people in labor-saving machinery adapted to each department

of domestic life, I insist that our housekeepers are inferior in

all the qualities that contribute to the comfort of home to their

mothers, and that their mothers were less efficient than their

grandmothers. There has been a gradual but steady decline in the art

of housekeeping, and a more rapid but equally constant increase in

the expense thereof. Indeed, this last item looms up in dimensions

and glares upon us with an aspect nothing less than appalling to

dames like myself, who cherish antiquated notions on these subjects.

"Henry, why in the world do you not marry?" I said the other day

to a highly-esteemed young friend, whom I had known from his

childhood, and who is richly endowed, as I well know, with every

quality necessary to make a home happy. "Why in the world do you

not marry? It is a positive wrong to society, that so much domestic

virtue as you possess should remain unappropriated. You are now well

established in business, with every prospect of success, and you

really ought to be thinking of making a home for yourself."

"I wish I dare indulge such an aspiration," he replied with something

very like a regretful sigh; "but, to tell you the truth, such a step

as taking a wife to myself under my present circumstances would

be ruinous. My business is indeed, as you say, well established,

and--within certain, not very extensive, limits--prosperous. By close

attention and strict fidelity to its interests, diligent industry,

and careful economy, I realize annually a very comfortable income;

not large, but, under these conditions, quite sure; as years advance,

this will probably increase slowly and surely. Now, if I were to

marry, just imagine what a load of expense would be incurred at once!

You know as well as I the manner of life I should be required to

adopt, by any young lady of the class among whom I should look for a

wife; and I really am not in a position to incur such a burden now,

nor can I hope to be for a long time to come."

This was said in a tone of despondency and deep feeling, and I could

not but sympathize with my young friend, compelled thus reluctantly

to suppress the dearest aspirations of youth; nor could I avoid

deploring the exigencies that constrain the greater portion of worthy

young men in our country, to relinquish the hope of a happy home of

their own, which would be their strongest stimulant to exertion and

their best shield against temptation.

It is long since I have been in the habit of witnessing the gambols

of the gay world; but I happened not long since to peep in upon

a sort of fandango at the house of one of my friends, and, bless

my heart, what costumes! My surprise would beggar description. I

happened to be standing near the mistress of the house, and remarked

to her that I was not aware this was to be a _fancy party_.

"And it is not," she replied.

"But you do not mean to tell me," I exclaimed in dismay, "that these

are the ordinary costumes for full dress at parties?"

"Of course they are. Why not?" she very innocently answered.

I ventured no further remark or inquiry, but retired with my own

quiet cogitations into a silent corner. Presently a sprightly young

lady of whom I am very fond, and who is foolish enough to cherish

a great fancy for me, came tripping up to my retreat, her face all

shining with gayety and goodness. "Tell me, my dear," said I, "why

you young ladies wear your pockets outside your dress, and in such

an inconvenient place, and why you wear your skirts pinned up at a

party, just as we used to wear them when about our housework?"

"Oh! those are not our pockets; they are _paniers_; and it is the

present style to loop up the skirts this way."

"But, my child, can you tell me how many superfluous yards of silk

are required to make skirts in this way, and to furnish these

festoons?"

"We do not count by yards," said she, laughing; "but this is not an

expensive dress. It cost only _eighty dollars_, the making and all!"

And she glided away to join her young companions. So much for the

philosophy of a young girl in a simple country village!

"No wonder," thought I, "that Harry does not dare to marry!"

Now here was this dear girl--lovely, accomplished, beautiful,

intelligent, and fascinating--a perfect charm in society, after her

fashion; but a wife? Why a man might as well marry a butterfly!

There is certainly something sadly "out of joint" in the times. The

jarring and jolting of domestic machinery betrays loose screws, if

not more fatal defects, somewhere in its construction. The subject

is attracting general attention, eliciting general complaint, and

calling forth the best energies of many minds in its discussion. Much

talent has been engaged in the consideration of evils and defects,

which it is asserted pervade every branch of domestic economy and

every part of society. Remedial measures which have recently been

proposed are also attracting much notice.

Not long ago a learned judge, lamenting the modern defects in female

education, concluded with the consoling remark, "Yes, our girls are

badly educated; but our boys will never find it out!"

Ah my learned friend! you see our young Henrys, though they may not

detect the cause, are fully alive to the consequences.

What are these defects, what their remedy, and what the proper

WORK FOR WOMEN.

Now, it seems to me that every mother who is blessed with a daughter

should begin with the first dawn of reason to instil into that

daughter's mind the consciousness that she has something to do--that

there is _work_ awaiting every step of her advancing progress from

childhood to youth, from youth to womanhood, and from womanhood to

old age.

The patronage of boarding-houses, which are entirely antagonistic to

the first idea of a home, should be discarded. The daughter should be

required to participate daily with her mother in household cares and

duties, even while pursuing her studies.

Herein lies the difference between "modern ideas" and the antique

_régime_. Here is the fault of the "century," so deplorable in

its results, so widely lamented; and here--by the most culpable

neglect to rear our daughters in a manner to fit them for the high

responsibilities and duties of _home_--has the equilibrium between

the "producer and consumer," so much talked of, been lost.

Education, like charity, should begin, be carried on, and be

perfected at home, or it can be nothing elsewhere. The duties of

women as "producers," in modern times, are identical with those of

their grandmothers; and it is only in the family, within the dear and

sheltered nook of home, that they can find profitable and legitimate

exercise.

Under the ancient system--and it certainly could show as noble

results as the modern mode has been able to achieve--the wife was

the queen of a little kingdom, and her highest ambition was to rule

within its sacred precincts wisely and well. If the resources and

revenues were scanty, her study was so to manage the expenditures

as to leave a margin on the credit side for future emergencies, or

for increase of capital. If God gave her children, she accepted the

inestimable boon with heartfelt thanksgivings, took up the holy

office with all its tender cares and duties, as the crown of her

glory, and presided with matronly dignity over the best and highest

interests of the young immortals committed to her keeping, training

her little ones diligently "in the way in which they should walk."

She welcomed gracefully whatever adjuncts were furnished by schools

and books, but never dreamed of abating her maternal vigilance, or

trusting to these as substitutes for home culture. Her children were

daily questioned, their proficiencies praised, their deficiencies or

indolence in their studies reproved. Consequently she did not fall

into that other dream, too common in these days, of going out from

home to find something to do, because schools and systems had taken

her children off her hands, and removed them beyond the scope of her

jurisdiction.

Schools did not release her from the duty of watching over the

development of their intellects. Sewing-machines did not stitch their

garments; trained servants in every department were not at hand

to perform the housework indifferently well. Verily, between one

interest and another, our grandmothers had work enough to do!

WAS IT PROFITABLE?

We think any young wife and mother who will ask this question with

sincerity and thoughtfulness, arousing the energies of her mind

to the importance of considering it well and arriving at a true

conclusion, will give an affirmative reply. There is no sphere in

which a woman can be so profitable a "producer" as at home, and that

simply by practising the old-fashioned virtues of "looking well to

the ways of her household, and eating not the bread of idleness." By

regulating carefully the consumption, she becomes the most efficient

and lucrative "producer."

When every woman will accept this truth in its widest sense, and

act accordingly, then, and not before, will the balance-sheet

between "producers and consumers" be adjusted. Then will the toiling

husband be matched by the industrious and frugal wife. Then will he

return after the toils of the day, not to a palace glittering in

cold splendor, and rivalling in the chilly magnificence of gew-gaws

and trinkets a jeweller's show-window, but to a cozy and cheerful

home, where "books that are books" abound, where the smile of an

intelligent companion greets his return, and a sympathizing friend is

ever ready to enter into all his cares and perplexities, to assist

with wise counsels, and encourage with brave words.

It is certain that there is great need of a thorough change in

the domestic discipline of the homes in our country, if a tithe

of what is predicated as to existing evils be true. If our young

women have really, as a general rule, become so frivolous in their

characters, so fond of their ease, and so expensive in their habits,

that our prudent young men dare not assume the burden of a family,

or, in doing so, can have no assurance that they are providing for

themselves the comforts and the blessings which should be embraced

in the sacred inclosure of home, the consequences to society must be

utterly ruinous. The family is the foundation of society, and only

in well-ordered and happy homes can its well-being and stability be

established and sustained.

NIL DESPERANDUM.

Deplorable as are the pictures which are drawn, discouraging as are

the statements we daily hear of domestic confusion and misery, it

is not to be admitted or believed that our American women are so

swallowed up in a vortex of fashion and folly, or so enfeebled by

habits of indolence, that they cannot be awakened from their fatal

dream.

There is really in our national character too much intelligence,

though it may be slumbering; too much energy, though it may be

dormant through apathy, to permit us to sink hopelessly and

helplessly into social chaos. It is only necessary to awaken the

public mind to the importance of the subject, and to arouse American

women to united and persevering efforts to retrieve the past, and

bring about a better state of affairs in the future, and the work

of reform is on the sure road to accomplishment. This is the only

"_coöperative_" agency from which we may hope for beneficial results.

No new plans or patent machinery will enable the wife, the mother,

the housekeeper, to shirk her duty or transfer the irksome task to

other shoulders. She must simply "seek out the old paths, and walk

therein," humbly, diligently, at whatever sacrifice of her own ease

or endurance of painful trials, which must always be the heritage

of the true woman, but which, met and endured in the true womanly

spirit, are richer than earthly treasures, and will secure rewards

more unfailing than earthly glories.

In no other way can this painful domestic problem ever find a fitting

solution.

A CONVERT'S PRAYER.

"Too late have I known thee, O ancient truth! Too long have I

wandered from thee, O ancient beauty!"

SAINT AUGUSTINE.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. FATHER WELCH, S.J.

Is it too late, O Lord! too late,

To thee who count'st not time

As we thy finite creatures do,

By cycles as they chime?

By years, and months, and fleeting days--

Not so thou countest, Lord;

A thousand years are in thy sight

As yesterday's brief word.

Or is it only late for _me_,

Late for earth's fleeting day,

Because the best of life is gone--

My youth has passed away?

Its fresh love, though, was given to thee;

Yet now, how cold it seems,

And I as one who shadows chased

In labyrinths of dreams.

In faith I walk now with thee, Lord,

As when Incarnate here

The wondering Jews looked on thy face,

And to thy words gave ear.

I am with thee at the marriage feast

In Cana's peaceful dale,

I hear thy Blessed Mother's voice

O'er thee in love prevail.

I hear thee answer her, and bring

From water even wine,

And mark that wondrous miracle

Which stamps thee God Divine!

And then, amid thy chosen twelve

The mystic supper spread,

With only juice pressed from the vine,

And only wheaten bread;

And yet, as at fair Cana's feast,

Faith's miracle there stood,

This bread thy _word_ transforms to flesh,

This wine into thy blood!

I hear thee say those solemn words,

"_Except my flesh ye eat,

And drink my blood, no life have ye_,"

No love for me complete!

I hear the Jew, "How can this man

Give us his flesh to eat?"

I mark thy silence; then, again,

Thy solemn words repeat.

This is faith's lesson. Lord, I bow

Submissive to thy word,

Nor ask I "_how_:" it is enough

That thou hast said it, Lord!

O wondrous mystery of faith!

Great God, thou dost retain

The vision of thy _presence_ till

We cease to say, "Explain."

And last, I see thee on the cross,

Thine arms extended wide,

As if to draw the world to thee

To kiss thy wounded side.

And then, down-lifted from the cross,

And in the linen laid,

With spices pressed by Mary's hand

In wounds the spear had made.

All this I see, and in the night

Thy voice comes low and sweet,

And bids me, sinner as I am,

To kiss thy wounded feet.

And each dear hand, once raised to bless,

To heal, now torn and riven--

Lord, in those bleeding hands take _mine_,

Nor let them go till heaven

Shall take me, wanderer, safely in,

Where all these tears and sighs

Shall on thy breast be hushed to rest,

In golden paradise!

Then is it late, "too late," O Lord?

I am waiting in the porch

To hear those "gates of pearl" unbar,

And enter in thy church;

To find sure anchor, peace and rest,

From error, sorrow, sin;

I am very weary of earth's strife--

Lord, let thy wanderer in.

SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY.

St. Gertrude's Day, Nov. 15, 1869.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

ANGELA.

CHAPTER VIII.

AVOWALS.

In the same deep valley where the brook rippled over the pebbles in

its bed, where the mountain sides rose up abruptly, where the moss

hung from the old oaks, where Klingenberg plucked the tender beard of

the young professor of history, took place the meditated attack of

the doctor on the poison of materialism which was destroying the body

and soul of Richard.

Slowly and carefully the doctor advanced, as against an enemy who

will defend his position to the last. But how was he astonished when,

upon being attacked, Frank showed no disposition to defend that most

highly-vaunted doctrine of modern science--materialism. This was

almost as puzzling to the doctor as the eternity of matter. Tired

of skirmishing, the doctor set to work to close with the enemy and

strike him down.

"I have looked only cursorily at the writings of the materialists;

you have studied them carefully; and you will oblige me much if

you would give me the foundation on which the whole structure of

materialism rests."

"The materialistic system is very simple," answered Frank.

"Materialists reject all existence that is not sensibly perceptible.

They deny the existence of invisible and supersensible things. There

is no spirit in man or anywhere else. Matter alone exists, because

matter alone manifests its existence."

"I understand. The materialist will only be convinced by seeing and

feeling. As a spirit is neither spiritual nor tangible, then there is

none. Is it not so, friend Richard?"

"You have included in one sentence the whole of materialism," said

Frank coolly.

"I cannot understand," said Klingenberg hesitatingly, "how the

materialists can make assertions which are untenable to the commonest

understandings. Why, thought can neither be seen nor felt; yet it is

an existence."

"Thought is a function of the brain."

"Then it is incomprehensible how the sensible can beget the

supersensible. How matter--the brain--can produce the immaterial, the

spiritual."

Richard was silent.

"At every step in materialism I meet insurmountable difficulties,"

continued the doctor. "I know perfectly the organization of the human

body, as well as the function and purpose of each part. The physician

knows the purpose of the lungs, heart, kidneys, and stomach, and all

the noble and ignoble parts of the body. But no physician knows the

origin of the activity of the organism. The blood stops, the pulse

no longer beats, the lungs, kidneys, nerves, and all the rest cease

their functions. The man is dead. Why? Because the activity, the

movement, the force is gone. What then is this vivifying force? In

what does it consist? What color, what taste, what form has it? No

physician knows. The vivifying principle is invisible, intangible,

perfectly immaterial. Yet it exists. Therefore the fundamental dogma

of materialism is false. There are existences which can neither be

felt, tasted, nor seen."

"The vivifying principle is also in animals," said Richard.

"Certainly; and in them also intangible and mysterious. Materialism

cannot even stand before animal life; for even there the vivifying

principle is an immaterial existence."

"The materialist stumbles at the existence of human spirit, because

he cannot get a conception of it."

"How could this be possible?" cried the doctor. "The conception is a

picture in the mind, an apprehension of the senses. Spiritual being

is as unapproachable by the senses as the vivifying principle, of

which also man can form no conception. To deny existence because you

cannot have a conception of it, is foolish. The blind would have

the same right to deny the existence of colors, or the deaf that

of music. And who can have a conception of good, of eternity, of

justice, of virtue? No one. These are existences that do not fall

under the senses. To be logical, the materialist must conclude that

there is nothing good, nothing noble, no justice; for we have not yet

seen nor felt nor smelt these things. Virtuous actions we can, of

course, see; but these actions are not the cause but the consequence,

not the thing working but the thing wrought. As these actions will

convince every thinking man of the existence of virtue and justice,

so must the workings of the spirit prove its existence."

"Precisely," replied Frank. "Materialism only surprises and

captivates one like a dream of the night. It vanishes the moment it

is seen. I read the works of Vogt and Büchner only for diversion; my

object was perfectly gained."

"You read for diversion! What did you wish to forget?"

"Dark clouds that lowered over my mind."

"Have you secrets that I, your old friend and well-meaning adviser,

should not know?"

Frank was confused; but his great respect for the doctor forced him

to be candid.

"You know my views of women. When I tell you that Angela, the

well-known Angel of Salingen, has torn these opinions up by the

roots, you will not need further explanation."

"You found Angela what I told you? I am glad," said Klingenberg. And

his disputative countenance changed to a pleasant expression. "I

suspected that the Angel of Salingen made a deep impression on you. I

did not guess; I read it in large characters on your cheeks. Have you

made an avowal?"

"No; it will never come to that."

"Why not? Are you ashamed to confess that you love a beautiful young

lady? That is childish and simple. There is no place here for shame.

You want a noble, virtuous wife. You have Angela in view. Woo her; do

not be a bashful boy."

"Bashfulness might be overcome, but not the conviction that I am

unworthy of her."

"Unworthy! Why, then? Shall I praise you? Shall I exhibit your noble

qualities, and convince you why you are worth more than any young man

that I know? You have not Angela's religious tone; but the strong

influence of the wife on the husband is well known. In two or three

years I shall not recognize in the ultramontane Richard Frank the

former materialist." And the doctor laughed heartily.

"It is questionable," said the young man, "whether Angela's

inclination corresponds to mine."

"The talk of every true lover," said the doctor pleasantly. "Pluck

the stars of Bethlehem, like Faust's Grethe, with the refrain, 'She

loves, she loves not--she loves.' But you are no bashful maiden; you

are a man. Propose to her. Angela's answer will show you clearly how

she feels."

The doctor was scarcely in his room when Richard's father entered.

"All as you foretold," said Klingenberg. "Your son is cured of his

hatred of women by Angela. The materialistic studies were not in

earnest; they were only a shield held up against the coming passion.

The love question is so absorbing, and the sentiment so strong, that

Richard left me near Frankenhöhe to hasten over there. I expect from

your sound sense that you will place no obstacles in the way of your

son's happiness."

"I regret," said Frank coldly, "that I cannot be of the same opinion

with you and Richard in this affair."

"Make your son unhappy?" said Klingenberg. "Do you consider the

possible consequences of your opposition?"

"What do you understand by possible consequences?"

"Melancholy, madness, suicide, frequently come from this. I leave

to-morrow, and I hope to take with me the assurance that you will

sacrifice your prejudice to the happiness of Richard."

* * * * *

Among the numerous inhabitants of Siegwart's yard was a hen with a

hopeful progeny. The little chicks were very lively. They ran about

after insects till the call of the happy mother brought them to her.

Escaped from the shell some few days before, they had instead of

feathers delicate white down, so that the pretty little creatures

looked as though they had been rolled in cotton. They had black,

quick eyes, and yellow feet and bills. If a hawk flew in the air

and the mother gave a cry, the little ones knew exactly what it

meant, and ran under the protecting wings of the mother from the

hawk, although they had never seen one--had never studied in natural

history the danger of the enemy. If danger were near, she called, and

immediately they were under her wings. The whole brood now stopped

under the lindens. The little ones rested comfortably near the warm

body of the mother. Now here, now there, their little heads would pop

out between the feathers. One smart little chirper, whose ambition

indicated that he would be the future cock of the walk, undertook to

stand on the back of the hen and pick the heads of the others as they

appeared through the feathers.

Angela came under the lindens, carrying a vessel of water and some

crumbs in her apron for the little ones. She strewed the crumbs on

the ground, and the old hen announced dinner. The little ones set

to work very awkwardly. The old hen had to break the crumbs smaller

between her bill. Angela took one of the chickens in her hand and

fondled it, and carried it into the house. The hen went to the vessel

to drink and the whole brood followed. It happened that the one that

stood on her back fell into the water, and cried loudly; for it

found that it had got into a strange element of which it had no more

idea than Vogt and Büchner of the form of a spirit. At this critical

moment Frank came through the yard. He saw it fluttering about in

the water, and stopped. The old hen went clucking anxiously about

the vessel. And although she could without difficulty have taken the

chicken out with her bill, yet she did not do it. Richard observed

this with great interest; but showed no desire to save the little

creature, which at the last gasp floated like a bunch of cotton on

the water.

Angela may have heard the noise of the hen, for she appeared at

the door. She saw Frank standing near the lindens looking into the

vessel. At the same time she noticed the danger of one of her little

darlings, and hastened out. She took the body from the water and held

it sadly in her hands.

"It is dead, the little dear," said she sadly. "You could have saved

it, Herr Frank, and you did not do it." She looked at Frank, and

forgot immediately, on seeing him, the object of her regrets. The

young man stood before her so dejected, so depressed and sad, that

it touched her heart. She knew what darkened his soul. She knew his

painful struggle, his great danger, and she could have given her

life to save him. She was moved, tears came into her eyes, and she

hastened into the house.

Siegwart was reading the paper when his daughter hastened in such an

unusual way through the room and disappeared.

This astonished him.

"What is the matter, Angela?" he exclaimed.

There was no answer. He was about to go after her when Frank entered.

"I can give you some curious news of the assessor," said the

proprietor after some careless conversation. "The man is terribly

enraged against me and full of bad designs. The reason of this anger

is known to you." And he added, "Angela is in the next room, and she

must know nothing of his proposal."

Frank nodded assent.

"About ten paces from the last house in Salingen," continued

Siegwart, "I have had a pile of dirt thrown up. It was now and then

sprinkled with slops, to make manure of it. Herr Hamm has made the

discovery that the slops smell bad; that it annoys the inhabitants of

the next house; and he has ordered it to be removed."

Richard shook his head disapprovingly.

"Perhaps Herr Hamm will come to the conclusion that, in the interest

of the noses, all like piles must be removed from Salingen."

"But that is not all," said Siegwart. "It has been discovered that

the common good forbids my keeping fowls, because my residence is

surrounded by fields and vineyards, where the fowls do great damage.

The Herr Assessor has had the goodness, accompanied by the guards,

to examine personally the amount of destruction. So I have got

instructions either to keep my fowls confined or to make away with

them."

"Mean and contemptible!" said Frank.

Angela came into the room. Her countenance was smiling and clear as

ever; but her swollen eyes did not escape Richard's observation. She

greeted the guest, and sat down in her accustomed place near the

window. Scarcely had she done this, when Frank stood up, went toward

her, and knelt down before the astonished girl.

"Miss, I have greatly offended you, and beg your pardon."

Siegwart looked on in surprise--now at his daughter, who was

perplexed; now at the kneeling young man.

"For God's sake! Herr Frank, arise," said the confused Angela. She

was about to leave the seat, but he caught her hand and gently

replaced her.

"If I may approach so near to you, my present position is the proper

one. Hear me! I have deeply offended you. I could with ease have

saved a creature that was dear to you, and I did not do it. My

conduct has brought tears to your eyes--hurt your feelings. When

you went away to regain your composure, and to show your offender a

serene, reconciled countenance, it made my fault more distressing.

Forgive me; do not consider me hard and heartless, but see in me an

unfortunate who forgets himself in musing."

She looked into Frank's handsome face as he knelt before her, in such

sadness, lowering his eyes like a guilty boy, and smiled sweetly.

"I will forgive you, Herr Frank, on one condition."

"Only speak. I am prepared for any penance."

"The condition is, that you burn those godless books that make you

doubt about the noblest things in man, and that you buy no more."

"I vow fulfilment, and assure you that the design of those books,

which you rightly call godless, is recognized by me as a crime

against the dignity of man--and condemned."

"This rejoices no one more than me," said she with a tremulous voice.

He stood up, bowed, and returned to his former place.

"But, my dear neighbor, how did this singular affair happen?" said

the proprietor.

Frank told him about the death of the chicken.

"The love of the hen for her chickens is remarkable. She protects

them with her wings and warns them of danger, which she knows by

instinct. How easy would it have been for the hen to have taken the

young one from the water with her bill--the same bill with which she

broke their food and gave it to them. But she did not do it, because

it is strange to her nature. This case is another striking proof that

animals act neither with understanding nor reflection. Acts beyond

their instinct are impossible to them. This would not be the case,

if they had souls."

* * * * *

The old servant stood with an empty basket before the library of

the son, as he had stood before that of the father. Büchner, Vogt,

and Czolbe fell into the fire. Jacob shook his head and regretted

the beautiful binding; but the evil spirits between the covers he

willingly consigned to the flames.

* * * * *

Again the cars stopped at the station; again the two gentlemen stood

at the open window of the car to receive their returning friends. The

travellers took a carriage and drove through the street.

"Baron Linden has indeed gone headlong into misery," said Lutz

humorously. "Eight days ago the young pair swore eternal fidelity. It

was signed and sealed. Until to-day no one could know that they were

on the brink of misery."

Richard remembered his remark on the former occasion, and wondered at

his sudden change of opinion.

"I wish them all happiness," said he.

"Amen!" answered Lutz. "Richard, however, considers happiness in

matrimony possible. So we may hope that he will not always remain a

bachelor. How is the Angel of Salingen? Have you seen her since that

encounter with the steer?"

"The angel is well," said Richard, avoiding the glance of his friend.

"What do you mean by the 'Angel of Salingen'?" said the father.

"Thereby I understand the unmarried daughter of Herr Siegwart, of

Salingen, named Angela, who richly deserves to be called the 'Angel

of Salingen.'"

Frank knit his brows darkly and drummed on his knees.

"And the encounter with the steer?" continued he.

The professor related the occurrence.

"Ah! you did not tell me anything of that," said the father, turning

to Frank. "An act of such great courage deserves to be mentioned."

The carriage passed into the court of a stately mansion. The servant

sprang from his seat and opened the carriage-door. The professor

looked at his watch.

"Herr Frank, will you allow your coachman to drive me to the

university? I must be at my post in ten minutes. I cannot go on foot

in that time."

"With pleasure, Herr Professor."

"Richard," said the other friend, "shall we meet at the opera

to-night?"

"Scarcely. I must to-day enter upon my usual business."

"Come, if possible. The evening promises great amusement, for the

celebrated Santinilli dances."

The accustomed routine of business began for Richard. He sat in the

counting-room and worked with his habitual punctuality. Nevertheless

invidious spirits lured him toward Salingen, so that the figures

danced before his eyes, words had no meaning, and he was often

lost in day-dreams. The watchful father had observed this, and was

perplexed.

Richard's plan of studies also underwent a change. He left the house

regularly at half-past five and returned at half-past six. The

father, desiring to know what this meant, set the faithful Jacob on

the watch.

"Herr Richard," reported the spy, "hears mass at the Capuchins."

Frank drummed a march on his knees.

"So, so!" he hummed. "The ultramontanes understand proselytizing.

They have turned the head of my son. If I live long enough, I may

yet see him turn Capuchin, build a cloister, and go about begging."

When Herr Frank entered the counting-room, he found his son busy at

work. He stood up and greeted his father.

"I have observed, Richard," he began after a time, "that you go out

early every morning. What does it mean?"

"I have imposed upon myself the obligation of hearing mass every

morning."

"How did you come to take that singular obligation upon yourself?"

"From the conviction that religion is no empty idea, but a power that

can give peace and consolation in all conditions of life."

"It is evident that you have breathed ultramontane air. This

church-going is not forbidden--but no trifling or fanatical nonsense."

"It is my constant care, father, to give you no cause of uneasiness."

"I am rejoiced at this, my son; but I must observe that a certain

gloomy, reserved manner of yours disturbs me. Your conduct is

exemplary, your industry praiseworthy, your habits regular; but you

keep yourself too much shut up; you do not give evening parties any

more. You do not visit the concert-hall or theatre. This is wrong; we

should enjoy life, and not move about like dreamers."

"I have no taste for amusements," answered Richard. "However, if you

think a change would be good, I beg you to permit me to take a run

out to Frankenhöhe for a couple of days."

"And why to Frankenhöhe? I do not know any amusement there for you."

"I have planted a small vineyard, as you know, and I would like to

see how the Burgundies thrive."

Herr Frank was not in a hurry to give the permission. He thought and

drummed.

"You can go," he said resignedly. "I hope the mountain air will cheer

you up."

* * * * *

Herr Siegwart had remarked the same symptoms in his daughter that

Herr Frank had in his son; but Angela did not give way to discontent.

She was always the same obedient daughter. The poor and sick of

Salingen could not complain of neglect. But she was frequently

absent-minded, gave wrong answers to questions, and sought solitude.

If Frank was mentioned, she revived; the least circumstance connected

with him was interesting to her. Her sharp-sighted father soon

discovered the inmost thoughts and feelings of his daughter. He

thought of Herr Frank's ill-humor toward him, and was disposed to

regret the hour that Richard entered his house.

* * * * *

The Burgundies at Frankenhöhe were scarcely looked at. The young

man hastened to Salingen. He found the landscape changed in a few

weeks. The fields had clothed themselves in yellow. The wheat-stalks

bent gracefully under their load. Everywhere industrious crowds were

in the fields. The stalks fell beneath the reapers. Men bound the

sheaves. Wagons stood here and there. The sheaves were raised into

picturesque stacks. The sun beamed down hot, and the sweltering

weather wrote on the foreheads of the men, "Adam, in the sweat of thy

brow thou shalt eat thy bread."

In the proprietor's house all was still. The old cook sat beneath the

lindens, and with spectacles on her nose tried to mend a stocking

which she held in her hand. She arose and smiled on Richard's

approach.

"They are all in the fields. We have much work, Herr Frank. The grain

is ripe, and we have already gathered fifty wagon-loads. I am glad to

see you looking so much better. The family will also be glad. They

think a great deal of you--particularly Herr Siegwart."

"Give them many kind greetings from me. I will come back in the

evening."

"Off so soon? Will you not say good-day to Miss Angela? She is in the

garden. Shall I call her?"

"No," said he after a moment's reflection; "I will go into the garden

myself."

After unlatching the gate, he would have turned back, for he became

nervous and embarrassed.

Angela sat in the arbor; her embroidery-frame leaned against the

table, and she was busily working. As she heard the creaking of

footsteps on the walk, she looked up and blushed. Frank raised his

hat, and when the young woman stood up before him in beauty and

loveliness, his nervousness increased, and he would gladly have

escaped; but his spirit was in the fetters of a strange power, and

necessity supplied him with a few appropriate remarks.

"I heard that the family were absent; but I did not wish to go away

without saluting you, Miss Angela."

She observed the bashful manner of the young man, and said kindly, "I

am glad to see you again, Herr Frank," and invited him to sit down.

He looked about for a seat; but as there was none, he had to sit on

the same bench with her.

"Do you remain long at Frankenhöhe?"

"Only to-day and to-morrow. Work requires dispatch, and old custom

has so bound me to my occupation that the knowledge of work to be

done makes me feel uneasy."

"Do you work every day regularly in the counting-room?"

"I am punctual to the hours, for the work demands regularity and

order. There are every day some hours for recreation."

"And what is the most pleasant recreation for you?"

"Music and painting. I like them the best. But of late," he added

hesitatingly, "unavoidable thoughts press on me, and many hours of

recreation pass in useless dreaming."

Angela thought of his former mental troubles and looked anxiously in

his eyes.

"Now, you have promised me," she said softly, "to forget all those

things in those bad books that disturbed your mind."

"The fulfilment of no duty was lighter or more pleasant to me than to

keep my promise to you, Angela."

His voice trembled. She leaned over her work and her cheeks glowed.

The delicate fingers went astray; but Frank did not notice that the

colors in the embroidery were getting into confusion. There was a

long pause. Then Frank remembered the doctor's final admonition, "Be

not like a bashful boy; put aside all false shame and speak your

mind;" and he took courage.

"I have no right to ask what disturbs and depresses you," said she,

in a scarcely audible voice and without moving her head.

"It is you who have the best right, Angela! You have not only saved

my life, but also my better convictions. You have purified my views,

and influenced my course of life. I was deeply in error, and you have

shown me the only way that leads to peace. This I see more clearly

every day. The church is no longer a strange, but an attractive

place to me. All this you have done without design. I tell you this

because I think you sympathize with me."

He paused; but the declaration of his love hovered on his lips.

"You have not deceived yourself as to my sympathy," she answered.

"The discovery that one so insignificant as myself has any influence

with you makes me glad."

"O Angela! you are not insignificant in my eyes. You are more than

all else on earth to me!" he cried. "You are the object of my love,

of my waking dreams. If you could give me your hand before the altar

in fidelity and love, my dearest wishes would be realized."

She slowly raised her head, her modest countenance glowed in a

virginal blush, and her eyes, which met Richard's anxious look, were

filled with tears. She lowered her head, and laid her hand in that of

the young man. He folded her in his arms, pressed her to his heart,

and kissed her forehead. The swallows flew about the arbor, twittered

noisily, and threatened the robber who was trying to take away their

friend. The sparrows, through the leaves of the vines, looked with

wonder at the table where Angela's head rested on the breast of her

affianced.

They arose.

"We cannot keep this from our parents, Richard. My parents esteem

you. Their blessing will not be wanting to our union."

Suddenly she paused, and stood silent and pale, as though filled with

a sudden fear. Richard anxiously inquired the cause.

"You know your father's opinion of us," she said, disturbed.

"Do not be troubled about that. Father will not object to my

arrangements. But even if he does, I am of age, and no power shall

separate me from you."

"No, Richard; no! I love you as my life; but without your father's

consent, our union wants a great blessing. Speak to him in love;

beg him, beseech him, but do not annoy him on account of your

selfishness."

"So it shall be. Your advice is good and noble. As long as this

difficulty exists, I am uneasy. I will therefore go back. Speak to

your parents; give them my kind greeting, and tell them how proud I

shall feel to be acknowledged as their son." He again folded her in

his arms and hastened away.

The old cook still sat under the lindens, and the stocking lost many

a stitch as Frank, with a joyous countenance, passed her without

speaking, without having noticed her. She shook wonderingly her old

gray head.

Angela sat in the arbor. Her work lay idly on the table. With a

countenance full of sweetness she went to her room, and knelt and

prayed.

* * * * *

Herr Frank looked up astonished, as Richard, late in the evening,

entered his chamber.

"Excuse me, father," said he joyfully and earnestly; "something has

happened of great importance to me, and of great interest to you. I

could not delay an explanation, even at the risk of depriving you of

an hour's sleep."

"Well, well! I am really interested," said Herr Frank, as he threw

himself back on the sofa. "Your explanation must be something

extraordinary, for I have never seen you thus before. What is it,

then?"

"For a right understanding of my position, it is necessary to go back

to that May-day on which we went to Frankenhöhe. Your displeasure at

my well-grounded aversion to women you will remember."

With childish simplicity he related the whole course of his inner

life and trials at Frankenhöhe. He described the deep impression

Angela had made upon him. He took out his diary and read his

observations, his stubborn adherence to his prejudices, and the

victory of a virtuous maiden over them. The father listened with the

greatest attention. He admired the depth of his son's mind and the

noble struggle of conviction against the powerful influence of error.

But when Richard made known what had passed between himself and

Angela, Herr Frank's countenance changed.

"I have told you all," said Richard, "with that openness which a son

owes to his father. From the disposition and character of Angela, as

you have heard them, you must have learned to respect her, and have

been convinced that she and I will be happy. Therefore, father, I beg

your consent and blessing on our union."

He arose and was about to kneel, when Herr Frank stopped him.

"Slowly, my son. With the exception of what happened to-day, I

am pleased with your conduct. You have convinced yourself of the

injustice of your opinion of women. You have found a noble woman.

I am willing to believe that Angela is a magnificent and faultless

creature, although she have an ultramontane father. But my consent

to your union with Siegwart's daughter you will never receive. Now,

Richard, you can without trouble find a woman that will suit you, and

who is as beautiful and as noble-minded as the Angel of Salingen."

"May I ask the reason of your refusal, father?"

"There are many reasons. First, I do not like the ultramontane spirit

of the Siegwart family. Angela is educated in this spirit. You would

be bound to a wife whose narrow views would be an intolerable burden."

"Pardon, father! The extracts from my diary informed you that I have

examined this ultramontane spirit very carefully, and that I was

forced at last to correct my opinions of the ultramontanes--to reject

an unjust prejudice."

"The stained glass of passion has beguiled you into ultramontane

sentiments; and further, remember that Siegwart is personally

objectionable to me." And he spoke of the failure of the factory

through Angela's father.

"Herr Siegwart has told me of that enterprise, and, at the same time,

gave me the reasons that induced him to prevent its realization. He

showed the demoralizing effects of factories. He showed that the

inhabitants of that neighborhood support themselves by farming; that

the religious sentiment of the country people is endangered by Sunday

labor and other evil influences that accompany manufacturing."

"And you approved of this narrow-mindedness of the ultramontane?"

cried Frank.

"Siegwart's conduct is free from narrow-mindedness. You yourself

have often said that faith and religion had much to fear from modern

manufactories. If Siegwart has made great sacrifices, if he has

interfered against his own interest in favor of faith and morality,

he deserves great respect for it."

"Has it gone so far? Do you openly take part with the ultramontane

against your father?"

"I take no part; I express frankly my views," answered Richard

tranquilly.

"The views of father and son are very different, and we may thank

your intercourse with the ultramontanes for it."

"Your acquaintance, father, with that excellent family is very

desirable. You would soon be convinced that you ought to respect

them."

"I do not desire their acquaintance. It is near midnight; go to rest,

and forget the hasty step of to-day."

"I will never regret what has taken place with forethought and

reflection," answered Richard firmly. "I again ask your consent to

the happiness of your son."

"No, no! Once for all--never!" cried Frank hastily.

The son became excited. He was about to fly into a passion, and to

show his father that he was not going to follow blind authority like

an inexperienced child, when he thought of what Angela said, "Speak

to your father in love;" and his rising anger subsided.

"You know, father," he said hesitatingly, "that my age permits me

to choose a wife without reference to your will. As the consent is

withheld without valid reasons, I might do without it. But Angela

has urgently requested me not to act against your will, and I have

promised to comply with her wishes."

"Angela appears to have more sense than you. So she requested this

promise from you? I esteem the young lady for this sentiment,

although she be a child of Siegwart, who shall never have my son for

a son-in-law."

The young man arose.

"It only remains for me to declare," said he calmly, "that to Angela,

and to her alone, shall I ever belong in love and fidelity. If you

persevere in your refusal, I here tell you, on my honor, I shall

never choose another wife."

He made a bow and left the room. It was long past midnight, and

Herr Frank was still sitting on the sofa, drumming on his knees and

shaking his head.

"An accursed piece of business!" said he. "I know he will not break

his word of honor under any circumstances. I know his stubborn

head. But this Siegwart, this clerical ultramontane fellow--it is

incompatible; mental progress and middle-age darkness, spiritual

enlightenment and stark confessionalism--it won't do. Angela

certainly is not her father. She is an innocent country creature;

does not wear crinoline, dresses in blue like a bluebell, has not

a dainty stomach, and has no toilette nonsense. The nuns, together

with perverted views of the world, may, perhaps, have taught her many

principles that adorn an honorable woman; but--but--" And Herr Frank

threw himself back grumbling on the sofa.

On the following day Richard wrote Angela a warm, impassioned letter.

The vow of eternal love and fidelity was repeated. In conclusion, he

spoke of his father's refusal, but assured her that his consent would

yet be given.

Many weeks passed. The letters of the lovers came and went regularly

and without interruption. She wrote that her parents had not

hesitated a moment to give their consent. In her letters Richard

admired her tender feeling, her dove-like innocence and pure love.

He was firm in his conviction that she would make him happy, would

be his loadstar through life. He read her letters hundreds of times,

and these readings were his only recreation. He spoke not another

word about the matter to his father. He kept away from all society.

He devoted himself to his calling, and endeavored to purify his

heart in the spirit of religion, that he might approach nearer to

an equality with Angela. The father observed him carefully, and was

daily more and more convinced that a spiritual change was coming

over his son. Murmuringly he endured the church-going, and vexedly

he shook his head at Richard's composure and perseverance, which he

knew time would not change. The more quietly the son endured, the

more disquieted Herr Frank became. "Sacrifice your prejudices to your

son's happiness," he heard the doctor saying; and he felt ashamed

when he thought of this advice.

"What cannot be cured must be endured," he was accustomed to say for

some days, as often as he went into his room. "The queer fellow makes

it uncomfortable for me; this cannot continue; days and years pass

away. I am growing old, and the house of Frank must not die out."

One morning he gave Richard charge of the establishment. "I have

important business," said he. "I will be back to-morrow."

The father smiled significantly as he said this. Richard heard from

the coachman that Herr Frank took a ticket for the station near

Frankenhöhe. He knew the great importance to him of this visit,

and prayed God earnestly to move his father's heart favorably. His

uneasiness increased hourly, and rendered all work impossible.

He walked up and down the counting-room like a man who feared

bankruptcy, and expected every moment the decision on which depended

his happiness for life. He went into the hall where the desks of

the clerks stood in long rows. He went to the desks, looked at the

writing of the clerks, and knew not what he did, where he went, or

where he stood.

The next day Herr Frank returned. Richard was called to the library,

where his father received him with a face never more happy or

contented.

"I have visited your bride," he began, "because I had a curiosity to

know personally the one who has converted my son to sound views of

womankind. I am perfectly satisfied with your taste, and also with

myself; for I have become reconciled with Siegwart, and find that he

is as willing to live with his neighbors in harmony as in discord.

You now have my blessing on your union. The marriage can take place

when you please; only it would please me if it came off as soon as

possible."

Richard stood speechless with emotion, which so overcame him that

tears burst from his eyes. He embraced his father, kissed him

tenderly, and murmured his thanks.

"That will do, Richard," said Herr Frank, much affected. "Your

happiness moves me. May it last long. And I do not doubt it will;

for Angela is truly a woman the like of whom I have never met. Her

character is as clear and transparent as crystal; and her eyes

possess such power, and her smile such loveliness, that I fear for my

freedom when she is once in the house."

* * * * *

Crisp, cold weather. The December winds sweep gustily through the

streets of the city, driving the well-clad wanderer before them and

sporting with the weather-vanes. A carriage stops before the door of

the Director Schlagbein. Professor Lutz steps out and directs the

driver to await him.

Emil Schlagbein, Richard's unhappy married friend, had moved his

easy-chair near the stove and leaned his head against its back. He

looked as though despair had seized him and thrown him into it. Hasty

steps were heard in the ante-room, and Lutz stood before him.

"Still in your working-clothes, Emil? Up! the tea-table of the Angel

of Salingen awaits us."

"Pardon me; my head is confused, my heart is sad; grief wastes my

life away."

"War--always war; never peace!" said Lutz. "I fear, Emil, that

all the fault is not with your wife. You are too sensitive, too

particular about principles. Man must tolerate, and not be niggardly

in compliance. Take old Frank as a model. With Angela entered

ultramontanism into his house. Frank lives in peace with this

spirit--even on friendly terms. Angela reads him pious stories from

the legends of the saints. He goes with her to church, where he

listens with attention to the word of God. He hears mass as devoutly

as a Capuchin; not to say any thing of Richard, who runs a race with

Angela for the prize of piety. Could you not also make some sacrifice

to the whims of your wife?"

"Angela and Ida--day and night!" said the director bitterly. "The

two Franks make no sacrifice to female whims. They appreciate her

exalted views, they admire her purity, her unspeakable modesty, her

shining virtues. The two Franks acted reasonably when they adopted

the principles that produced such a woman. Angela never speaks to

her husband in defiance and bad temper. If clouds gather in the

matrimonial heaven, she dissipates them with the breath of love.

Is the sacrifice of a wish wanted? Angela makes it. Is her pure

feeling offended by Richard's faults? She kisses them away and raises

him to her level. My wife--is she not just the opposite in every

thing? Is she not quick-tempered, bitter, loveless, extravagant,

and stiff-necked? Has she a look--I will not say of love--but even

of respect for me? Do not all her thoughts and acts look to the

pleasures of the toilette, the opera, balls, and concerts? O my poor

children! who grow up without a mother, in the hands of domestics.

How is any concession possible here? Must not my position, my

self-respect, the last remnant of manly dignity go to the wall?"

"Your case is lamentable, friend! Your principles and those of your

wife do not agree. Concession to the utmost point of duty, joined

with prudent reform in many things, may, perhaps, bring back harmony

and a good understanding between you. You praise Angela: follow her

example. She abominates the air of the theatre. The opera-glasses of

the young men levelled at her offend her deeply, and bring to her

angelic countenance the blush of shame. Her fine religious feeling is

offended at many words, gestures, and dances which a pious Christian

woman should not hear and see. Yet she goes to the opera because

Richard wishes it. Her husband will at last observe this heroism of

love, and sacrifice the opera to it. What Angela cannot obtain by

prayers and representations, she gains by the all-conquering weapons

of love. In like manner and for a like object yield to your wife. She

is, at least, not a firebrand. Love must overcome her stubbornness."

Schlagbein shook his head sadly.

"A father cannot do what is inconsistent with paternal duty,"

said he. "Shall I join in the course of my wife? Whither does

this course lead? To the destruction of all family ties, to

financial bankruptcy--to dishonor. For home my wife has no mind, no

understanding. My means she throws carelessly into the bottomless

pit of pleasure-seeking and love of dress. She does not think of

the future of her children. Every day brings to her new desires for

prodigality. If her wishes are fulfilled, ruin is unavoidable. If

they are not fulfilled, she sits ill-humored and obstinate in her

room, and leaves the care of the house to her domestics, and the

children to the nurses. How often have I consented to her vain desire

for show, only to see her extravagant wishes thereby increased. She

is without reason."

The unfortunate man's head sunk upon his breast. Lutz stood still

without uttering a word.

"Yes, Angela is a noble woman," continued Emil, "she is the spirit of

order, the angel of peace and love. Just hear Richard's father. He

revels in enthusiasm about her. 'My Richard is the happiest man in

the world,' said he to me lately. 'I myself must be thankful to him

for his prudent choice. Abounding in every thing, my house was empty

and desolate before Angela came; but now every thing shines in the

sun of her orderly housekeeping, of her tender care. Although served

with fidelity, I have been until the present almost neglected. But

now that the angel hovers over me, observes my every want, and with

her smile lights my old age, I am perfectly happy.' Has my wife a

single characteristic of this noble woman?"

"Angela is unapproachable in the little arts that win the heart and

drive away melancholy," said Lutz. "A few weeks ago, Herr Frank came

home one day from the counting-room all out of sorts. He sat silently

in his easy-chair drumming on his knee. Angela noticed his ill-humor.

She sought to dissipate it--to cheer him; but she did not succeed.

She then arose, and, going to him, said with unspeakable affection,

'Father, may I play and sing for you the "Lied der Kapelle?"' Herr

Frank looked in her face, and smiled as he replied, 'Yes, my angel.'

When her sweet voice resounded in the next room in beautiful accord

with the accompaniment, which she played most feelingly, the old man

revived and joined in her song with his trembling bass."

"How often we have twitted Richard with his views of modern women,"

said Emil. "It was his cool judgment, perhaps, that saved him from a

misfortune like mine."

Just then a carriage stopped before the house. Emil went uneasily to

the window, and Lutz followed him. Bandboxes and trunks were taken

from the house. The professor looked inquiringly at his friend, whose

hand appeared to tremble as it rested on the window-glass.

"What does this mean, Emil?"

"My wife is going to her aunt's for an indefinite time. She leaves me

to enjoy the pleasures of Christmas alone. The children also remain

here; they might be in her way."

The professor pitied his unhappy friend.

"Emil," said he, almost angrily, "it is for you to determine how a

man should act in regard to the freaks and caprices of his wife. But

you should not steep yourself in gall, even though your wife turn

into a river of bitterness. Drive away sadness and be happy. Do not

let your present humor rob you of every thing. Forget what you cannot

change."

A beautiful woman approached the carriage. Schlagbein turned away

from the sight. Lutz observed the departing wife and mother. She

did not look up at the window where her husband was. She got into

the carriage without even saying farewell. She sat in the midst of

bandboxes, surrounded by finery and tinsel; and as the wheels rolled

over the pavement, the director groaned in his chair.

"A happy journey to you, Xantippe!" cried the angry professor. "Emil,

be a man. Dress yourself; forget at the Angel of Salingen's your

domestic devil."

Schlagbein moved his head disconsolately.

"What have the wretched to do in the home of the happy? There I shall

only see more clearly that I suffer and am miserable."

Lutz, out of humor, threw himself into the carriage. With knitted

brows he buried himself in one of its corners. That professional

head was perplexed with a question which ordinary men would have

quickly seen through, and settled. Frank's happiness and Schlagbein's

misery stood as two irrefutable facts before the mind of the

professor. Now came the question, Why this happiness, why this

misery? The dashing Ida he had known for years; also her enlightened

views of life, and her flexible principles, perfectly conformable

to the spirit of progress. Whence, then, the dissoluteness of her

desires, the bitterness of her humor, the heartlessness of the wife,

the callousness of the mother?

The professor continued his musing. He gave a scrutinizing glance

at the marriages of all his acquaintances. Everywhere he found a

clouded sky, and, in the semi-darkness, lightning and thunder. Only

one marriage stood before him bright and clear in the sunlight of

happiness, in the raiment of peace, and that was ultramontane. That

ultramontane principles had produced this happiness and peace, the

professor's industrious mind saw with clearness. He raised his head

and said solemnly, "Marriage is an image of religion. It proceeds

from the lips of God, and is perfected at the altar. The marriage

duties are children of the religious sentiment, fetters of the

divine law. Ida was faithful and true so long as it agreed with

the longings of her heart. But with the cooling of affection died

love and fidelity. She recognizes no religious duty, because she

has progressed to liberty and independence. From this follows with

striking clearness the incompatibility of Christian marriage with the

spirit of the age. Marriage will be a thing of the past as soon as

intellectual maturity conquers in the contest with religion. Sound

sense, liberty of emotion and inclination will supplant the terrible

marriage yoke."

The professor paused and examined his conclusion. It smiled upon

him like a true child of nature. It clothed itself in motley flesh,

and passed through green meadows and shady forests. It pointed

encouragingly to the beasts of the field and the birds of the air,

long in possession of intellectual maturity. Sensual marriages,

intended to last only for weeks or months, danced around the

professor. Cannibal hordes, who extended to him their brotherly paws

and claws, pressed about him. In astonishment, he contemplated his

conclusion; it made beastly grimaces, knavish and jeering, and he

dashed into fragments the provoking mockery.

In strong contrast to the animal kingdom, stood before him again the

Christian marriage. He cunningly tried to give his new conclusion

human shape; but here the carriage stopped, and the speculation

vanished before the clear light in the house of the "Angel of

Salingen."

THE LETTER OF MR. E. S. FFOULKES.

The religious controversies of the last three centuries have given

birth to many new and strange things, but scarcely to any thing

more wonderful than the letter of Mr. E. S. Ffoulkes to Archbishop

Manning, entitled _The Church's Creed or the Crown's Creed_. It is

hard to discern the precise mental condition of the author, or the

temper with which he writes; while the whole letter is a bundle

of misstatements and misunderstandings, calculated to produce an

impression only upon the ignorant or prejudiced reader. It has been

used in this country as an argument against the Catholic Church by

the advance-guard of Episcopalians, whose sparse ranks are daily

depleted by conversions to Rome. It has more than once happened

that individuals even in high position have proved unfaithful, and

we know of one or two converts to the church for whom the yoke of

Christ proved too heavy. Nothing is more natural than to hold up

these examples to the doubtful and the wavering as warnings. "Here

is one who has tried the Roman communion and found it oppressive

to his heart, or irreconcilable with his views of Christianity.

Hesitate long before you take the step which he found occasion to

regret." Such a warning is not without effect upon minds so tempted

and anxious as are those of Protestants, when, called by conscience,

they forsake the associations of childhood and accept for the first

time, in the spirit of obedience, a religion which God has revealed

to faith alone. We have known some to be deterred from the great

step by such warnings, which are purely personal, and hardly merit

the name of arguments. For surely individual experiences are not to

be taken as the basis of any reasoning. They are good only as far as

the person concerned may be deemed an infallible criterion of right

or wrong. Every one is liable to mistake or positive error, and

while there have been a few dissatisfied Catholics, and a very few

concerts who have regretted the step they took, there have been many

more who have daily found new cause to thank God for the peace they

have experienced in the old faith. If the testimony of individuals

is to be taken, we have the preponderance of argument in our favor.

Defections from our ranks will never even approximate to an equality

in moral weight with the accessions, nor ever furnish any plausible

objection against the invincible demonstration of the authority of

the church. We do not deny that difficulties may be raised which

it may require time and patience to remove, nor that there are

oftentimes trials which prove the sincerity of every individual

believer. But there are no _logical_ objections to the claims of

an authority which professes to be divine, and gives to the honest

mind just grounds for its high pretensions. The defection of Mr. E.

S. Ffoulkes, or of many others like him, is in itself no argument

whatever, and cannot be taken as any thing conclusive against us,

any more than can the treason of Judas Iscariot. If he, or any other

adversary, will try in a manly way to confute the arguments by which

we substantiate our position, let us listen with patience and candor,

and give to his reasonings the attention which they merit. Has Mr.

Ffoulkes done this in the letter before us, and what answer shall

Catholics make to his attack? The full and complete replies which

have been made to his pamphlet in England may not have reached many

here whom his assertions have surprised, and therefore it may be well

to give room in these pages to a brief discussion of the charges

which he makes against the Catholic Church.

They resolve themselves into the following:

1. The pope allowed the civil power to make an alteration in the

creed--a thing distinctly forbidden by the Fourth General Council.

2. The pope afterward altered the creed on his own authority.

3. He made use of the forged Isidorian decretals to build up a power

which he did not possess in earlier ages.

4. He even inspired the Crusades for the purpose of putting down

the patriarchal sees of the east and exalting his own dignity, thus

showing himself to be a man of blood.

5. The fruits of faith, on the testimony of Mr. Ffoulkes's

experience, are greater in the Anglican Church than they are in the

Catholic communion; therefore the former is more truly a church than

the latter.

The inferences to be drawn from these charges, if they could be

substantiated, would be, that the pope has been very wicked, and has

made himself liable to excommunication, and that the see of Rome is

to blame for all the divisions of the church. This produces a sad

ecclesiastical dilemma; for if the supreme pontiff be excommunicated,

who will take his place, and where shall we find the true body of

Christ?

"Rome," says Mr. Ffoulkes, "has abundantly proved, during the last

thousand years, that she can be a negligent, hesitating, fickle,

self-seeking, hypocritical guide to others, _even where the faith

is concerned_."

Let us examine these fearful charges, one by one, and then perhaps we

may have time to notice some singular assertions which are scattered

through the letter, though they have nothing to do with the main

argument.

1. "The Fourth General Council set forth a creed in which the perfect

doctrine was taught concerning the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Then it decreed that it was lawful for nobody to propose or teach

others another faith. Those who should dare to do it, if bishops or

clergy, were to be deposed; if laymen, to be anathematized." Now,

in violation of this canon, one King Reccared, in Spain, in the year

589, did ignorantly or wilfully put the procession of the Holy Ghost

from the Son into the Nicene Creed, and sing the addition in his

private chapel. After him it appears that Charlemagne committed the

same offence, and the pope, though he objected to the proceeding,

did not stop it. The conclusion, therefore, is that, even though

this doctrine be true, the civil power, or "the crown in council,"

defined it; and secondly, that the Roman pontiff is worthy of

deposition because he winked at this disobedience to a decree of the

oecumenical council. We consider this whole charge as rather trivial,

and as already answered by the words of Mr. Ffoulkes himself. He

admits that the popes, while always defending the doctrine as true,

did not approve the addition to the creed in the way in which it

took place. It was, however, an expression of an orthodox dogma

which came spontaneously from the people and bishops, in which they

were seconded by their rulers. The papal objection to the movement

was manifestly on the ground that additions to the creed should

come from the proper authority, and that the precedent of Reccared

was dangerous in practice. To say that the civil power was the

tribunal which settled this doctrine, is to say something supremely

ridiculous, when the very words of the objector show that the whole

movement came from the ecclesiastical body. Catholics believe that

the procession of the Holy Ghost from the Son was always a part of

the deposit of faith, and that its expression in the symbols of the

church was only the confession of a dogma ever at least implicitly

professed. When the head of the church by his supreme authority

placed this doctrine in the creed--which he had, according to our

belief, an undoubted right to do--he did not sanction the action of

Reccared or Charlemagne, although he certainly gave his infallible

approval to the dogma. We think this proceeding of the "crown in

council" a very harmless one. Would that Elizabeth had been as

innocent in regard to the church which she established!

It seems, then, that the pope did not allow the thing of which our

objector complains, and so charge the first falls to the ground.

2. "The Roman pontiff, however, did himself alter the creed, and thus

break the canon of the Council of Ephesus." We admit the gravamen of

this accusation. The pope did, in answer to the wish of the great

majority of the Christian world, place the "_Filioque_" in the Nicene

symbol, or sanction its insertion. But three questions arise, the

reply to which will settle very clearly the whole difficulty. What is

the true meaning of the Ephesine canon to which Mr. Ffoulkes so often

refers? Is the doctrine of the procession of the Holy Ghost from

the Son a true doctrine? Did the pontiff go beyond his authority in

allowing its introduction into the creed?

In the first place, we find that our objector has put a singular and

most impossible construction upon the seventh canon of the Council

of Ephesus, which forms the one string upon which he harps with such

a dissonant monotony. He interprets that canon to forbid any after

definitions of faith, and to altogether abdicate the infallibility

of the church. In his view the Council of Chalcedon takes up the

same theme, and virtually renounces for all time the power which

Christ left on earth to teach and decide in questions of doctrine.

It is evident to any sane person that the church could not have

thus renounced its own gifts, and practically voted itself out of

existence. And facts beyond all question prove that such an idea

never entered into the heads of the fathers of Ephesus or Chalcedon.

The Roman pontiff, as the head of the Catholic Church, and the

councils which have been assembled under his direction, have ever

dealt with heresy as did the first five councils, and have even made,

as time rendered it necessary, fresh definitions of faith. By Mr.

Ffoulkes's construction of the canons, the popes and all the western

bishops have been deposed and excommunicated since the Fifth General

Council.[147]

The simple truth is, that the Ephesine canon only forbade any one to

bring in a faith _contrary_ to the one already defined, and never

dreamed of denying the office of the church to do for future ages

what the _Ecclesia docens_ was then doing for its own times. The

words of the council are, "It shall be lawful for no one to put forth

another faith than that defined by the Fathers of Nice," "_Alteram

fidem nemini licere proferre, præter definitam a Sanctis Patribus

qui in Nicæâ cum Sancto Spiritu congregati fuerunt._" Any person

not bewildered by religious eccentricities can easily see that this

canon, in the first place, only refers to any denial of the creed

of Nice; and, secondly, that it has in view the actions of private

individuals, and in no way that of the church collectively or its

supreme ruler. Mr. Ffoulkes then harps upon the creations of his

own fancy, and the legitimate consequence of his conclusions is the

annihilation of the whole ecclesiastical body, and the _reductio ad

absurdum_.

But is the doctrine of the procession of the Holy Ghost from the

Son true or false, according to authorities which even our objector

considers adequate? Those who are best acquainted with patristic

theology tell us that this doctrine was always taught by both

eastern and western fathers, though the mode of expression might

differ. The Greeks afterward misunderstood the Latin "_Filioque_"

as if in the act of spiration the Father and the Son were as two

distinct principles. The Latins, however, objected to the preposition

"per," as if in the eternal act the Son were only an instrument or

canal. The dogma that the Holy Ghost proceeds eternally from the

Father and the Son as from one principle, and in one action, was

unquestionably the belief of the early church. Pope Hormisdas, A.D.

521, seventy years before the conversion of Reccared, thus writes

to the emperor, "It is known to all that the Holy Ghost proceeds

from the Father and the Son under one substance of the Deity." The

same doctrine is clearly stated in the synodical epistle of St.

Cyril of Alexandria. There is no necessity in this place to refer

to other authorities, which are very numerous. The Roman pontiff,

acting, as Catholics believe, in his capacity as the head of the

church, allowed this dogma to be confessed in the Constantinopolitan

creed; and afterward the Synod of Florence, at which Greek bishops

were present, solemnly defined it. The action in this matter of the

holy see is very simply stated. It is hard to say at what precise

time the "_Filioque_" was first inserted in the symbol of faith. It

seems to have been used in Spain in the time of Reccared, and thence

to have passed into Germany, Gaul, and Italy. The objection of the

pope to its introduction in the first instance was, that it was done

by private individuals and without authority. Thus, St. Leo III.,

while commanding the doctrine to be taught, orders its ejection from

the creed only on this ground. So much is taught us by Mr. Ffoulkes

himself. At last, when its use became general and was demanded by the

consent of all, Benedict VIII. gave to it his supreme sanction.

The question now arises, if the Roman pontiff exceeded his authority

in this action? By the testimony of fathers and councils, we are

certain that he only sanctioned the confession of a doctrine received

by the early church, and solemnly defined by later days as a part of

the original deposit of faith, and as contained in the revelation

of the mystery of the Holy Trinity. Had he the right thus to act in

controversies of faith? If he had not, then not in this instance

alone, but in many others has he gone beyond the bounds of his

authority, and objectors might as well find fault with every pope

from St. Peter down as to weary themselves over a single fact of

history. The popes have always claimed the right thus to act, and

the Christian world has yielded it to them, and Catholics believe

that they have it from Christ. According to the Catholic doctrine,

the papacy is essential to the constitution of the church. There

could no more be a church without the pope than a man without ahead.

Writers like Mr. Ffoulkes do not seem to comprehend this, and so,

taking for granted that which should be proved, indulge in much

self-complacency. We pass on, then, to examine whether the Roman

pontiffs owe any of the power which they exercised to the forged

decretals of Isidore.

3. It is now pretty well settled that the Isidorian collection of

canons had their origin in France, and not at Rome, and that they

were framed not in the interest of the holy see, whose powers were

unquestioned, but in the interest of the bishops. The decretals of

the popes and of the oecumenical councils formed the canon law of

the church; and the first code of canons which received any kind of

official sanction at Rome was that of Dionysius in the sixth century.

Whenever the need of a new rule was felt, the pontiffs legislated by

their decretals, the originals of which were preserved in the papal

archives. That these decretals had full authority, appears by the

epistles of Celestine I. and Leo the Great, and from the preface of

Dionysius to his collection. The false decretals of Isidore began

to be circulated about the year 853, and at first attracted little

attention. Pope Nicholas I., in a letter to Hincmar of Rheims, A.D.

863, commanded that "no one should dare to pronounce a judgment

except in accordance with the canons of Nicæa, and of the other

councils, and in agreement with the decrees of the Roman pontiffs

Siricius, Innocent, Zosimus, Celestine, Boniface, Leo, Hilary,

Gregory, and others, saving in all things the rights of the apostolic

see."

He makes no reference to the decretals of Isidore, which were then

gaining acceptance, and certainly never thought of basing his

authority upon them. These decretals may be reduced to three classes:

first, the genuine canons or decrees of popes; second, those which

were substantially genuine; third, those which were wholly spurious.

"This last class," says the _American Cyclopædia_, "only contained

what already existed. The evil done by this forgery was to history

and erudition, and not to the discipline of the church." They were

in accordance with the recognized ecclesiastical system, and good

counterfeits of the true decretals. It was not wonderful, therefore,

that they should have gradually come into use, as a genuine

collection of the early code of the church. For two centuries

after their first appearance, they remained neglected by the popes,

and apparently unknown to them. With the exception of one or two

quotations by Hadrian II. and Stephen IV., no one of the pontiffs

referred to them before the middle of the eleventh century. After

this period, when they were generally received, and no doubt was

entertained of their authenticity, the popes began to quote them with

the same freedom as was used in the case of the Hadrianic collection.

We remark, therefore, that the forgery was neither favored nor

patronized by the Roman pontiffs; and secondly, that the false

decretals gave to the pope no power which he did not already possess,

and that by universal consent. For the proof of the latter assertion

we need only cite one or two authorities.

In the first place, one must be endowed with a marvellous credulity

to believe that a private collection of canons could have had the

power to convert the bishop of Rome from a pastor of a particular

city or country into the ruler of the whole church, the possessor of

prerogatives before unknown to the Christian world. And the marvel

is increased when we consider that this great change must have taken

place without any protest by the patriarchs or councils who were

thus called upon to pay obedience to a new ecclesiastical superior.

He that can believe this can believe any thing, no matter how absurd

it may be. The truth is, that the false decretals could not have

obtained so easy acceptance and universal recognition if they had not

been in accordance with the received doctrine and constitution of the

church.

In the second place, the careful study of the earlier oecumenical

councils will persuade any honest mind that the papal supremacy was

firmly established in the heart of Christendom. The Synod of Sardica

solemnly acknowledged the supreme authority of the Roman pontiff;

and in so doing it did not constitute any new order of things, but

simply recognized a fact of divine institution. No council ever

pretended to give any power to the apostolic see, but simply to

enunciate, as belonging to the very constitution of the church, the

rights and dignity given to St. Peter and his successors from Christ.

Four hundred years before the forgery of the decretals, Innocent I.

writes, in accordance with the canon law of his age, "If weighty

matters come to be discussed, (_causæ majores_,) they are to be

referred to the apostolic see after the judgment of the bishops,

according as the synod has established and the holy custom requires."

In thus claiming the prerogatives of the Roman see the pontiffs

are all of one accord from the earliest day. The code of Justinian

declares, "We do not allow that any thing which concerns the affairs

of the church should pass unreferred to his blessedness the Roman

pontiff, for he is the head of all the holy priests of God." Thus,

Gelasius in his decree at the Council of Rome, 494, says, "The holy

Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church was placed over all the churches

by no synod, but obtained the primacy by the voice of our Lord and

Saviour himself." "No one ever," says Boniface I., "attempted to lift

up his hand against the apostolic greatness, from whose judgment

there is no appeal whatever." The Eighth General Council (869)

defined the supremacy of the Roman see in the strongest terms, and

the formula of Pope Hormisdas was signed by the Greek bishops and

patriarchs. In this formula it is distinctly stated that "in the

apostolic see the true faith is ever preserved immaculate," and that

"they who consent not to this see are separate from the communion of

the Catholic Church." The formula also quotes the words of our Lord,

"_Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church_." The

Greek schism, however, required the reassertion of this doctrine, and

it was accordingly defined as of faith in the Fourth Lateran Council,

a.d. 1215; again in the second of Lyons, A.D. 1274, and again in the

Council of Florence, A.D. 1439. The language of this latter synod is,

"We define that the apostolic see and the Roman pontiff hold the

primacy in the whole world, and that the Roman pontiff himself is

the successor of blessed Peter, the prince of the apostles, the

true vicar of Christ, the head of the whole church, and the father

and teacher of all Christians; and that to him, in the person

of Peter, our Lord Jesus Christ gave full power to feed, rule,

and govern the whole church, as is contained in the acts of the

oecumenical councils and the sacred canons."

In this definition the Greeks, who were represented at this synod,

fully concurred.[148] The year following, the Patriarch Metrophanes,

by an evangelical letter, announced to the whole oriental world the

reunion of the Greek and Latin churches, mentioning at the same time

the doctrines defined in the decree of reconciliation. The singular

charges made by Mr. Ffoulkes against the Council of Florence and

Pope Eugenius merit perhaps a brief notice. He denies the regularity

of the council, and accuses the pope of every kind of duplicity to

control and beguile the Greek bishops. In reply to these accusations

it may be well to state what we admit and what we deny. We admit that

the act of the twenty-fifth session of Basle, which named Florence

as the place of assembly, was not passed by the majority of the

votes, but by the minority. We admit that the pope chose an Italian

city, and that he guaranteed to the eastern bishops a safe-conduct

home. We deny that he exceeded the bounds of his authority or acted

with any cunning or duplicity toward the Greeks, who were anxious

to promote a reunion, and especially desirous to meet the Latin

bishops at the very place which the papal legates designated.

The minority of the Council of Basle comprised the best and most

influential prelates, while the majority was composed chiefly of

simple country priests, and of servants of the bishops, who had been

admitted into the congregations with the right of voting. It is also

Catholic doctrine that the pope, who alone has the power to call

an oecumenical council, has the right to transfer it, when called,

from one place to another. The reason why Florence was chosen is

evident enough to any honest reader of history. There was no "barter

of temporal and spiritual gains" between the pope and the emperor.

The eastern bishops signed the decrees with perfect willingness, and

no constraint was used with them. Even before the interview between

them at the council many of them had pressed the emperor to act in

this matter of reunion, and went so far as to declare that, should he

refuse to take part, they would assume the responsibility themselves.

There is nothing which Eugenius did which any pontiff would not have

done, who, under the circumstances which surrounded him, felt called

to seek the peace and salvation of the eastern churches. All attempts

to injure the credit or authority of the Council of Florence prove

unavailing to any one who receives facts as they are, without color

of prejudice.

4. It is, however, time to notice what Mr. Ffoulkes asserts in

regard to the Crusades. The pontiff who, according to him, had

built up an authority upon forged decretals, sought by means of the

Crusades to "complete by force the ecclesiastical aggrandizement

of the papacy." "He attempted to subjugate the churches of the

east to that of Rome in the way opposed to the canons, and this

was exactly what he completed on the capture of Constantinople."

The answer to this charge, as far as the animus of the pope was

concerned, has already been made. We have shown how Innocent III.

had no need to build up a power which he already possessed, and

which his predecessors for centuries had claimed and exercised.

Then it is simply untrue that the popes had any idea of subjugating

the eastern churches in the encouragement which they gave to the

Crusades. Let Mr. Ffoulkes refute himself. In his _Christendom's

Divisions_ he acknowledges that "for two hundred years the east had

been calling upon the west for assistance, and that the principal

actors in these wars advocated a great cause, and one of the holiest

struggles ever undertaken in self-defence." There was only one reason

why the Christian arms were turned against Constantinople, and that

was the necessity of protecting the Crusaders against treachery

and destruction by Greek perfidy. "There was a growing feeling in

Europe," says Mr. Ffoulkes, "that the Greeks were at the bottom of

all the misfortunes of the Latins in the east." Of Conrad's army

sixty thousand fell beneath the swords of the Mussulmans through the

treason of the Greek guides. The emperor made every effort to ensnare

the formidable army of Louis VII., and forced the third Crusade,

at great loss, to get to the Holy Land by sea. Barbarossa could

hardly save his soldiers from the insidious artifices which were

plotted against him. But let the historian Gibbon, whose judgment is

certainly not partial to the Latins, decide the matter: