In New York, for instance, where Catholics boast of half a million of

their creed; where they have so many magnificent churches, some of

them with very wealthy congregations; with so many wealthy Catholic

residents, professional men, and large business firms; with half a

dozen weekly newspapers or more--where are the young men? Where is our

Catholic hall, club, reading-room, library? Nowhere. Nevertheless,

there are, in one shape or form, numbers of associations of Catholic

youth scattered through the city, and greater numbers of Catholic youth

still who do not and will not join them, because they do not find in

them attraction enough.

Now, this is a thing worthy of being investigated closely, and remedied

speedily. We Catholics ought to be ashamed of ourselves to see what

the Protestants have done in the organization known as the Young Men's

Christian Association, with its splendid reading and meeting-rooms,

gymnasium, and lecture-hall, where the ablest lecturers of the world

hold forth and draw the crowds of the city to hear them. Nor does this

association stop here. It has multiplied itself, not only throughout

the city, but throughout the country. Branch houses are covering the

whole land; and, whatever may be its present or its future, it is

certainly admirable in conception and organization. Its honor and

reputation rest in its own hands.

There is only one association to which the Catholics of New York,

speaking generally, can point as having achieved something; as not

purely local, but general, in its character; as, in fact, a success,

though it is still struggling almost in its infancy. This is the

Xavier Alumni Sodality and its correlative, the Xavier Union. That

admirable association, the Catholic Union, is designedly omitted from

the present article, which deals only with the young men.

The Xavier Alumni Sodality was established in New York on December 8,

1863. It was intended originally, as its name implies, for graduates

and ex-students of the College of S. Francis Xavier. It began with

about half a dozen members. It gradually and very wisely widened

its scope so as to take in the alumni of any Catholic college who

might choose to join, as also merchants in business and professional

men. Its objects may best be set forth by quoting from the printed

"Constitution":

"I. The encouragement of virtue, Christian piety, and devotion

to the Blessed Virgin among educated Catholic gentlemen, the

perpetuation of friendships formed by them during their college

life, and the promotion of Catholic interests.

"II. The means to obtain this end shall be principally the daily

practice of certain devotions, the frequent and worthy reception

of the sacraments, and religious and social meetings at stated

intervals."

In the following sections of the "By-laws" we find:

"SEC. 14. On the Sunday following December 8, and on a Sunday

during Easter-time, there shall be a general communion, at which

all members shall be expected to assist. The first general

communion shall be preceded by a Triduum, or three days' spiritual

retreat.

"SEC. 17. In case any member of the Sodality falls sick, the Rev.

Father Director and the President (who is elected of and by the

members) shall appoint one or more members to visit him.

"SEC. 20. There shall be a Requiem Mass for the repose of the soul

of a deceased member as soon after his death as convenient. The

members of the Sodality are expected to assist at this Mass.

"SEC. 22. There shall be a standing committee called the

'Committee on Employment,' and consisting of the President and six

members of the Sodality, appointed by him at the January meeting.

[The members meet on the first Sunday of every month.] Its duties

shall be to assist young men to procure mercantile or professional

employment."

There are quite a number of special indulgences attached to the

Sodality, whose genuine worth and practical tendencies may be faintly

imagined from this short statement. Its effects, and the success

attained by it, may best be judged from the fact that the half a dozen

members of ten years ago have swollen to the number of over four

hundred, notwithstanding losses by death and by members leaving the

city. This number is being increased at every meeting; whilst out of

the Sodality has sprung the Xavier Union, which, though established

only two years ago, already numbers two hundred members.

To quote the "Preamble" of its printed "Constitution and By-laws"--

"The Xavier Union was organized in March, 1871, by a number of

gentlemen, members of the Xavier Alumni Sodality--a Society

established in 1863, and having for its object the encouragement of

virtue and Christian piety among the educated Catholic young men of

this city [New York], and the promotion of Catholic interests by

their united efforts.

"From this body, in order to unite its members more intimately,

better to carry out its objects, and to effect other desirable

ends not strictly within the scope of a purely religious body, the

Xavier Union has been formed.

"This Union has in view both the mental and moral improvement of

its members.

"By a regular and proper representation of Catholic questions,

by association with men of mature years and study, and by their

frequent meetings with each other, it hopes to keep alive among its

members a spirit of true Catholicity, and to encourage by example

all Catholic young men in fidelity to the teachings and practices

of their religion.

"It further proposes to promote the study of good books, and to

foster a taste for the sciences and arts; but it intends more

especially to exert itself in awakening and keeping alive an

interest in Catholic history and literature.

"While pursuing these ends, it has in view the furnishing its

members with every desirable means for their proper recreation,

both of mind and body. Thus it hopes, by guarding youth against the

temptations of youth itself, and withdrawing it from the no less

insidious than dangerous associations of a city, to encourage our

educated young men to a proper use of both mind and body, and to

make them ambitious to be and do good, that they may exert that

influence on society which is to them indeed a duty.

"In furtherance of these objects, the Union shall, through its

management, provide--

"I. A library.

"II. A reading-room having all desirable reviews and journals.

"III. Literary and musical entertainments."

The best comment on these objects and the desirability of them is to

point to the success which has already attended this movement.

The Union, which is recruited exclusively from the Xavier Alumni

Sodality, rents for its use a building containing a reading-room,

reception-rooms, billiard-room, and a handsome library of six thousand

volumes. It is found already that the accommodations are far too small,

and a proposal is on foot to erect a building adequate to the growing

wants of the society, and containing a large hall for the giving of

lectures and for other purposes. The want of this was found last year,

when, for a series of lectures given under the auspices of the Xavier

Union, it was found necessary to hire one of the public halls. Of

course, the question is mainly one of funds.

However, here is something practical, tangible, which can point

to results, and which challenges the attention of all Catholics,

particularly of our Catholic young men. The Xavier Alumni Sodality and

the Xavier Union have so far done everything for themselves under the

guidance of their able director. Their work, as may be imagined, has

been very up-hill, for the entrance fees are not large; nevertheless,

with the profit of lectures, they have constituted their only source of

revenue. In the face of all difficulties, however, there they stand,

an active and ever-increasing organization of educated young Catholic

laymen, with their rooms for reading and amusement, and their library.

They form already the nucleus of a great Catholic centre, which, with

a little tact, a little generosity on the part of those who can afford

to be generous, and who could not be generous for a better purpose, a

steady perseverance in the way they have entered upon, may rival any

club in the city, may be a rallying-point for the Catholic laity, and

may furnish a constant supply of amusement, information, and recreation

of mind and body for Catholics of all ages, but particularly the young.

Special attention has been devoted to these two organizations, because

they are, beyond doubt, the most prominent associations of Catholic

young men in New York. Indeed, at the present writing, we know of none

equal to them in the United States. This is not at all said by way

of flattery to the societies mentioned; rather by way of reproach to

those who have neglected to form similar societies. Educated young

Catholics are plentiful in most of our large cities; and wherever a

number of educated young Catholics exist, there such societies as the

Xavier Alumni Sodality and the Xavier Union ought to exist, with their

rooms for association, meeting, reading, and amusement. Much the same

programme, and much the same organization, and much the same aims and

tendencies, would answer for all. A new and wonderful impetus would

thus be imparted to Catholic thought, Catholic work, and, above all,

to Catholic literature and education. An _esprit du corps_ would be

engendered among our Catholic youth that is sadly wanting at present,

and that would inevitably tell upon society. Any large Catholic project

might be almost instantaneously taken up and discussed throughout

the country; and, above all, Catholic young men would find places

where healthy amusement was blended with instruction and blessed by a

religious spirit.[87]

Neither need such organizations be restricted, as it were, to any

special class. The Sodality of the Blessed Virgin, of which the Xavier

Alumni Sodality is a branch, may be made to embrace all classes. It

was founded in the Roman College of the Society of Jesus, on December

8, 1563, exactly three hundred years prior to the foundation of this

promising offshoot in New York. The society has an eventful history.

It began in the Jesuit Colleges, and was restricted to the students.

It speedily spread thence throughout the world, embracing all ranks

from the crowned head to the peasant. One branch took up one good

work, another devoted itself to some other. It entered the world,

society, the army, everywhere. Popes belonged to it, kings, astute

statesmen, great generals, as well as the rank and file, and the

humblest craftsmen. Many a saint's name glitters on its scroll. S.

Aloysius Gonzaga, S. Stanislaus Kotska, S. Charles Borromeo, S. Francis

of Sales, Blessed Berchmans, and many another consecrated in Catholic

history, were all members of the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

So great was the good it wrought that popes have bestowed upon it many

rights and privileges. It has had the glory of persecution. Infidel

governments suppressed it from time to time, in France particularly,

fearing lest it should lead men back to God; for if there is one thing

more than another that the devil fears, it is seeing the young go from

him wholesale.

Now, this matter is worthy the attention of all Catholics. Enough

graduates go out yearly from our colleges, and enough intelligent and

zealous Catholic young men are scattered through our great cities

and towns, to take this matter up earnestly, and establish Catholic

societies of this kind for practical, pious, and sanitary purposes.

They might embrace in a short time all the Catholic youth of America.

As has been seen, the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary is very

elastic in its constitution, though one in its organization and aims;

and it may be made to embrace all classes and states of life. It has

history, stability, saintly members, and good works innumerable to

recommend it. It has been specially blessed and favored by many popes,

and it has for its head the Blessed Mother of God, whilst those who

enroll themselves in it do so as children of Mary.

Coming back to the opposing forces here at home--Catholicity,

Protestantism, and infidelity--we see nothing more powerful to

withstand the assault of the latter particularly than Catholic

societies of this nature. The social atmosphere to-day is full of

insidious poison. The young unconsciously breathe it from their infancy

up. The edifice of faith in God was never more persistently assaulted

by the united forces of the powers of this world. No persecution of

the Roman emperors, unless, perhaps, that of Julian the Apostate, ever

threatened the religion of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, with a tithe

of the bitterness and hatred that frown upon it now. Men nowadays do

not so much seek out the chiefs of the church, the pontiffs, and the

bishops as the little children and the young of all ages. In some

cases, as in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Brazil, they add open

and violent persecution to its secret and more fatal forms. The great

cry of the age--a good and earnest cry--is for education. Educate the

masses! Educate all at any cost! That cry is good in itself, and is as

old as the church of Christ, and no older. But to it is joined another

cry: The church is out of date. It cannot educate. It has failed. It

will keep the people ignorant and superstitious. That is just the

right state for the priests. We know that of old. The priests in pagan

times were just the same. They kept the people blind for their own

sakes. But the newspapers have broken all that up. Men who read their

daily _Herald_ or their daily _Times_ know a little too much for that

nowadays. So out with the priests and their church altogether. We

want the children to know how to read, and write, and cipher, and be

intelligent. If they want religion, they may find it where they can.

But religion is quite a secondary consideration nowadays. It used to be

the first thing. That was the great mistake. We must now make it the

last.

That is pretty much how the lights of the age--the scientific

apostles--talk. Their opinions are re-echoed in the pages of journals

which, compared to Christian or Catholic, are as a thousand, nay, ten

thousand, to one; so that they are ever before the public eye in one

form or other. Consequently, religion is not only thrown out of the

school, but, to a great extent, out of the world altogether; nay, if

the accounts our Protestant friends give of themselves be true, out of

the pulpit also, when preachers preach "a theology without the _Theos_,

and a Christianity without Christ." It is perhaps only natural, then,

to find public morality at a sad discount; private morality, on a large

scale, a thing ugly to inquire into, and commercial morality broken

down before commercial gambling. It is not strange to find the loosest

ideas on the marriage tie prevail, and a corresponding disregard of

the sanctity of the household and the mutual obligations of husband

and wife, of father and child, spreading wider and further every day.

It is no wonder to find public amusements, as a rule, unfit to be

witnessed by the eye of a decent man or woman. It is not surprising

to see well-dressed crowds listening eagerly to brilliant lecturers,

who in mellifluous accents and the chastest English, and in evening

costume, pleasantly and quietly, and in the best possible taste, laugh

away the idea of God and Christianity; and it is no surprise to find

the children of those well-dressed crowds growing up and moving about

the world, with no sense of Christian morality at all, and at best, to

use an ordinary expression, a human sense of what is "square."

Right in the face of this scornful infidelity or shaky faith, it

is noble to see the Catholic world, especially the young Catholic

world, rising up everywhere to proclaim openly, boldly, and with no

hesitation in the tone, its whole-souled faith in the Roman Catholic

Church, its tenets, its doctrines, and its practices. Allusion, as

will be understood, is made chiefly to the pilgrimages in Europe, and

more particularly to the contingent furnished by Protestant England.

A pilgrimage, composed of Catholic young men, visited, the other day,

the shrine of S. Thomas of Canterbury; another soon after crossed over

to France, to visit the shrine of the Sacred Heart at Paray-le-Monial;

and doubtless others will follow. We see it advocated in the Catholic

press that our young men here do likewise. They would do well; but

whether their desire take living form or not, certain it is that in

this country they are just as eager to give evidence of their Catholic

faith as in any other. And just here, in this proposal to make an

American pilgrimage to some of the Catholic shrines in Europe, step in

the want and necessity of such Catholic organizations, distinct enough

individually, but linked together more or less, and springing from a

common centre, to aid effectually in making such a proposal feasible.

Coming back to ourselves, the rising Catholic generation may

congratulate itself that it has fallen upon good times. It would

be well for it to remember that these good times are the result of

the labors of their fathers; and that as they were won by incessant

conflict, so they must be retained. The present generation has not so

many odds to contend against. That fact is perhaps as much a danger as

a benefit. The Catholic generation that is passing away had to suffer

more or less a social ostracism. The barriers between class and class

are dwindling down; and to-day, on the whole, a Catholic does not find

his religion mark him off from his fellow-citizens as a man to be left

out in the cold.

That is no doubt very satisfactory. At the same time, however painful

may be this kind of social ostracism, certain it is that the class who

come under its ban are more apt to be circumspect in their conduct than

classes removed from it. To-day the spirit of liberality is abroad; but

liberality often means liberalism, which is a very different thing. The

order of the day is that it does not matter what you are, Protestant,

Catholic, Jew, or pagan, provided you only act as everybody else acts.

This sudden effusion of brotherly love among all castes and creeds is

no doubt very gratifying, and a vast improvement on old-fogy barriers;

but, at the same time, it involves often a sacrifice of principle. It

is a rank and unhealthy growth, springing from the neutral ground of

infidelity, or that unpronounced infidelity known as indifferentism.

Catholics cannot enter the world as non-Catholics. Their religion must

be more than a Sunday religion. It cannot be left outside on entering

their office, nor in the hall on entering society. It must accompany

them everywhere, not aggressively, indeed, so as to be outwardly

offensive to the neighbor who does not believe in it, because he does

not know it, or because he may not see its effects visible in those

who profess to believe in it; its principles must guide them in the

transaction of their business, in the amusements or recreation they

take, as well as in the confessional or at the altar. Without this,

it is no religion. Without this unaggressive, but none the less real,

atmosphere of piety, surrounding and emanating from Catholics in the

world as well as in the church, the heaviness of the present social

atmosphere can never be lifted. It requires a constant current to

and fro, and this can only be obtained by the creating of a Catholic

influence right in the heart of the world.

This is for our young men to do by their societies and associations;

by knowing each other, meeting together, consulting, and creating a

tone that will tell sooner or later upon society. Many a fine young

fellow is lost for pure lack of a good companion. Many a one spends his

evenings in places and amid society that, if not actually sinful, are

undoubtedly demoralizing in tendency, because he has no other society

or place of amusement to enter. It is too hard upon the young to tell

them that they must not follow the way of the world, if no better mode

of recreation is provided for them. The blood of youth is coursing

through its veins, and the heat will find vent, if not in good, then

in evil. It is the place of all true Christians to help and provide

that good, by aiding in the work of building up societies, halls,

reading-rooms, and libraries for our young people. The blessing will

come back upon their own heads in their children, in their children's

children, and in the building up of a sound, moral, Christian tone

among the young in these days, when it is considered more manly to

deny than to inquire; to sneer at all religion than to kneel down and

adore the God that made us to his own image. With our young men linked

together thus, working together throughout the whole country, showing

by deeds, and words, and open profession that they are Catholics, those

who to-day, in 1873, wonder at the marvellous growth of the church

within the last half-century, if God spares them another half-century,

may find their country, if not Catholic, covered, at least, and blest

from end to end, with Catholic homes of learning, piety, and charity;

whilst the church may respond to the foolish taunt that is flung at

her, that her religion is a foreign religion, and her children nursed

in foreign ideas, by pointing silently to what her children are--by

contrasting her Christian sons with the product and growth of an

education with God left out.

FOOTNOTES:

[87] Besides the two Associations particularly mentioned in this

article, there are numbers of others scattered throughout the country.

In Brooklyn there is attached to almost every parish church a Young

Men's Catholic Association. The writer restricts his mention of names

necessarily to the two societies which stand forth most prominently in

New York, and which give greatest promise of a bright future. If they

can be improved upon by others already existing or to come, they would

probably be the first to adapt themselves to the improvement. But as

matters stand at present, their constitution and organization might be

very safely recommended, at least, to embryo associations.

ENGLISH SKETCHES.

AN HOUR IN A JAIL.

There is nothing in the exterior of the building to indicate its real

character, nor is it in any way calculated to strike terror into the

mind of the beholder whose imagination, fed by early prejudices,

connects the idea of a jail with gloomy precincts, drawbridges, and

armed sentinels pacing before frowning gates. The jail of Reading, the

chief town of the royal county of Berks, presents the very antithesis

of all this. This is a gay edifice of variegated red brick and white

stone, in the style called carpenter's Gothic--a rather appropriate

name for the jocular mongrel performance it designates, and which is

one of the most surprising hallucinations of the modern architect's

mind. The building stands close by the Forbury gardens and at the

back of the Catholic church. The delusion as to the character of the

place is not dispelled on entering; the uninitiated stranger might,

on passing the great door, still fancy himself in some free dwelling,

where no abnormal impediments prevented his exit; but crossing the

court, he ascends by a flight of steps to a second gate of ominous

appearance, and before whose glittering steel bars the spell of

liberty dissolves. Within this second gate there is another, equally

formidable, which opens into a broad gallery lighted from the roof and

crossed by light bridges at intervals, to which you ascend by a steep,

ladder-like iron staircase. The second story is occupied by the women

prisoners, the lower one by the men.

As few of our readers may have had the opportunity or the curiosity

to go through an English jail, perhaps they would like to do so

vicariously, as the Shah enjoyed dancing--sitting quietly in his

chair, while foolish people fatigued themselves for his entertainment.

We were accompanied by a young priest, whose ministry had frequently

led him within the steel gates on another errand than curiosity; and,

thanks to his friend's (Canon R----) introduction to the governor,

we had permission to see every detail of the place. The aspect of

the long galleries, with the bright-tiled flooring and white walls

glancing in the flood of sunshine flowing from the roof, kept up

the first impression of cheerfulness. There was nothing so far to

suggest unnecessary rigor or broken spirits, still less cruelty

and demoralization. All was airy and exquisitely clean. Warders

in official uniforms paced leisurely up and down the corridors and

galleries; and though the silence was broken only by their foot-falls

and our own voices as we conversed with the warder who acted as our

guide, there was no oppressive gloom in the atmosphere. The cells

opened on either side of the gallery. They were each lighted by a

good-sized window looking on the prison garden and protected by strong

iron bars; in one corner was a complete washing apparatus, with a

water-pipe over the basin; in another there was a gas-pipe. The

furniture consisted of a small table, a stool, and a stretcher-bed,

which is rolled up during the day. On a shelf were the prisoner's plate

and mug. The Protestants are allowed the use of their Bible and the

_Common Prayer-Book_; the Catholics have the Douay edition of the Bible

and _The Garden of the Soul_; special good conduct is rewarded by the

loan of story-books. Some of the cells were ornamented with prints from

the _Graphic_ and the _Illustrated London News_. A man with a good

conscience and sound health might live comfortably in one of these

cells.

The Reading jail is worked entirely on the isolated system,

each prisoner being virtually as much alone amidst two hundred

fellow-captives as if he were the only inmate. It is urged against

this system that it frequently leads to madness, total solitude being

the most cruel form of punishment, and the one against which the human

mind is, by its very essence, least calculated to bear up. But the

theory applies in its chief force to solitary confinement, where the

sound of the human voice and the sight of his fellow-creature's face

never intrude upon the tomblike silence of the dungeon; where complete

inaction of the body feeds the despondency of the imagination dwelling

on the one fixed idea of an interminable perspective of silence and

solitude. In the case of short periods of incarceration, the separate

system must be regarded as an immense improvement on the old gregarious

one. It prevents the spread of vice, and protects the comparatively

innocent subject from being utterly corrupted by the hardened sinner.

In France, where the gregarious system is in full force, its effect

is too plainly visible in the most deplorable results. A youth or a

girl goes in a mere novice in iniquity, and, after a short sojourn in

the midst of the offscourings of society, comes out utterly depraved.

Nowhere is this truth more lamentably apparent than in those cases

that come under the head of _prison préventive_, where any suspected

person, on the smallest amount of evidence, is thrown into these social

sloughs for weeks, nay, months sometimes, and held in hourly contact

with thieves, forgers, burglars, and every species of offender. Strong

indeed must be the principles, and pure the heart, that come out

unshaken and unsullied from such an ordeal.

The men were at work on the day when we arrived at the jail, so we saw

the penal system in full operation. The mildest form of hard labor is

the oakum-picking. It is performed partly in the open air, partly in

the cells, and consists of untwisting old cables, and then tearing them

into loose hemp, which is used for caulking the seams of ships.

The next category was the stone-breaking. One side of a yard is walled

off into separate compartments, with a railing at each end, and from

these the ring of the pick-axe resounds dismally for many hours in the

day. One of these cages was occupied by a lunatic, who had attempted

the life of his brother. The poor fellow was only there for the day,

awaiting an order for removal to some government asylum for the insane.

He stood bolt upright, without leaning against the wall, with his

hands hanging by his side, and his head bent downwards, the picture

of melancholy and sullen despair. We noticed with satisfaction that

the warder compassionately avoided passing before the poor creature's

railing, and did not even speak within earshot of him.

On re-entering the house, we came into a corridor where the air was

filled with a grinding noise of ominous import. On either side of us

were cells, where the forced labor in its most severe aspect comes into

view. Warders were walking slowly up and down, peeping at intervals

into the cells through a narrow little aperture in the doors, where

the prisoners were undergoing the sentence of the law. Some were

grinding corn, others were turning the crankpump. The former is done

by a machine which it takes all the strength of the workman's two arms

to keep going. In one of these cells, the door of which was unlocked

for us to examine closely, there was a lad of a little over twenty, of

middle height, and with a countenance which, but for the sinister leer

of the mouth, might have been called mild and almost prepossessing. We

were startled to learn that this juvenile criminal had been taken up

for highway robbery, with attempt to murder.

The cell opposite his was occupied by a middle-aged, broad-shouldered

man, who was turning the crankpump. This is the most severe of all

the forms of labor in the jail. To a superficial observer it would

seem almost easy labor, so smooth is the movement of the crank as it

gyrates under the clenched hands of the prisoner, his body rising

and falling in rhythmic movement with the rotation of the crank he

is propelling; but the strain upon the spine becomes after a while

intolerable. This man was a very hardened criminal, and had just

undergone seven days on bread and water in the dark cell, twenty-four

lashes of the cat-o'-nine tails having proved unavailing; and he was

still unsubdued. His misdemeanor in the prison was swearing at one of

the warders, and threatening to break his skull against the wall; even

after the fearful infliction of the dark cell, he repeated his threat

to "do for him."

Coarse-matting weaving is another prison employment; it is far less

laborious than either of the two preceding, yet working the heavy

looms must be a great discipline to unpractised arms. One man's face

in this category struck us as different from the others; it bore the

unmistakable stamp of education; we found that the weaver was properly

a man of a better class, and who, with half the ingenuity he had shown

in getting into his present condition, might have been a well-to-do

member of society.

In the lower basement there are admirably constructed baths, immersion

in which is compulsory on the prisoners once a month. The dark cell

above referred to is also in these lower regions. Refractory subjects

are consigned to it for three, five, or seven days, as the case may

be, for insubordination or idleness. It must be a very obdurate spirit

indeed, one would imagine, which this awful punishment could leave

unbroken. The darkness is like that of the grave, so dense that it is

suffocating; and when the warder, to show how utterly every ray of

light was excluded from the cell, suddenly went out, and locked the

double doors upon us as we stood in the gloom, we all felt a chill

of indescribable horror creep over us. The ventilation is, however,

perfect, though we could not see how it was contrived.

The kitchen department is as bright and as complete in its appointments

as the rest of the building. Great and desirable reforms have of

late been effected in the prison fare, which a few years ago was so

luxurious as to call loudly for remonstrance from all wise rulers and

thoughtful men. The thief and the burglar a little time ago fared far

better than the poor working-man struggling to put honest bread into

his children's mouths, and infinitely better than the inmate of the

workhouse. All this is happily changed, and the hospitality of the jail

is now proportioned to the quality of the guests. The bread is coarse

and brown, but sweet and wholesome. Each prisoner gets six ounces of

it at breakfast, with a pint of gruel; eight at dinner, with a pound

of potatoes; and on three days in the week three ounces of bacon;

the other four he gets cheese instead; at supper, bread and gruel

again. The quantity is less for a short-period man, namely, those who

are condemned for a week or a fortnight; the reason being that the

constitution could not resist for a lengthened period the low diet,

which acts with salutary effect on the spirit for a short time. In

answer to our inquiries how far the present system or any system acted

as reformatory on criminals, the warder said he believed it very seldom

attained that end. A man who once came to jail was pretty sure to come

twice. "When a man gets the name of a jail-bird," he said, "it is all

over with him; he can never hold up his head again amongst honest folk,

and so he goes back to his old ways and haunts." He added that the one

chance he had was to go out of the country to a place where he had no

past to live down; and for this reason he observed that the Prisoners'

Aid Society ought to be upheld by all humane people. It offered the

only plank to the shipwrecked that was possible.

Amongst the two hundred prisoners which the jail accommodates, there

happens at the present moment not to be a single Catholic. We were

surprised to hear this, for we noticed more than once that the men into

whose cells we entered cast a wistful look at the young priest who

was with us; and when he smiled and nodded to them on turning away,

their faces relaxed into a smile too. Mr. S---- told us that this was

no uncommon thing; that, as a rule, the prisoners, whatever be their

religion, welcome the Catholic priest with a smile, and seem thankful

for the chance of speaking to him. The parson, on the contrary, they

look on with suspicion, and even with aversion, frequently listening

in sullen silence to his questions, and refusing to answer them. This

does not betoken any dislike to the Protestant minister personally; it

arises from the fact of his having a sort of official character, and

being thus associated in their minds with the cruel strength of the

law; whereas the priest only comes in the capacity of a helper--one

who pities them, and would serve them in body and soul if he could;

his errand is purely one of mercy and kindness. Our companion told

us that this jail has for him many beautiful memories of grace and

repentance. He has gone there frequently in the course of the winter to

hear the confessions of penitents who have approached the sacraments

in their little cells with sentiments of the most touching humility

and sorrow. These prodigals are almost invariably Irish. "Wherever you

find a Paddy, you find the faith," observed Canon R----; "and where is

the spot on earth where you don't find one?" To illustrate the truth

of this remark, he told us a curious anecdote, which was related to

him many years ago by the priest to whom it occurred. This priest went

on the mission to America, and for some years his labors lay in the

wild regions of the far West. The missionary led pretty much the life

of the children of the virgin forests that he traversed, and where

the footprint of the white man was never seen. He rode for miles and

miles through the wilderness, feeding, like the anchorites, on what

he could gather by the way, and sleeping in the branches of some

thick-foliaged tree, to the stem of which he tied his horse; and at

daybreak he was off on his rambles again. One morning, as he was riding

through a wood in search of food, he descried a little wreath of smoke

curling above the trees. He made for the spot, thinking he had come on

a field of labor in the shape of a little colony to be baptized; but,

on approaching, he found only a solitary wigwam, at the door of which

a wild woman was squatting with a brood of small children about her.

The good father was exhausted with hunger, and managed, by signs and

a few words of the Indian dialect, to convey this fact to the woman.

She rose at once, and placed before him her frugal store. While he

was doing justice to it, the lord of the wigwam returned, and great

was his amazement to behold the guest whom his lady was hospitably

ministering to. The priest was trying to air his small store of words,

when his host, who was attired in the scanty costume of his tribe,

with a plentiful crop of feathers sprouting from his head-gear, after

surveying him silently for a moment, exclaimed, "Your reverence is a

Catholic priest, I'll be bound, and an Irishman into the bargain!"

His listener nearly capsized with astonishment. But it was neither a

vision nor a delusion. The wild Indian was himself an Irishman, who,

with two older companions, had come to those remote forests many years

before in search of fortune in some form or other; the trio had been

captured by the Indians, who put two of them to death, and only spared

the youngest on account of his expertness with the bow and arrow and

other kindred accomplishments which made him useful to the tribe.

He learned in time to speak their language and adopt their mode of

life, even to the extent of marrying a wild woman of their race. But

the faith of his childhood survived amongst the vicissitudes of this

strange career. He welcomed the priest with joy and the reverence of

a genuine Irish heart; and before the missionary left his wigwam,

he received the wife into the church, married the pair, baptized

and instructed the children, and administered the sacraments to the

father. Then he sallied forth once more on his life of danger and

self-sacrifice, which, though it afforded many consoling and romantic

episodes, never furnished such another as this. "Now," exclaimed Canon

R---- triumphantly, "just tell me if such an adventure as that could

happen to any two men under the sun but a pair of Irishmen!" And no one

contradicted him.

But to return to the jail. We visited the church last. It was the

saddest spectacle of all, though the building itself was bright and

just then full of sunshine. The seats rise in the form of a steep

amphitheatre, almost touching the ceiling at the last tier; and they

are so contrived that each prisoner is as isolated in his own seat

as if he were the only one looking up at the bare pulpit, where no

crucifix, nor pitying Madonna, nor kindly angel face looks down upon

him, but only the wooden box, where the preacher once a week tells

him of the message of mercy, and points to the home where the Father

awaits each prodigal son. There, locked up between four narrow boards

that rise high above his head, the prisoner assists at the service on

Sunday. So rigorously is the separate system maintained that the two

men who were employed in washing the stairs and floor of the church

were masked, so as not to recognize each other even in passing, while

a warden stood by to prevent their exchanging a word together. The men

are exercised in batches every morning from six to a quarter past seven

in the prison garden--a dreary place to call by that flower-suggestive

name. They wear masks, and walk at a distance of four yards from one

another, holding a rope with the left hand. Such a system naturally

disarms the dangers of agglomeration, and makes mutiny or concerted

rebellion impossible. The strength of union is not theirs, and they

are as feeble as if, instead of being two hundred against nine, the

proportions were reversed. Attempts to escape are almost unknown.

The reason of this may be that the inmates are never condemned to a

longer term than two years, which would be trebled, both in duration

and in severity, if the attempt failed; so, in face of such a risk,

it would hardly be worth while to make it. We did not visit the

female department, which is conducted on precisely the same principle,

the only difference being the greater lenity of the enforced labor.

It was painful enough to see strong men brought to just humiliation

for their misdeeds; but our hearts failed us to look at women in the

same position. On the whole, we left the Reading jail with our minds

disabused of many illusions concerning the strong hand of the law.

Its application is as humane and merciful as is compatible with the

interests of justice and the professed object of legal punishment.

There is nothing to demoralize or to harden a culprit whose misfortune

it is to undergo a term of durance within its walls. Before, however,

such punishment can be really reformatory, the whole community must

be reformed on the highest Christian ideal. We must learn not to

despise or unduly mistrust the weak brother who has fallen once, but

to practically recognize the vital truth implied in the prayer taught

us by our Master: "Lead us not into temptation;" remembering that

if we have not fallen it is from no merit or strength of our own,

but of the gratuitous mercy of God, whose providence has prevented

us in temptation, and saved us from our own weakness; and that the

measure of our preservation from evil should be the measure of our

charity to the fallen. When we have all learned this, we may see our

prisons reformatory as well as penitential; we doubt if we ever shall

otherwise.

THE LUTE WITH THE BROKEN STRING.

I took the lute I had prized so much

In my day of pride, in my day of power,

And wiped the dust with a tender touch,

And wreathed it gaily with ribbon and flower.

And the tears from my heart were falling fast

For the bloom that had faded, the fragrance fled,

As I thought of the hand that had wreathed it last--

The hand of my darling now cold and dead:

And I put it aside with a passionate fling,

And something was broken--a heart or a string.

And again I essayed, when the tears had dried

And the tumult of sobs in my bosom was still,

To touch it once more with the olden pride,

That the hearts that yet love me might hear it and thrill:

But a soft low note, with its melting power,

A tone of deep pathos, had trembled and gone;

And my hopes died out in that silent hour,

And left me in darkness and sorrow alone.

What wonder, beloved, that I cannot sing

A song of the heart with a broken string?

What worth is the lute when its music hath fled?

What worth is the strain when its alto is lost?

What worth is the heart with its tenderness shed,

And all its warm feelings laid waste by the frost?

But love cannot die. There is comfort in this,

That Love is eternal, though passion controls.

And what, then, is heaven, with its glory and bliss,

But the union of hearts and communion of souls--

When saints shall be minstrels, and angels shall sing,

And lutes shall have never a broken string?

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE DIVINE SEQUENCE. By F. M. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1873.

This is a small volume, but one replete with thought. It treats of

the relation existing between some of the principal doctrines of

the faith, with special reference to the office of our Blessed Lady

as mediatrix of grace. The topics treated, though they are the most

sublime and mysterious dogmas of faith, are handled with a theological

precision and with a depth of contemplative piety which show that the

author has drawn her doctrine from the purest sources, and meditated

on it profoundly within her own soul; for the author of this admirable

treatise is a lady, though we refrain from giving her name out of

respect to the modesty which has induced her to hide herself behind the

veil of initials. There are some copies of the English edition--which

we regret very much not to see reprinted here--for sale at The Catholic

Publication House; and we feel sure that if the lovers of the choicest

gems of spiritual thought and sentiment knew the value of this one,

they would lose no time in securing it.

THE LIFE OF LUISA DE CARVAJAL. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. London:

Burns & Oates. 1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication

Society.)

This book is an addition to the sum total of sound Catholic literature.

We almost lose sight of the merit of the translator's style in

admiration of the motive that led her to undertake the task. The life

of this holy Spanish woman is strange and pathetic. Her lifelong

sacrifice of worldly, and, what is more, of national, associations

for the sake of an apostleship in England during the dark days of

the faith in that country, is indeed a triumph of grace and a heroic

model to all after-ages. Luisa de Carvajal was a woman of rare

strength of mind, energy, perseverance, and endurance. Her holiness

was that of the champion rather than of the novice. Her mind was

richly cultivated. Latin was familiar to her; English she acquired

after she was thirty years of age--a feat requiring much patience in

a Spaniard. Her theological knowledge, patristic lore, and minute

acquaintance with the Scriptures were distinguishing traits of her

subsequent self-education. Involved in a tedious lawsuit, her accurate

memory, excellent understanding, and unflagging presence of mind

were no less remarkable than her sweet temper and great patience.

Although never setting her will in opposition to that of her spiritual

advisers, she invariably conquered their objections, and by her very

humility proved her superiority. Her vocation to a life of poverty,

without at the same time being called to a conventual life, was a

peculiar dispensation; and when we think of the greater ridicule that

attended such an unconventional manner of "leaving the world," we see

how much greater the sacrifice was than we at the present day can

imagine. Her life in England seems a romance of self-devotion, and her

English biographer has lovingly dwelt upon its interesting details.

One pregnant suggestion is made by the translator, which is, that it

would be a specially holy work for a woman to undertake to train in

a species of semi-religious community life those young girls whose

future destiny is the instruction of youth in the higher classes. This,

although applicable chiefly to England, and of less significance on

this side of the ocean, is a suggestion that deserves more notice than

it is perhaps likely to get, embedded as it is in the crowded narrative

of Doña Luisa's life. One thing shines forth out of this exceptional

record of a holy and strong woman's days, and it is this--that God

somehow or other always removes all obstacles to his _real_ will in his

own good time. In her youth, Luisa was foiled, by her natural guardians

and really best-intentioned friends, in her desire to adopt the strange

life to which God called her--that of a recluse without a cloister--and

in a few years these friends were taken away, leaving her her own

mistress. Later on, when the seemingly Quixotic wish came over her to

leave Spain to minister to the English martyrs under James I., and

preach the Catholic faith in London, her long lawsuit, which was urged

as a reason for giving up this design, suddenly came to a favorable and

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 105.--DECEMBER, 1873.[88]

A TALK ON METAPHYSICS.

One of the greatest obstacles to the spread of philosophical education

is the false opinion which, through the efforts of a school of low

scientists, has gained much ground--viz., that metaphysics, the central

and most important part of philosophy, is only a mass of useless

abstractions and unintelligible subtleties; a science _à priori_,

telling us nothing about facts; a dismal relic of mediæval ignorance

and conceit; a thing, therefore, which has no longer a claim to hold a

place in the world of science. This is a shameless misrepresentation,

and as such it might be treated with the contempt it deserves; but

it is so carefully insinuated, and with such an assurance, that it

succeeds in making its way onward, and in gaining more and more

credit among unreflecting people. We intend, therefore, to give it a

challenge. A short exposition of the nature and object of metaphysics

will suffice, we hope, to show our young readers the worthlessness of

such mischievous allegations.

What is metaphysics? _It is_, answers one of the most eminent

metaphysicians, Francis Suarez, _that part of philosophy which treats

of real beings as such_. This definition is universally accepted.

It is needless to remark that a being is said to be _real_ when it

exists in nature; whereas that which has no existence except in our

conceptions is called _a being of reason_. But it is well to observe

that the expression, _real being_, is used in two different senses.

In the first it means a _complete_ natural entity, which has its own

separate existence in nature, independently of the existence of any

other created thing; as when we say that _Peter_, _John_, and _James_

are real beings. In the second it means some _incomplete_ entity, which

has no separate existence of its own, but is the mere appurtenance

of some other thing to the existence of which it owes its being; as

Peter's _life_, John's _eloquence_, James' _stature_. Of course, every

substance, whether material or spiritual, simple or compound, is a

complete entity; but every constituent, attribute, property, or quality

of complete beings is an incomplete entity, inasmuch as it has no

separate existence, but only partakes of the existence of the being to

which it belongs.

A real, complete entity is said to be a _physical_ being, because it

possesses all that is required to exist separately in the physical

order of things. On the contrary, a real, incomplete entity is said

to be a _metaphysical being_. Thus, _movement_, _velocity_, _time_,

_force_, _attraction_, _repulsion_, _heat_, _cold_, _weight_,

_work_, _resistance_, _figure_, _hardness_, _softness_, _solidity_,

_liquidity_, etc., are metaphysical beings. Those modern men of

science who shudder at the very name of metaphysics would do well to

consider for a while this short catalogue of metaphysical entities.

They would find that it contains the very things with which they are

most familiar. If metaphysical entities are only abstractions--empty

and useless abstractions, as they declare--what shall we say of all

their scientific books? Are they not all concerned with those dreadful

metaphysical entities which we have enumerated? Yet we would scarcely

say that they treat of _useless abstractions_. Certainly, when a drop

of rain is falling, the _action_ by which it is determined to fall is

not an abstraction, the _velocity_ acquired is not an abstraction,

and the _fall_ itself is not an abstraction. In like manner, the

_rotation_ of the earth, the _hardness_ of a stone, the _sound_ of a

trumpet, are not abstractions; and yet all these are entities of the

metaphysical order. Therefore, to contend that metaphysics is a science

of pure abstractions is nothing but an evident absurdity. The object of

metaphysics is no less real than the object of physics itself.

It may, perhaps, be objected that, though the material object of

metaphysics is real and concrete in nature, we despoil it of its

reality as soon as we, in our metaphysical reasonings, rise from

the individual to the universal; for universals, as such, have no

existence but in our conception.

The answer is obvious. The _metaphysical_ universals must not be

confounded with the _logical_ universals. The logical universal--as

genus, difference, etc.--expresses a mere concept of the mind, and is

a mere being of reason, or a _second intention_, as it is called; but

the metaphysical universal--as figure, force, weight, etc., is not a

mere being of reason; for its object is a reality which can be found

existing in the physical order. It is true that all such realities

exist under individual conditions, and therefore are not _formally_

but only _fundamentally_, universal; for their formal universality

consists only in their mode of existing in our mind when we drop all

actual thought of their individual determinations. But, surely, they

do not cease to be realities because the mind, in thinking of them,

pays no attention to their individuation; and, therefore, metaphysical

universals, even as universal, retain their objective reality.

We might say more on this subject, were it not that this is hardly the

place for discussing the merits of formalism, realism, or nominalism.

We can, however, give a second answer, which will dispose of the

objection in a very simple manner. The answer is this: Granted that

abstractions, _as such_, have no existence but in our intellect.

Nevertheless, what we conceive abstractedly exists concretely in the

objects of which it is predicated and from which it is abstracted.

Humanity in our conception is an abstraction, and yet is to be found

in every living man; velocity, likewise, is an abstraction, and yet

is to be found in all real movement through space; quantity also,

is an abstraction, and yet is to be found in every existing body.

Therefore, abstract things do not cease to be real in nature, though

they are abstract in our conception. This is an evident truth. If the

adversaries of metaphysics are bold enough to deny it, then they at

the same time and in the same breath deny all real science, and thus

forfeit all claim to the honorable title of _scientific_ men. Statics

and dynamics, geometry and calculus, algebra and arithmetic, are

abstract sciences. No one will deny that they are most useful; yet they

would be of no use whatever if what they consider in the abstract had

no concrete correspondent in the real world. Chemistry itself, and all

the experimental sciences, inasmuch as they are sciences, are abstract.

Atomic weights, inasmuch as they fall under scientific reasoning, are

abstractions; genera, species, and varieties in zoölogy and botany are

abstract conceptions; crystalline forms in mineralogy are as abstract

as any purely geometric relation. Indeed, without abstractions,

science is not even conceivable; for all science, as such, proceeds

from abstract principles to abstract conclusions. But though the

process of scientific reasoning be abstract, _real_ science deals with

_real_ objects and real relations. And such is exactly the case with

metaphysics, which is the universal science of all reality, and the

queen of all the real sciences.

These general remarks suffice, without any further development, to

vindicate the reality of the material object of metaphysics. But here

the question arises, Are _all_ real beings without exception the object

of this science?

Some authors, in past centuries, thought that the only object of

metaphysics was to treat of beings _above nature_; and accordingly

taught that God and the angels alone were _metaphysical_ beings--that

is, beings ranging above nature. On the contrary, man and this visible

world--that is, all creatures liable to local motion--they called

_natural_ beings, and considered them to be the proper and exclusive

object of _physical_ science. This view was grounded, apparently, on

the latent assumption that metaphysics meant _above physics_; which,

however, is not correct, as μετὰ does not mean _above_, but _after_;

and therefore metaphysical is not synonymous with supernatural.[89] On

the other hand, God and the angels are undoubtedly _physical_ beings;

for they are complete beings, having their complete physical nature and

their separate existence. We cannot call them _metaphysical_ beings;

for we know of no beings which deserve the name of metaphysical but

those incomplete entities which are attained through the intellectual

analysis of physical and complete beings.

As to man and all the other natural things, every one will see that

though they are, in one respect, the proper object of physics, yet

they are also, in another respect, the proper object of metaphysics;

and this too, without in the least confounding the two branches of

knowledge. The attributions of physics and of metaphysics are, in

fact, so distinct that there can be no danger of the one invading the

province of the other, even though they deal with the same subject.

The office of the physicist is to investigate natural facts, to

discuss them, to make a just estimate of them, and to discover the

laws presiding over their production. This, and no other, is the

object of physics, to accomplish which it is not necessary to know the

essence of natural things. Hence, the physicist, after ascertaining the

phenomena of nature and their laws, cannot go further in his capacity

of physicist. But where he ends his work, just there the metaphysician

begins; for his office is to take those facts and laws as a ground

for his speculations in order to discover the essential principles

involved in the constitution of natural causes, and to account by such

principles for all the attributes and properties of things. This is

the duty of the metaphysician. Thus natural things, although an object

of physics when considered as following certain laws of action or of

movement, are nevertheless an object of metaphysics when considered in

their being and intimate constitution.

On this point even physicists agree. "Instead of regarding the proper

object of physical science as a search after essential causes,"

says one of the best modern champions of scientific progress, "it

ought to be, and must be, a search after facts and relations."[90]

Hence, physical science deals with natural facts and their relations

exclusively; the search after causes and essential principles

constitutes the object of a higher science; and such a science is real

philosophy, or metaphysics proper.

I was surprised at finding in Webster's _English Dictionary_ (v.

Metaphysics) the following words:

"The natural division of things that exist is into body and mind,

things material and immaterial. The former belong to physics, and the

latter to the science of metaphysics." From what we have just said,

it is clear that this division is not accurate. We must add that it

is not consistent with the definition of metaphysics given by the

same author only a few lines before. Metaphysics, says he, is "the

science of the principles and causes of _all_ things existing." Now,

if material things existing do not belong to metaphysics, it evidently

follows that either material things existing have no principles and no

causes, or that such principles and causes are no object of science.

But it is obvious that neither conclusion can be admitted. Furthermore,

it is well known that all metaphysicians treat of the constitution of

bodies--a fact which conclusively proves that material things are not

excluded from the object of metaphysics.

Here, however, we must observe that some modern writers, while

conceding this last point, contend that material things _must be

mentally freed from their materiality_ before they can be considered

as an object of metaphysics. Their reason is, that this science is

concerned with real things only inasmuch as they consist of principles

known to the intellect alone. Matter, they say, is not an object

of the intellect. Therefore, the object of metaphysics must be

immaterial--that is, either a thing which has no matter of its own, or

at least a thing which is conceived, through mental abstraction, as

free from matter.

But we should remember that, according to the common doctrine, the true

and adequate object of metaphysics is _all_ real being as such, whether

it be material or immaterial; and that it is, therefore, the duty of

the metaphysician to divide substance into material and immaterial, and

to give the definition of both; for it belongs to each science to point

out and define the parts of its own object. Hence, the metaphysician

is bound to explain how things material differ from things immaterial,

and has to ascertain what metaphysical predicates are attributable to

material substance on account of its very materiality.[91] Now, it is

evident that nothing of the kind can ever be done by a philosopher who,

through mental abstraction, considers material substance as freed from

its matter. For when, by such an abstraction, he has taken away the

matter, what else can he look upon as a ground of distinction between

material and immaterial beings? We must admit, then, that material

things, inasmuch as they are _real_ things, and only in that manner

in which they are real (that is, with their own matter), are a proper

object of metaphysics.

To the patrons of the opposite view we confidently answer that their

argument has no sound foundation; for though it is true that no

material thing, owing to the complexity of its simultaneous actions on

our senses, distinctly reveals to us its material constitution, yet it

is not true that material things cannot be understood by our intellect

unless they are mentally stripped of their matter. To understand them

thus would be simply to misunderstand them. Matter and form are the

essential constituents of material substance, as all metaphysicians

admit; it is, therefore, impossible to understand the essence of

material substance, unless the intellect reaches the matter as well as

the form.[92] Let us add that those very authors who in theory affect

to exclude matter from the object of metaphysics find it impossible

to do away with it in practice, and, in spite of the theory, devote

to matter, as such, a great number of pages in their own metaphysical

treatises.

Thus far we have defined the object of metaphysics. We now come to

its method, on account of which it is so frequently assailed by the

votaries of experimental science. Metaphysics, they say, is a science

_à priori_; it is, therefore, altogether incompetent to decide any

matters of fact; and, if so, what is the use of metaphysics? To this

reasoning, which claims no credit for perspicacity, many answers can be

given.

And first let us suppose for a moment that metaphysics is a science

altogether _à priori_. Does it follow that it has no claim to our most

careful attention? Geometry, algebra, and all pure mathematics are _à

priori_ sciences. Are they despised on this account? We see, on the

contrary, that for this very reason they are held in greater honor and

lauded as the most thorough, the most exact, and the most irrefragable

of all sciences. Some will say that the object of mathematics is not to

establish natural facts, but only relations; but this is equally true

of metaphysics. The metaphysician, when treating of physical subjects,

assumes the facts and laws of nature as they are presented to him by

the physicist; he has not to establish them anew, but only to account

for them by showing the reason of their being. Metaphysics would,

therefore, be as good, as excellent, and as interesting as geometry,

even if it were an _à priori_ science.

But, secondly, what is the real case? To proceed _à priori_ is to argue

from the cause to the effect, and from antecedents to consequents;

whereas, to proceed _à posteriori_ is to argue from the effect to the

cause, and from consequents to antecedents. Now, it is a fact that

in metaphysics we frequently argue from the cause to the effect, as

is done in other sciences too; but it is no less a fact that we even

more frequently argue from the effect to the cause. The very name

of _metaphysics_, which is the bugbear of our opponents, clearly

shows that such is the case. Real philosophy, in fact, is called

_metaphysics_ for two reasons, the first of which is extrinsic and

historical, the second intrinsic and logical. The historical consists

in the fact that Aristotle's speculations on those incomplete entities

which enter into the constitution of things were handed down to us

under the name of metaphysics. The logical is, because the knowledge

of such incomplete entities must be gathered from the consideration of

natural beings by means of an intellectual analysis, which cannot be

made properly without a previous extensive knowledge of the concrete

order of things. This latter knowledge, which must be gathered by

observation and experiment, constitutes physical science. Hence, the

rational knowledge which comes after it, and is based on it, is very

properly called _metaphysical_, and that part of philosophy which

develops such a knowledge _metaphysics_--that is, after-physics.

Now, all analysis belongs to the _à posteriori_ process; for it

proceeds from the compound to its components, and therefore from

the effect to the cause. Therefore, metaphysics, inasmuch as it

analyzes natural beings and finds out their constituents, is an _à

posteriori_ science; and since such an analysis is the very ground

of all metaphysical speculations, we must conclude that the whole

of metaphysics is based on the _à posteriori_ process, no less than

physics itself.

Thirdly, that metaphysics cannot decide any matter-of-fact question is

a silly objection; as it is evident that to establish the existence of

God, the spirituality of the human soul, the creation of the world,

etc., is nothing less than to decide matters of fact. It may be that,

in the opinion of the utilitarian, such facts are not very interesting;

they are facts, however, as much and as truly as the rotation of the

earth, atmospheric pressure, and universal attraction are facts; and

they are much more important, too.

We might also maintain that metaphysics is mainly a science of facts;

for there are facts of the intellectual as well as of the experimental

order. That every effect must have a cause is a fact. That every circle

must have a centre is another fact. That a part is less than the whole

is a third fact. Intellectual facts are as numerous and as certain as

the facts of nature; and it is through them that our experimental

knowledge of natural things is raised to the dignity of _scientific_

cognition. For there is no science, whether inductive or deductive,

without reasoning, and no reasoning without principles; and every

principle is a fact of the intellectual order. Those critics who are

wont to slight metaphysics as an _à priori_ science would, therefore,

do well to consider that no true demonstration can be made but by

_à priori_ principles, and that true demonstration constitutes the

perfection of science.

We may here remark that metaphysics is usually divided into _general_

and _special_, and that the _à priori_ character, for which it is

assailed, belongs to general metaphysics only. General metaphysics

treats of the constituents, attributes, and properties of being in

general, and is called ontology. Ontology is considered as a necessary

preparation for the study of special metaphysics, which, from the

knowledge of being in general, descends to the examination of the

different classes and genera of beings in particular. Our men of

science, accustomed as they are to the inductive method, do not approve

of this form of proceeding. On what ground, they ask, do you impose

upon the student notions, definitions, and principles _à priori_, as

you do in ontology, affirming in general that which has not yet been

examined in particular, and taking for granted what has yet to be

established and verified?

The answer is obvious enough. General metaphysics assumes nothing

but what is already admitted as evident by all mankind. It is mainly

concerned with the notions conveyed by such words as _being_, _cause_,

_effect_, _principle_, _essence_, _existence_, _substance_, _accident_,

etc. These notions are common, and their methodical explanation is

based on common-sense principles--that is, on evident, intellectual

facts. Thus far, therefore, no one can say that we invert the natural

order of science; for we start from what is known.

Next comes the analysis of the notions just referred to. The object

of this analysis is to point out distinctly the different classes of

being, the different genera of causes, the variety of principles,

reasons, etc., implied in those general notions, to show their

ontological relations, and to account for their distinction. This

important investigation, as well as the preceding one, is based on

common-sense reasonings, but sometimes not without reference to

other truths, which are established and vindicated only in special

metaphysics, to which they properly belong. Thus, it is the custom

to treat in ontology of the intrinsic possibility of things, and its

eternity, necessity, and immutability; but it is only in natural

theology that such matters find their full and radical explanation. Of

course, whenever an assertion is made, of which the proof is totally

or partially deferred to a later time, the assent of the student to it

is more or less provisional. It is not, however, in metaphysics only

that a student must accept certain things on trust; he thus accepts the

equivalents in chemistry, the distances of the planets from the sun in

astronomy, and the logarithms in trigonometry.

Yet we confess that philosophical writers and teachers sometimes

expose themselves to just criticism by treating in general metaphysics

certain matters which it would be better to reserve intact for special

treatises. It is doubtless necessary, immediately after logic, to

treat of the nature of being, and its principles and its properties

in general; but it is extremely difficult, and even dangerous, to

undertake the settlement of some questions of ontology connected with

the physical department of science before these same questions are

sufficiently explored by the light, and disentangled by the analysis,

of special metaphysics, to which their full investigation really

appertains. What is the use of giving, for instance, an unestablished,

and perhaps preposterous, notion of corporeal quantity to him who

has as yet to learn what is the essential composition of bodies?

Is a student prepared to realize the true nature of the quantity

of mass, or of the quantity of volume, who has never yet explored

either the mysterious attributes of formal continuity or the intimate

constitution of material substance? Certainly not. He may, indeed,

make an act of faith on the authority of his professor; but philosophy

is not faith, and no professor who understands his duty would ever

unnecessarily oblige his pupils to admit anything as true on his own

sole authority. Questions connected with the physical laws of causation

and movement, or with the nature of sensible qualities and properties,

should similarly be deferred to a later time; for no one will be

able to deal successfully with them, unless he has already acquired

a distinct knowledge of many other things, on which both the right

understanding and the right solution of these questions essentially

depend. Accordingly, such matters, instead of being treated lightly and

perfunctorily at the beginning of the course of metaphysics, should be

treated with those others to which they are naturally allied, in order

that they may be fully examined and competently decided.

From this it will be seen that we do not want a metaphysical science

based on _à priori_ grounds. In all times, metaphysics has been a

science of facts; and it could not be otherwise, since its object

is real, and all that is real is a matter of fact. Experiment and

observation have always supplied the materials of its speculations. All

its conclusions about the nature of the soul are drawn from the facts

of consciousness; all its affirmations concerning the constitution of

bodies are founded on the facts and laws of the physical world; and

all its theses on God, his existence and his attributes, are likewise

deduced from a positive knowledge of contingent things. To suppose that

metaphysical knowledge can be obtained otherwise is such an absurdity

that nothing but the most stupid ignorance can be made to believe it.

And yet this absurdity is what many of our modern scientists fall into

when they contend that metaphysics is an _à priori_ science.

It is not difficult, however, to account for such a dislike of

metaphysical reasonings. The greatest number of our scientific men have

been brought up under the influence either of Protestantism or of its

legitimate offspring, indifferentism; and absolute truth, such as is

attained by rigorous metaphysical reasoning, is not congenial to their

habit of thought. Protestantism is a system made up of half-truths,

half-premises, and half-consequences. A Protestant must at the same

time believe the authenticity of the Bible, and reject the authority by

which alone the Bible can be proved to be authentic; he must conciliate

the liberty of his private judgment with the obedience due to the

teaching of his church; he must have the courage to believe that true

Christian religion is not that which, from the apostolic times down to

our own, has formed so many generations of saints, changed the face of

the world, confirmed its own divine origin by a perpetual succession

of prodigious works, but that which, starting from Luther or some other

mischievous innovator, has never and nowhere produced any fruit of high

sanctity or witnessed a single miracle. Hence, to a Protestant mind,

truth in its entirety must be embarrassing; since the very essence

of Protestantism is to cut truth into pieces, to believe and relish

a portion of it, and to reserve some other portion unbelieved and

unrelished, lest nothing should be left to protest against.

It is clear that minds so disposed in religious matters cannot be much

better disposed in other branches of speculative knowledge; and it

is but natural that they should despise metaphysics altogether. "To

the healthy scientific mind," says a modern writer, "the fine-spun

arguments and the wonderful logical achievements of metaphysicians

are at once so bewildering and so distasteful that men of science can

scarcely be got to listen even to those who undertake to show that

the arguments are but cobwebs, the logic but jingle, and the seeming

profundity little more than a jumble of incongruous ideas shrouded in

a mist of words."[93] Indeed, when men of science are thus satisfied

with their ignorance of philosophy, and shut their eyes and their ears,

lest the light, or perhaps the jingle, of logic compel them to learn

what mere experimentalism cannot teach, we cease to wonder that they

countenance such theories as the _Descent of Man_, the eternity of

matter, or the meteoric origin of the principle of life.

We do not wish to deny the progress of modern science; we fully

acknowledge that experimentalism has led to the discovery of important

facts. But this is no reason why our men of science should disregard

philosophy.

An increase of positive knowledge regarding facts, far from bringing

about the exclusion of philosophical reasoning, extends its range,

enlarges its foundation, and makes its employment both easier and

surer. Accordingly, while we profess gratitude to the modern scientists

for their unceasing labors and untiring efforts towards the development

of experimental knowledge, we beg leave to remind them that this

knowledge is not the _ne plus ultra_ of natural science. Subordinate

sciences account in a certain measure for such things as form their

special object; but philosophy, the highest, the deepest, and the most

universal of sciences, not only embraces in its general scope all the

objects of human knowledge, but accounts for them by their highest

principles and causes, and makes them not only known, but understood.

To know facts is an excellent thing; yet the human mind craves

something higher. We are all born to be philosophers. Indeed, our

rational nature teaches us very early the first elements of philosophy,

and compels us to philosophize. As soon as we acquire the use of

reason, we detect ourselves tracing effects to causes, and conclusions

to principles; and from that time we experience a strong tendency to

generalize such a process, till it extends to all known objects and to

the ultimate reasons of their being.

Yet we should reflect that our rational nature, while thus prompting

us to such high investigations, does not lead us freely to the goal,

but leaves it to our industry to acquaint ourselves with the proper

methods of discovering philosophical truth. Negligence in the study of

such methods hinders intellectual advancement, and leaves men exposed

to the snares of sophistry. Such a negligence on the part of men who

are looked upon as the lights of modern science is one of the great

evils of the day. Distaste for philosophical instruction, when confined

to the lower classes of society, is of little consequence: even in

the middle classes it might be comparatively harmless if men were

ready to own their ignorance, and forbore judging of what transcends

their intellectual acquirements. But in an age like ours, when every

one who has a smattering of light literature or of empirical science

thinks himself called upon to decide the most abstruse and formidable

questions; when countless books and periodicals of a perfidious

character are everywhere spread by the unholy efforts of secret

societies; and, when a confiding public allow themselves to be led like

sheep by such incompetent authorities, then ignorance, supported by

presumption or malice on the one side, and by credulity on the other,

cannot but be the source of incalculable evils.

Hence it is that all prudent and experienced men have come to the

conclusion that one of the greatest necessities of our times is to

popularize the study of sound philosophy. Young America needs to be

taught that there is a whole world of important truths ranging above

the grasp of the vulgar, uncultivated mind, unknown to the pretentious

teachers of a material and spurious civilization, and unattainable by

those who are not trained to the best use of their intellectual powers.

It needs to realize the fact that modern literature and thought in

general is full of deceits. It needs to be instructed how to meet a

host of high-sounding assertions, plausible fallacies, and elaborate

theories, advanced in support of social, religious, or political error.

It needs to be enabled, by a sound, uniform, and strong teaching,

gradually to form into a compact body, held together by the noble

ties of truth, powerful enough to stem the torrent of infidelity, and

always ready to defend right and justice against learned hypocrisy, as

well as against ignorant sophistry. Grown-up men cannot be reclaimed;

they are too much engrossed with material interests to find leisure

for the cultivation of their higher faculties; but we are glad to see

that our brilliant and unbiassed youth can be given, and are ready to

receive, a more intellectual education. Let us only convince them of

the importance of philosophy; let us provide them with good, kind, and

learned teachers, and the future will be ours.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.

T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

D. C.

[89] Fleming, in his _Dictionary of Philosophy_ (v. Metaphysics), says:

"In Latin, _metaphysica_ is synonymous with _supernaturalia_; and

Shakespeare has used _metaphysical_ as synonymous with _supernatural_:

'... Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem

To have thee crowned.'

--_Macbeth_, act i., scene 3.

Clemens Alexandrinus (_Strom._ i.) considered _metaphysical_ as

equivalent to _supernatural_; and is supported by an anonymous Greek

commentator, etc."

That Shakespeare's _metaphysical aid_ means the aid of some mysterious

power above nature may be conceded. But that in Latin _metaphysica_

is synonymous with _supernaturalia_ is an assertion which can be

easily refuted by a simple reference to any of the great Latin

works of metaphysics. Nor is it true that Clemens Alexandrinus

considered _metaphysical_ as equivalent to _supernatural_. He only

remarks that Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ is that part of philosophy

which Plato at one time styled "a contemplation of truly great

mysteries," and at other times "dialectics"--that is, "a science

which investigates the reasons of the things that are" (τῆς τῶν

ὄντων δηλώσεως εὐρητικὴ τίς ἐστιν ἐπιστήμη). Now, the science which

investigates the reasons of the things that are extends to _all_

real beings. It is not true, therefore, that Clemens Alexandrinus

considered _metaphysical_ as equivalent to _supernatural_. The truth

is that he does not even use the word _metaphysics_ as his own, but

only says that Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ contains the investigation

and contemplation of "mysteries"--that is, of abstruse things. And

since Aristotle's _metaphysics_ is not a science of the supernatural,

Clemens Alexandrinus, in quoting the word _metaphysics_ in connection

with Aristotle, cannot have considered it as equivalent to the science

of the supernatural. Lastly, Clemens Alexandrinus explains that the

science which Aristotle called _metaphysics_, and Plato _dialectics_,

has for its object the consideration of things, and the determination

of their powers and attributes, from which it raises itself to their

very essence, whence again it ventures to go further, even to God

himself, the master of the universe. Επισκοποῦσα τὰ πράγματα, καὶ τὰς

δυνάμεις, καὶ τὰς ἐξουσίας δοκιμάζουσα, ὐπεξαναβαίνει περὶ τὴν πάντων

κρατίστην οὐσίαν, τολμᾶ τε ἐπέκεινα ἐπὶ τῶν ὄλων Θεὸν (_Strom._, lib.

i. c. 28). This shows that metaphysical science, according to Clemens

Alexandrinus, extends to the investigation of all natural things.

It cannot, therefore, be said that he considered _metaphysical_ as

equivalent to _supernatural_, whatever may have been the opinion of the

anonymous Greek commentator.

[90] Grove, _Correlation of Physical Forces_.

[91] Suarez, _Metaph. Disput._, i. sect. 2, n. 25.

[92] S. Thomas says: _Intellectus potest intelligere aliquam formam

absque individuantibus principiis, non tamen absque materia, a qua

dependet ratio illius formæ_ (in 3 _De Anima_, lect. 8).

[93] _Nature_, a Journal of Science, March 13, 1873.

EPIGRAM.

Inconstant thou! There ne'er was any

Till now so constant--to so many.

AUBREY DE VERE.

DANTE'S PURGATORIO.

CANTO FOURTH.

This Canto, being somewhat abstruse, was passed over at its due

place in the series of these translations. As its omission has been

regretted by some students of Dante, it has been thought best to

publish it now, although the first portion of it may seem a little

difficult to any but a mathematical reader. Perhaps its dryness

may be somewhat relieved at the close by the humorous picture of

the lazy sinner Belacqua, which is the first slight touch of the

comic in this most grave comedy, and here for the first time Dante

confesses to a smile.

Whene'er the mind, from any joy or pain

In any faculty, to that alone

Bends its whole force, its other powers remain

Unexercised, it seems (whereby is shown

Plain contradiction of th' erroneous view

Which holds within us kindled several souls).

Hence, when we hear or see a thing whereto

The mind is strongly drawn, unheeded rolls

The passing hour; the man observes it not:

That power is one whereby we hear or see,

And that another which absorbs our thought;

This being chained, as 'twere--the former free.

A real experience of this truth had I,

Listening that soul with wonder at such force,

For now the sun full fifty degrees high

Had risen without my noticing his course,

When came we where the spirits, with one voice all,

Cried out to us, "Behold the place ye seek!"

A wider opening oft, in hedge or wall,

Some farmer, when the grape first browns its cheek,

Stops with one forkful of his brambles thrown,

Than was the narrow pass whereby my Guide

Began to climb, I following on alone,

While from our way I saw those wanderers glide.

A man may climb St. Leo, or descend

The steeps of Noli, or Bismantua's height

Scale to the top, and on his feet depend;

_Here_ one should fly! I mean he needs the light

Pinions and plumage of a strong desire,

Under such leadership as gave me hope

And lighted me my way. Advancing higher

In through the broken rock, it left no scope

On either side, but cramped us close; the ledge

O'er which we crept required both feet and hands.

When we had toiled up to the utmost edge

Of the high bank, where the clear coast expands,

"Which way," said I, "my Master, shall we take?"

And he to me, "Let not thy foot fall back;

Still follow me, and for the mountain make,

Until some guide appear who knows the track."

Its top sight reached not, and the hillside rose

With far more salient angle than the line

That from half-quadrant to the centre goes.

Most weary was I: "Gentle Father mine,"

I thus broke silence, "turn and see that if

Thou stay not for me, I remain alone."

"Struggle, my son, as far as yonder cliff,"

He said, and pointed upwards to a zone

Terracing all the mountain on that side.

His word so spurred me that I forced myself

And clambered on still close behind my Guide

Until my feet were on that girdling shelf.

Here we sat down and turned our faces towards

The East, from which point we had made ascent

(For looking back on toil some rest affords);

And on the low shore first mine eyes I bent,

Then raised them sunward, wondering as I gazed

How his light smote us from the left. While thus

I stared, he marked how I beheld amazed

Day's chariot entering 'twixt the North and us.

"Were yonder mirror now," the Poet said,

"That with his light leads up and down the spheres,

In Castor and Pollux, thou wouldst see the red

Zodiac revolving closer to the Bears,

If it swerved nothing from its ancient course;

Which fact to fathom wouldst thou power command,

Imagine, with thy mind's collected force,

This mount and Zion so on earth to stand

That though in adverse hemispheres, the twain

One sole horizon have: thence 'tis not hard

To see (if clear thine intellect remain)

How the Sun's road--which Phaeton, ill-starred,

Knew not to keep--must pass that mountain o'er

On one, and _this_ hill on the other side."

"Certes, my Master,--ne'er saw I before

So clear as at this moment," I replied

(Where seemed but now my understanding maimed),

"How the mid-circle of the heavenly spheres

And of their movements--the Equator named

In special term of art--which never veers

From its old course, 'twixt winter and the Sun,

Yet for the reason thou dost now assign,

Towards the Septentrion from this point doth run,

While to the Jews it bore a South decline.

But if it please thee, gladly would I learn

How far we have to journey; for so high

This hill soars that mine eyes cannot discern

The top thereof." He made me this reply:

"Such is this mountain that for one below

The first ascent is evermore severe,

It grows less painful higher as we go.

So when to thee it pleasant shall appear

That no more toil thy climbing shall attend

Than to sail down the way the current flows,

Then art thou near unto thy pathway's end;

There from thy labor look to find repose.

I know that this is true, but say no more."

And this word uttered, not far off addressed

Me thus a voice: "It may be that before

That pass, thou wilt have need to sit and rest."

At sound thereof we both looked round, and there

Beheld a huge rock, close to our left hand,

Whereof till now we had not been aware.

Thither we toiled, and in its shade a band

Behind it stood with a neglectful air,

As men in idleness are wont to stand.

BELACQUA THE SLUGGARD.

And one was seated, hanging down his face

Between his knees, which he with languid limb,

Looking exhausted, held in his embrace.

"O my sweet Seignior!" I exclaimed, "note him!

Lazier-looking than had laziness been

His sister-born." Turning towards us, at length

He gazed, slow lifting o'er his thigh his chin,

And drawled, "Go up, then, thou who hast such strength."

I knew who _that_ was then; and though the ascent

Had made me pant somewhat, I kept my pace,

Spite of short breath: close up to him I went,

And he droned forth, scarce lifting up his face,

"Hast thou found out yet how the Sun this way

O'er thy left shoulder doth his chariot guide?"

His sloth, and what few words he had to say,

Made me smile slightly, and I thus replied:

"No more, Belacqua, do I mourn thy fate;

But tell me wherefore in this place I see

Thee sitting thus? Dost thou for escort wait,

Or has thy old slow habit seized on thee?"

And he--"O brother! what boots it to climb?

God's Angel sitting at the gate denies

Me way to penance until so much time

Be past as living I beheld the skies.

Outside I must remain here for the crime

Of dallying to the last my contrite sighs,

Unless I happily some help derive

From the pure prayer ascending from a heart

That lives in grace: a prayer not thus alive

Heaven doth not hear: what aid can such impart?"

Now before me the Poet up the height

Began to climb, saying, "Come on, for o'er

This hill's meridian hangs the Sun, and Night

Sets foot already on Morocco's shore."

NOTE.

The Rev. Edward Everett Hale, in a most interesting paper intended

for presentation to the American Antiquarian Society, in Boston,

makes this record:

"When Columbus sailed on his fourth voyage, he wrote to Ferdinand

and Isabella a letter which contains the following statement with

regard to the South Sea, then undiscovered, known to us as the

Pacific Ocean:

"'I believe that if I should pass under the equator, in arriving at

this higher region of which I speak, I should find there a milder

temperature and a diversity in the stars and in the waters. Not

that I believe that the highest point is navigable whence these

currents flow, nor that we can mount there, because I am convinced

that there is the terrestrial paradise, whence no one can enter but

by the will of God.'

"This curious passage, of which the language seems so mystical,

represents none the less the impression which Columbus had of

the physical cosmogony of the undiscovered half of the world. It

is curious to observe that the most elaborate account of this

cosmogony, and that by which alone it has been handed down to

the memory of modern times, is that presented in Dante's _Divina

Commedia_, where he represents the mountain of Purgatory, at the

antipodes of Jerusalem, crowned by the terrestrial paradise. It is

this paradise of which Columbus says, 'No one can enter it but by

the will of God.'

"Of Dante's cosmogony a very accurate account is given by Miss

Rossetti, in her essay on Dante, recently published, to which she

gives the name of 'The Shadow of Dante.' Her statement is in these

words:

"'Dante divides our globe into two elemental hemispheres--the

Eastern, chiefly of land; the Western, almost wholly of water.'"

It is much easier to praise Mr. Hale's valuable comments than to

agree with Miss Rossetti. To us it seems that her confused account

lets no light in upon Dante's cosmogony, which was simply that of

the age he lived in, poetized after his own fashion. According

to the interpretation of THE CATHOLIC WORLD's translation, Dante

divides our globe into two hemispheres--_Northern_ and _Southern_.

In the story of Ulysses (_Inferno_, Canto xxvi.) he alludes to a

Western hemisphere, and, as far as we remember, nowhere else. Mr.

Hale says in conclusion of his able paper, "I am not aware that any

of the distinguished critics of Dante have called attention to the

fact that so late as the year 1503, a navigator so illustrious as

Columbus was still conducting his voyages on the supposition that

Dante's cosmogony was true in fact."

This, indeed, is quite curious, but ought not to surprise one who

reflects that the cosmography of Columbus was not much advanced

from the time of Dante. In this very canto the poet shows that he

knew about the variation of the ecliptic and the retrogression of

the equinoxes. From his age to that of the great navigator, science

had hardly taken a forward step. In fact, before 1300, Dante was

acquainted not only with the sphericity of the earth, but with the

first law of gravitation--the tendency of things to their centre.

Few consider how very slow was the growth of science from that

which Dante had learned in Florence, and Columbus had studied in

Pavia and Sienna, up to the time of Copernicus, at whom, so late as

1625, Lord Bacon had the hardihood to give this fling: "Who would

not smile at the astronomers--I mean, not those _carmen_ which

drive the earth about, but the few ancient astronomers, which feign

the moon to be the swiftest of the planets in motion, etc.?"

The pages of this magazine will not permit us to prolong an inquiry

that may hereafter, and which ought to, be made as to the Ptolemean

astronomy of the schools in the age of Dante. The one scholar in

this country most capable of such investigation is too busy--we

mean Professor Peirce, of the U. S. Coast Survey.--TRANSLATOR.

GRAPES AND THORNS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."

CHAPTER VII.

MOTHER CHEVREUSE AGAIN.

If one would take the trouble to search into the subject, it would,

perhaps, be acknowledged that the apparently unreasonable emotion that

women display on occasions when men find themselves unmoved is not,

after all, entirely ridiculous. It may be annoying, it may partake of

the hysterical; but, if genuine, it is the sign of a more subtile,

though often vague, perception.

A woman whom the Creator has endowed so nobly with intellect as to make

it a source of painful regret that the infinitely higher supernatural

gifts are lacking in her has written words which may be quoted in

this connection: "That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact

of frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotions of

mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had

a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like

hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die

of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the

quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity."

Had George Eliot been gifted with faith as with reason, she could not

have written that paragraph without recollecting that the saint on

earth is an exception to her rule; that the soul illumined by the Holy

Spirit has so keen a perception, not of natural things as such, but

of natural things in their relations to God; that but for the divine

strength and peace which accompany the holy presence, it could not

endure that vision of eternal results hanging on apparently trivial

causes. To such a soul there are but two paths, and every smallest step

is in the road to heaven or the road to hell.

Look at those saints, and listen to them. They were worn and pallid;

they were consumed by a fiery zeal because of this awful tragedy they

saw in the perpetually recurring common events of life. They heard for

ever that roar of eternity from the other side of the silence of death.

But regarding the natural, of which our author speaks, she is right.

The greater number of us are "well-wadded with stupidity," though women

are by nature far less so than men. Their view is often distorted and

vague; they tremble at shadows, and do not know where to look for the

substance which casts them; but the substance is there, nevertheless.

They feel the tragedy hidden in common things, whether they can explain

it or not. It must be remembered that while man was made of the slime

of the earth, woman was formed of flesh; and that the material part

which is the veil between her spirit and the outer world has felt twice

the refining touch of the Creator's hand.

Is all this too large an _à propos_ to the tears which women are

accused of shedding whenever they see a marriage? Think a moment

before deciding. Not the happiness or misery of these two alone is in

question, but that of an endless line of possible descendants. There

is, indeed, no kind of tragedy which may not follow on a marriage.

After this long preamble, we may venture to say that both Mme. Ferrier

and Mrs. Gerald were moved to tears at the marriage of their children;

the former crying openly and naturally, the latter showing her emotion

with that restraint which conventional life imposes. Each understood

the other, and was cordially drawn to the other for, perhaps, the first

time in all their acquaintance. They stood side by side on the wharf as

the steamer which bore the young couple left it, and gazed after their

children, who waved handkerchiefs and kisses to them from the deck. A

few hours in the steamer would carry them to the city, where they were

to take the cars for Niagara. Annette wished to see the falls when the

autumn foliage should form a setting for them, and Lawrence had his own

reason for liking the place.

"I have the greatest sympathy and affection for waterfalls," he said;

"and I would like to live near Niagara. One gets so tired of hearing

of rising and aspiring that it is a real relief to see some object

in creation that lets things slide, and lays all its cares on the

shoulders of gravity. I like to see those green waters just go to sleep

and tumble along without troubling themselves. As I remember that

river, it looked like melted chrysoprase."

"It is true, my son," the mother had answered, tremulously tender

and smiling. "But to let things slide, as you express it, is to go

downward."

"And just as inevitably," he rejoined, kissing her, "does my pretty

mother find something to moralize about in every random word her

worthless son utters."

They were going, then, to Niagara. The steamer threw the waters of the

Saranac backward from her prow, and left a snowy wake, like a bridal

veil, trailing after her. The sun was going down, and the new moon

hung, a crescent of fire, in the cloudless west.

"The new moon is over our right shoulders. Let's wish," said Lawrence.

"That is one of my pet superstitions."

The bride shook her head playfully. "Then I must forbid your wishing.

We are going to be very good, you know, and not commit the least sin

to-day." Seeing a faint shade came over his face at her chiding, she

made haste to add: "We will convert this superstition into something

good. Fancy Our Lady standing on that crescent, and say an _Ave_. And

since we are making the stars our rosary, we will look for the three

magi. Spanish sailors call by that name the stars in Orion's belt. He

should be in the east before long. These sailors say that he who sees

the three magi is not far from the Saviour. Whenever I see them, and

think of it, I make acts of faith, hope, and charity. Will you say them

with me to-night?"

Lawrence Gerald looked intently and curiously at his young wife. If

she had been a stranger to him, he would have been captivated by her.

"Annette," he said, "I don't feel so well acquainted with you as I

thought I was."

"It will take us a good many years to become well acquainted with each

other," she answered quietly. "Now let's take a seat at the other side

of the deck, and look for the three magi. Good-night, Crichton!"

She leaned over the rail, and looked back for one moment at the city.

Whatever thoughts may have surged up, whatever fears, hopes, or

regrets, they found no utterance. No one saw the look in her eyes.

Then she took her husband's arm, and crossed the deck.

"There come the Pleiades, like a little cluster of golden grapes, and

there is Aldebaran; and now, Orion, buckle on your belt, and come

forth."

"By the way," said Lawrence, struck by a sudden thought, "you are Mrs.

Gerald; did you know it?"

"Are you sorry for it?" she asked, and tried to make the question sound

playful, but with ill success.

"I am rather astonished," he replied; and seemed really to find the

thought a new one.

Annette could not restrain a momentary outburst, though she blushed

with mortification for it as soon as the words were spoken. "O

Lawrence! cannot you speak one word of kindness to me?" As though that

could be kindness which waits till asked for.

He took the appeal jestingly. "You shall dictate. Only tell me what you

would be pleased to have me say, and I will repeat it, like an obedient

husband."

Then, seeing her blush, and that she shrank from him with a look that

was almost aversion, he spoke seriously.

"I do not mean to be unkind to you, Annette. Have patience with me.

You have made a bad bargain, but I am, perhaps, more grateful than I

appear; and I like you better every day."

She made no reply, but leaned back and looked at the stars coming out,

one by one. There was no delight in her heart, but a greater peace and

sweetness than she had even hoped for. "I like you better every day."

How softly the words echoed in her ears!

When the steamer had disappeared around a curve of the river, Mrs.

Ferrier turned her tear-drenched face to Mrs. Gerald, and sobbed out,

"They are gone! They are not our children any more."

Mrs. Gerald did not trust herself to speak; but she laid a kind hand on

the mother's arm, and tried to smile.

"Do come home with me!" Mrs. Ferrier begged. "It is so lonesome there I

can't bear to go into the house. Come and stay to tea, you and Honora."

But Mrs. Gerald had promised to drive out with Mrs. Macon to see the

Sisters, and the bright little lady was waiting impatiently for her; so

to Honora was left the task of comforting Annette's mother.

On their way home, Mrs. Ferrier started up suddenly, and ordered the

coachman to stop. "I don't care if he is a Jew," she said, having

caught sight of Mr. Schöninger. "He's good enough to be a Christian;

and I'm going to ask him to supper." And before Honora could prevent

it, even if she had desired to, the gentleman had been beckoned to the

carriage, and the invitation given and accepted.

"I'm not what people call a lady," Mrs. Ferrier said, as they drove on

again, "but I believe I know a gentleman when I see him; and if there

ever was a true gentleman, he is one. How he does it I don't know; but

he some way makes me respect myself. He doesn't flatter me; I am sure

he doesn't care for my money, and that he knows I am no scholar; but it

seems to me as if he thinks there is something respectable in being an

honest woman, no matter how ignorant you are; and I'm just as sure that

that man never laughs at me, and is mad when other people do it, as I

am that I sit here. In my house, when some of those little upstarts

have been talking to me, and trying to make me say things--I knew all

the time what they were up to!--I've seen him come marching across the

room to me like a king, and scatter them as if they were mice, with

just one glance of his eyes. I'm not a fool, and I know my friends."

Honora's visit was a short one; and after an hour of pleasant talk, she

started for home, accompanied by Mr. Schöninger. They had been speaking

of the _Moonlight Sonata_; and, since the hour was early, the gentleman

asked permission to go in and play it on Miss Pembroke's piano.

"I was about to ask you to," she said cordially. "It has been on my

mind that I never heard you play that; and I fancy that my piano is

just the instrument for it, the tone is so soft and rich."

Mrs. Gerald had not yet returned. The night was very warm, and the

doors and windows all stood open, the parlor being lighted only from

the next room. Honora seated herself by an open window, and listened

with a perfect enjoyment to which nothing was wanting. She was in

the mood to hear music, the composition and the rendering were both

excellent, and the half-light in-doors and out not only veiled all

defects in their surroundings, but invested them with a soft and dreamy

grace.

Her mood was so happy that, when the sonata was ended, she did not

feel obliged to praise it, nor to speak at all; and they were silent a

little while, Mr. Schöninger touching octaves with his right hand so

exquisitely that they faltered out as the stars come--faint at first,

yet ending brightly.

"I like to look on the whole of creation as a symphony," he said

presently. "The morning stars sang together. What a song it must

be to the ears that can hear it! Fancy them setting out on that

race, their hearts on fire, their orbits ringing as they rolled,

their sides blooming, light just kindled! The stars, then, being

tuneful, everything on their surfaces and beneath them must have been

harmonious. How complex and wonderful--large and small, from the song

of the sun to the song of the pine-needles! The ocean had its tune,

and the rivers, and there was music in the clouds that rose from them.

How ethereal it must have been! Yes, nature was born singing, and

everything was musically ordered. The days were grouped in octaves.

They climbed from Sabbath to Sabbath."

He had spoken slowly, as if to himself, or to some sweeter self, and

let a note drop here and there into pauses. He paused a moment now,

then added: "What is music? It is harmonious action; and in action the

mystical number is seven."

He lifted his head, but not his eyes, and seemed to await a reply.

"And in being, the perfect number is three," Honora said quietly.

He did not answer for a moment, and, if he understood her meaning,

did not reply to it when he spoke. "I had not thought of that; but I

catch a glimpse of truth in your remark which I should like to follow

out. In nature, there are the three colors for one item. In art--say,

architecture--there are the three types: the rectangular Greek,

rounding up into Roman, as if lifted over a head passing under, and the

Gothic, shaped like a flame. Those may be the signs of the material,

the intellectual, and the spiritual. Yes, I must follow that out."

The light was too dim to show how Miss Pembroke's cheeks reddened as

she said, "The feasts in the church carry out this musical idea, and

have their octaves; and for the Supreme Being, there is trinity."

Was it fair or wise to catch him so? She doubted, and awaited his next

remark in some agitation.

"Miss Pembroke, I respect your opinions and your beliefs," he said,

with a dignified emphasis which might be meant to reassure or to

reprove her. In either case, it was impossible for her to pursue the

subject.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she caught at the first subject that

presented itself. "You have done a great deal for music in Crichton,

Mr. Schöninger," she said. "You have taught our musicians, and improved

the public taste immensely. Our people are musically inclined; and I

hope the time may come when we shall have great artists among us who

will do something besides present the works of others. I do not profess

to be a critic, or learned in the art; but it seems to me that it is

not yet exhausted, and that in the way of musical declamation there is

much to be done. I have often thought that words do not belong with the

highest kinds of music that we have at present, with the one exception

of that wonderful _Miserere_, which one hears in perfection only in

Rome. I would like to have a chant or recitative style for sublime and

beautiful thoughts, so that the words should be more prominent than the

tune, yet be delivered as one might fancy they would be delivered in

heaven. That is the kind of music I wish to have grow up here. It would

suit us better than the other. It is more rapid and impetuous."

Mr. Schöninger half uttered a doubtful "yes!"

"But art needs a warm atmosphere and an ardent people," he added; "and

the kind of music you describe, which is in form like improvisation,

is a failure if without enthusiasm in the singer and the listener.

Ornate music may be sung by an almost soulless performer so as to

produce an impression of meaning something, because the notes tell all;

but declamatory music is a dead body, into which a singer must breathe

a soul."

"So much the better," she replied. "Give the notes that tell all to

the instrument. But when the text has great meaning, let a human voice

interpret it, without help of florid ornamentation. But you, an artist,

are content to breathe this cold atmosphere!"

"I am at once contented and discontented." His voice softened. "For I

behold at last what I want, yet do not possess it."

He stopped, as if for some sign or question; but Honora did not utter a

word. His voice, far more than what he said, startled and silenced her.

He turned gently toward her. "Would it be possible, Miss Pembroke, that

I should find favor in your eyes?"

"You are, then, a Catholic?" she said quietly.

It was not necessary for her to say any more; yet he would not yield

without a struggle, vain as it was.

"You exaggerate the difference between us," he said earnestly, coming

nearer. "It is one of form rather than meaning. If I choose to walk by

the pure, white light, and you prefer the prismatic colors, still both

are but different conditions of the same light, and what I adore is the

source of all that you adore. Your Christ quoted as the greatest of

all the Commandments the very one which is greatest to me. You would

have perfect freedom with me. Honora, and a greater love than words can

tell."

"Mr. Schöninger," she exclaimed, "can you for one instant believe that

I would be the wife of a man who scorns as an impostor him whom I adore

as a God?"

"I could not scorn where you adore," he replied. "The mistake is not

yours, and the imposture is not his. I find him good, and noble, and

sweet, and lovely almost beyond human loveliness. Do you forget that

he also was a Jew? All that you see in the Son, and the saint, and the

apostle I see in God. These beings you honor are but scattered rays of

the great Luminary. We are not so different as we appear."

"You believe in the God who created, and loved, and preserved," she

said; "but you do not believe in the God who loved even unto death.

My God has suffered for me. The difference is infinite. It cannot be

set aside. The memories that pierce my heart leave you unmoved. The

Shepherd who went in search of his lost sheep you know nothing of.

The despised and rejected One weeping over Jerusalem you care nothing

for. That humility, so astounding and so touching, of a God making

himself small enough for me to possess; what is it to you? Nothing but

a stumbling-block. Is your God a Father in heaven?"

Mr. Schöninger was standing now, and his earnestness was fully equal

to Honora's. "My God is a father, and more than a father," he said;

"and he is pitiful to his children, even while he afflicts them. I

see in him the beneficent Provider, who every day for his children

works miracles greater far than those recorded in the New Testament.

He renews the seasons, the light. Every day is a creation. He gives us

the fruits of the earth. He lavishes beauty everywhere to please us. He

sees men unmindful of the laws which he wrote on the tables of their

hearts, and yet he pities and spares them. Oh! I am talking to the

wind!"

"It is indeed useless for us to talk on this subject, Mr. Schöninger,"

Honora said firmly.

He stood a moment leaning against the side of the window where she sat,

and looking down at her face, that showed pale even in that dim light.

"You reject me only because I am a Jew?" he asked. "Pardon me!" for she

had made a slight movement of displeasure. "Do not forget that I love

you. Is that no claim on your kindness?"

"I do not feel any unkindness for you; but since you are not a

Christian, I cannot tell how I would feel if you were one."

The reply sounded cold.

Mr. Schöninger bowed, with an immediate resumption of ceremony. "I

have, then, only to ask your pardon for having intruded a disagreeable

subject on you," he said. "Good-evening!"

She watched him going out, and saw that at the gate he was joined by F.

Chevreuse, who was just returning home from a sick-call.

"Oh! what will F. Chevreuse say to me?" she murmured. "What would

dear Mother Chevreuse have said to me? It is all my fault! I had too

much confidence in my own wisdom! They were right: there should be no

intimacy with unbelievers."

"And so you hate creeds?" F. Chevreuse was saying, in reply to an

exclamation of Mr. Schöninger's. "And what of your own, pray?"

The Jew drew away, with a slightly impatient gesture, when the priest

made a motion to take his arm. He had no desire to advance a step

toward that barrier against which he had just bruised himself. The

warning, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther," was too fresh in his

memory.

"My creed," he answered, "is not one of those inexorable ones that

life dashes men against, as the sea dashes them on the rocks. It does

not preach charity and practise hate. It does not set up barriers

between man and man, and treat nine-tenths of the world as heathen. It

does not profess the most sublime reliance on God, and then practise

the most subtle worldly wisdom. It is not even the old Jewish belief

in its formality. That was as the roots of a plant of which true

Judaism is the blossom. We cling to the old name, and some cling to

the old belief, merely because it has been hated and persecuted. If

my forefathers rejected and crucified him whom you call the Christ,

your church has excluded and crucified my people till they have bled

at every pore. They have been mocked, and beaten, and spit upon;

and yet you say that the dying prayer of your Model was, '_Father,

forgive them, for they know not what they do_.' However it may be

with individuals in your church--and I have found them noble and

charitable--as a sect,

"Their life laughs through, and spits at their creed."

If they had practised the charity they professed, there would not now

be an old-creed Jew in the world."

F. Chevreuse saw how vain it would be to combat the man in his present

mood, and he strongly suspected what trouble lay at the bottom of it.

Had he been less truly charitable, he might have persuaded himself that

it was his duty to make a counter attack or a convincing argument--a

mistake sometimes made by people who like to think that they are

zealously indignant because God's truth is assailed, when, in reality,

there may be a good deal of personal feeling because some one has

spoken lightly of _their_ belief. F. Chevreuse made neither this

mistake nor that other of throwing away argument on an excited man.

The end he sought was the glory of God in the conversion of souls; and

if, to accomplish that, it had been necessary for him to stand, like

his divine Master, "opening not his lips," while truth was reviled, he

would have done it.

"I am a better Jew than you are, then," he said gently, and put his

arm in Mr. Schöninger's, who, in the surprise at this unexpected tone,

did not shrink from him. "I am proud of that ancient people of God. In

the morning of humanity, it was the pillar of cloud which was to give

place to the pillar of fire at the gloaming of the race. To me, all

the glorious points in their history are literally true. Moses wears

his two beams of light; the bush burns without being consumed; at

the stroke of a rod, water gushes from the rock, or is piled up in a

wall--it is literally true, not a figure. But the sacrifice was above

all. Those poor exiles from Eden were deprived of present happiness;

but they were full of knowledge, and comforted by hope. They were

but just from the hand of the Creator, and were more perfect in mind

and body than any since. They had spoken face to face with God. He

condemned them for their sin, but promised them a Redeemer, and gave

them the sacrifice as a sign. I have always thought that there was

something very touching in the sacrifice which Cain and Abel offered

up. They were commemorating the sin of their own parents. Then, see

how wonderfully that idea of an offended God demanding a propitiatory

sacrifice clung to the human mind! The universality of the belief

would prove its truth, if there were no other proof. How it must have

been branded on the souls of Adam and Eve to last so! The race grew,

and broke into fragments that scattered far and wide. For centuries

they never met, and they lost all memory of each other. Their habits

and their languages changed; the faces of some grew dark; there was

scarcely a sign of brotherhood between them. If they met, they were as

strange to each other as the inhabitants of different planets. Some

adored one God, some believed in many. In spiritual matters, there

was only one point which they held in common. You have, perhaps, seen

the little _Agnus Dei_ that Catholics wear--a bit of wax with a lamb

stamped on it. Well, sir, every soul that God sent into the world had

the sacrificial idea stamped on it, like that lamb on the wax. The

devil blurred this image, of course, till men fell into all sorts of

errors, and even sacrificed each other; but he could never efface it.

The hand of God graves deeply, and the inscription wears out the hand

that rubs it.