M. le Marquis exercised no control over his daughter; his great

confidence in Dame Berthe made him refer everything to her. All that he

asked of mademoiselle was that she should always look well and happy;

and in these two respects he had every reason to thank the good God.

As for the rest, he used to say it would take a very skilful person to

find anything to reprimand in such a sweet, good girl; and there he was

right.

All the petting in the world could not spoil such a lovely nature,

and every year she became more attractive. You may tell me there was

nothing very wonderful in that, since she had all she desired. I will

answer that, on the contrary, many in her place would have become for

that very reason wicked and disagreeable. But mademoiselle inherited

from her departed mother, besides a gentle and sweet face, a soul still

more gentle and sweet. She would not have hurt a fly; her temper was

so equal it resembled the tranquil water of a lake; she knew that she

was a rich heiress, and remained simple in her manners, never haughty

to others, always ready to be of service, and succeeded wonderfully

in calming monsieur, her father, who, notwithstanding his goodness,

was liable sometimes to be carried away with anger. Finally, I can

say, without extravagance, that this last daughter of our dear lord's

had, by the grace of God, all the virtues of her race united in her.

Nevertheless, as nothing on earth is absolutely perfect, I must add

that she had two defects--one of body; for when she was approaching her

fifteenth year, having grown too fast, it was very evident that her

spine was becoming curved; and notwithstanding the greatest medical

skill was employed, she became fearfully crooked. M. le Marquis was

greatly afflicted; but as for her, she quickly made her decision.

"No one will want me," she said sweetly; "and so, dear father, I will

always remain with you."

This idea consoled her perfectly. Being lively and gay, she laughed

about her deformity so pleasantly that the people of the château ended

by thinking it not the slightest misfortune, quite as an accident of

the very least importance; and, far from no one seeking her hand, the

suitors came in procession to ask the honor of alliance with her. She

was too keen not to see that her great wealth was the principal cause

of their eagerness, and consequently refused all offers of marriage

firmly and decidedly; and on that point the whole world could not make

her change her mind.

Her second defect was of the heart; her great good-nature made her

weak, as she never knew how to refuse when any one wept before her;

neither could she deny herself anything where her innocent whims

and caprices were in question. It was certainly a fault; for having

in her own hands wealth, power, and no superior to control her, you

can imagine that her kindness of heart would make her liable to fall

frequently in the pathway of life, and drag others after her.

Now we will again take up the story of the little Ragaudins at the time

when we left them.

You will remember that the foolish little Jeannette was resolved not to

return to school, from shame of the whipping she had received that day,

and was determined to go with the willing Jean-Louis, and complain to

her godmother. They left the farm the following morning at the usual

hour, passed right by the priest's house, and slowly ascended the slope

before the château.

Mademoiselle had just come in from Mass, and was sitting in the

parlor of the grand tower that overlooked the whole country. Dame

Berthe was preparing her breakfast; for although there were in the

anteroom four or five big valets, who passed their time in gossiping

for want of work, she thought no one but herself was capable of

pouring the chocolate into the large silver cup, and presenting it to

her dear mistress. Mademoiselle, as it happened, felt a little bored

that morning, and gently reproached Dame Berthe for not having found

something to amuse her.

"If I were not eighteen years old," said she, throwing herself in her

big arm-chair, "I would willingly play with my doll. You have done

well, my poor Berthe; I feel like a little girl, and mourn for my

playthings. What can you invent to-day? Father went away last evening.

I am too tired to walk; tell me a story...."

Dame Berthe thought a moment; but in regard to stories, she scarcely

knew any but those she had told and retold a hundred times. Mercy

knows, that was not astonishing; two persons who are always together,

know the same things, and have never anything new to tell each other.

Mademoiselle looked at her governess laughingly, and took an innocent

delight in witnessing her embarrassment. It was just at this moment

that the Ragaud children emerged from the chestnut grove before the

château, and advanced straight to the bridge that led to the grand

entrance.

Mademoiselle, who was rather near-sighted, scarcely distinguished the

little things; but she heard the wooden shoes, which went click-clack

on the stone bridge, and requested Dame Berthe to see who it could be.

"It is little Jeanne of Muiceron, and her brother, Jean-Louis, who have

doubtless come to make you a visit," she replied; "for they are in

their Sunday clothes."

Here the good lady was mistaken; for Pierrette held the holiday clothes

under lock and key, and would not let them be worn on a week-day

without explanation.

Mademoiselle rose up joyfully; she dearly loved her god-daughter and

all the Ragaud family, and, more than that, in her frame of mind, it

was an amusement that came like a gift from heaven.

"Make them come in, poor little things," said she; "and I beg of you,

Berthe, to run to the kitchen, and order cakes and hot milk, as I wish

them to breakfast with me."

Jean-Louis was the first to enter the parlor. Jeannette kept behind

him, much less assured than you would have imagined. Until now she had

scarcely ever seen her mistress, except on Sunday, when coming out

from High Mass. Twice a year, on New Year's day and the anniversary of

Jeannette's baptism, all the farm came in great ceremony to present

their respects to monsieur and mademoiselle. Besides this, the visits

to the château were very rare; and to come alone, of their own free

will, and clandestinely, was something entirely out of the usual run.

Jeannette began to understand all this, and felt more like crying than

talking.

Happily, mademoiselle took the thing quite naturally, and asked no

questions. She kissed and caressed her god-daughter, seated her on her

lap, and petted her so much that for the first half-hour the little

thing had only permission to open her mouth that the bonbons could be

put in.

She thus had time to regain confidence, and Jean-Louis, who feared to

hear her scolded, recovered his spirits. Notwithstanding all this, both

were slightly overcome when mademoiselle, after breakfast, suddenly

asked them if they had not some favor to ask, promising to grant any

request on account of the trouble they had taken in coming to visit

her.

This was the critical moment. Jeannet became red with embarrassment,

and the little girl appeared stupefied. Dame Berthe gave her a slight

tap on the cheek, to encourage her not to be ashamed before such a good

godmother; but that did not untie her tongue.

"Speak now," said Jeannet, pushing her with his elbow.

"Speak yourself," she replied in a whisper. "I don't know what to say."

"What is it that is so difficult to obtain?" asked mademoiselle. "Is it

something beyond my power?"

"Oh! no, no," said Jean-Louis. "If mademoiselle wished, she has only to

say a word...."

"I will say it, my child; but still, I must know what it is about."

"Very well, mademoiselle, this is it--Jeanette does not wish to return

to school."

"She must be very learned, then," replied mademoiselle, smiling. "Come

here, Jeanne; read me a page out of this big book."

Only think of the blank amazement and terror of Jeannette at that

moment! She did not know A from B, and found herself caught like a

mouse in a trap. One last resource was left--it was to burst into

tears. This was quickly done, and she was heard sobbing behind her

godmother's arm-chair, where she had hidden herself at the first

mention of reading.

Mademoiselle, already very much moved, profited by this incident, and

asked an explanation of the whole affair, which Jeannet related, trying

his best to excuse the little thing. Mademoiselle was very much amused

at the recital, and was weak enough, instead of scolding Jeannette,

to praise her for her spirit. She replaced her on her lap, wiped her

tears, and, without further reflection, decided the case in her favor.

"But," said she, "I do not wish my god-daughter to be as ignorant as

a dairy-maid. Isn't that true, Jeanne? You will not make me blush for

you? I don't want you to go any longer to Germaine's school, but it is

on condition that you be a good girl, and learn to read and write. I

will teach you myself; how will you like that?"

"O godmother!" cried the little one, enchanted.

"Very well," replied mademoiselle; "then it is all arranged. Jean-Louis

will return to Muiceron to tell your parents, and in future I will take

care of you and teach you."

And it was thus that the good young lady, without understanding the

consequence of her act, in an instant changed the destiny of Jeanne

Ragaud. Dame Berthe dared not object, although she saw at a glance

there was much to blame in this decision. "Indeed, where the goat is

tied, there he should browse," said our _curé_. Jeanne, the child of

peasants, should have remained a peasant, instead of becoming the

plaything of a marquise. But mademoiselle's intention was not bad; and,

for the time being, to have taken away her distraction would have been

cruel, and Dame Berthe, although very wise, had not the courage to do

it.

VII.

In the village, every one had his own idea on the subject. The Ragauds

were happy, and rather proud; M. le Curé shrugged his shoulders,

keeping his remarks for a later period; Germaine was silent; Jean-Louis

willingly sacrificed the company of his little sister for what he

thought her greater good; and, for the rest of the people, some said

it was foolish, others that the Ragauds were always lucky.

Jeannette was puffed up with joy and pride. It is justice to say that

in a little while she became another child; her mind was so well

occupied she lost all her wilfulness, devoted herself to her studies,

and was no longer disobedient and rebellious. M. le Marquis, enchanted

to see his daughter so happy in her new duties, cheerfully approved of

the measure, and declared the château was a different place after this

humming-bird's warbling was heard in the house.

As long as the summer lasted, the thing went on without great

inconvenience, as the little one often went home to sleep, and thus did

not entirely lose sight of her first destiny; but with the bad weather,

mademoiselle feared she might take cold by being so much exposed, and

sent word to the Ragauds that she would keep her all the time.

Henceforward Jeannette was treated like a daughter of the château.

She had her own little room, well warmed, and a servant to obey her

orders; her hair was braided in tresses that hung below her waist,

which soon made her discover that she had the longest and thickest hair

of any child in the village. Her costume was also changed. She had fine

merino dresses, prunella shoes with rosettes, and the calico apron,

with big pockets, was replaced by a little silk affair, which only

served to look coquettish. In the morning she read with her godmother,

or embroidered at her side; after dinner she drove out in an open

carriage, and on Sundays assisted at Mass and Vespers, kneeling in the

place reserved for the château, whilst her parents remained at the

lower end of the nave, admiring her from a distance.

In the village were some sensible people, who openly condemned the

whole proceeding; especially Jacques Michou, formerly a comrade in the

same regiment with Ragaud, and his great friend, who one day, in virtue

of his long friendship, ventured a remonstrance on the subject.

"You see," said he to Ragaud, "the preferences of great ladies never

last long. Suppose mademoiselle marries, or takes another caprice,

what will become of Jeanne, with the habits of a nobleman's daughter?

She will not be able to wear wooden shoes or dress in serge; and her

stomach will reject the pork, and cabbage, and rye bread. As for her

mind, it will be pretty difficult ever to make her feel like a peasant

again. Believe what I say, Ragaud, take your daughter home; later she

will thank you, when her reason shall have been matured."

It was certainly wise counsel; but Ragaud had two reasons, sufficiently

good in his opinion, to prevent his accepting such advice. In the first

place, he thought it a great honor to see his daughter the friend and

companion of M. le Marquis. This came from the heart on one side, as he

was devoted body and soul to the good masters who had made his fortune;

but I would not swear, on the other side, that it was not mingled with

a good deal of pride. Old Ragaud was easily puffed up with vanity, and

sometimes at the wrong time, as will be seen in the sequel.

The second reason was, he had long been persuaded that mademoiselle led

too secluded a life.

"So many crowns, and so few amusements," he often said. "Poor, dear

soul! it must be hard for her."

Therefore, he regarded as a fortunate stroke her love for Jeannette;

and if it would have drawn down the lightning from heaven on the roof

of Muiceron, he could not, as much from conscience as from pity, have

deprived mademoiselle of the daily pleasure that gave the busy-bodies

so much to talk about. And then, it must be acknowledged that even

among our most intelligent farmers there prevails a pernicious mania,

which pushes them to elevate their children above themselves. They thus

act contrary to the designs of God, who lets the seed fall where the

tree should grow; and against themselves, as they are often, in the

end, humiliated by what should have been their glory. But what can you

expect? A man is a man.

You cannot pour more water in a pitcher than it will hold, and in a

head more truth than it can understand.

Ragaud was ill at ease when he perceived mademoiselle's splendid white

horses draw up before the church door. Only fancy that before the eyes

of the entire parish those fine horses were used as much for Jeannette

as for the daughter of M. le Marquis! It was precisely on a Sunday, a

little before High Mass, that our friend, Jacques Michou, had offered

his good advice; the moment was unpropitious, and Ragaud thus replied

to his old comrade:

"Friend Jacques, I thank you for your words, as they are said with

good intention; but I nevertheless believe that I have not arrived

at my age without knowing how to manage my own affairs; which I say

without wishing to offend you. As for dressing in serge, my daughter,

being my only child, will have enough money to buy silk dresses if she

should desire them; and that will not diminish her wealth. As for the

pork, do you think it never appears on the tables of the nobility?

Who knows to the contrary better than I? Twice a year M. le Marquis

has a supply from Pierrette. Thus, my daughter will not lose at the

château the taste of the meals at the farm. If we speak of rye bread,

which is certainly the ordinary country food, we have ours half mixed

with flour, that makes the bread as fine as the best made in the city.

I can tell you that mademoiselle will not refuse it to Jeannette, as

she often eats it herself; in proof of which she frequently sends to

Muiceron for some, without inquiring whether the flour is fresh or

stale. So you may rest quiet, and let each one act as he pleases."

And so, you see, without being impolite, a man can be made to feel his

advice is despised.

We will now, if you please, leave Jeannette to parade her fine dresses

in the château, like the linnets that sing and hop in the sun, never

caring for sportsmen or nets, and return to Muiceron and Jean-Louis.

I think the dear fellow thought pretty much as Jacques Michou in

relation to the little one; but it was in the secret of his heart, and,

as his friends appeared happy, he asked nothing more. His character as

a child, so gentle and devoted, did not change as he grew up. Different

from Jeannette, who became a young lady without learning much, he

remained a peasant, but advanced in knowledge like a schoolmaster.

His love of books did not interfere with his rustic labors. After one

year in class, M. le Curé was obliged to teach him alone, as he knew

too much to go with the others. But as Ragaud could not do without

an assistant on the farm, and disliked to take a stranger, Jeannet

returned to Muiceron, contented himself with one lesson on Sunday, and

studied by himself the rest of the week.

After his first communion, which, at his own request, was made rather

late, but with perfect comprehension and a heart filled with love, he

became still better. He was at that time a fine boy of thirteen, larger

than usual for his age, with a handsome face, brunette complexion, and

beautiful, large, dark eyes. M. le Marquis remarked his distinguished

air, which meant that he did not resemble the other young village boys.

The truth was, Jeannet, who always had lived a peasant, had the manner

and bearing of a gentleman dressed from caprice in a blouse; and yet I

can assure you it was neither vanity nor pretension that gave him that

appearance.

Who would imagine that about this time he nearly committed a fault

from excessive love of study? And nevertheless, it so happened in a

way which you will soon understand. One day, M. le Curé, wishing to

know how far this good child's mind could follow his, amused himself

by explaining to him the Latin of his Breviary. Jean-Louis caught

at this novelty like a fish at a bait. He became passionately fond

of the language, and, as he had no time during the day, gave up the

greater part of the night to its study. Now, the young need good, sound

sleep; above all, when wearied with working in the fields. Ragaud

soon understood it; I do not know how. He was very angry, and was not

altogether wrong; for, besides the fact that Jeannet lost flesh every

day, he was afraid of fire, as his room was next to the grain-loft.

Ragaud scolded Jean-Louis; M. le Curé also came in for his share of

reprimand; and for the first time these three persons, who had always

agreed so perfectly, were very unhappy on each other's account.

"If you wish to wear the cassock," said Ragaud to his son, "say it.

Although it will be a great sacrifice for me to lose your company and

assistance, I will not prevent you from following your vocation. But if

not, I beg of you to give up all this reading and writing, which keeps

you up so late. I think that to tend the cows and till the earth, the

village language is enough. You will know one day that for you, more

than for others even, the work of the hands is more useful than that of

the mind."

Thereupon he turned his back, and Jeannet, who was going to ask his

pardon, and assure him of his submission, could not reply. As he was

very quick under his quiet manner, he pondered all the rest of the

day upon his father's last phrase. What did it mean? What was he to

know one day? What harm was there in becoming learned, as he would

eventually be rich? The poor boy suspected nothing; and yet from that

moment a secret and profound sadness entered into his heart. He bundled

up his books, and took them back to M. le Curé with many thanks. Our

_curé_ admired his obedience, and Jeannet profited by the opportunity

to confide his grief to his dear friend.

The good pastor reflected a moment. It was, in truth, a great pain, and

one which he did not expect so soon, to be obliged to confide to this

child the secret of his birth; but sooner or later he must know it, and

whether to-day or to-morrow mattered little.

"My son," said he, "you are good and reasonable; I hope your conduct

will never change. Sit down there near me, and listen."

He related to him what we already know. He did it with gentle and

holy words, fitted to pour balm into the wound that he was forced to

make. He endeavored especially to show forth the mercy of God and the

generosity of the Ragauds. Poor Jeannet little expected such a blow;

he became pale as death and for an instant appeared overwhelmed with

astonishment and grief. His head was in a whirl; he rose, threw himself

on his knees, weeping and clasping his hands. Our _curé_ let this

first burst of grief exhaust itself; and then, with kind remonstrance,

finished by proving that, after all, grateful joy was more seasonable

than this great affliction. How many in his place had been abandoned,

without parents, without support, without instruction, condemned

to want and suffering, and doubtless lost both for this world and

paradise? Instead of such a fate, the good God had warmed the little

bird without a nest, had preserved him from evil, had provided for his

wants; and now to-day, thanks to all his blessings, he was, more than

any other, fitted to become a man worthy to rank with those around him.

"It is true! it is true!" cried Jean-Louis. "But how can I reappear at

the farm? Alas! I left it thinking myself the son of the house, and I

will re-enter it a foundling!"

"There you do not speak wisely, Jeannet," said our _curé_; "you will

re-enter Muiceron such as you left it, with the only difference that

you are now obliged to be still more obedient, more industrious, and

more devoted to your parents than ever in the past. It is not by having

learned the truth that your position is changed; on the contrary, by

not knowing it, you ran the risk of injuring it. When you believed

yourself the son of the house, you naturally thought it allowable to

follow your inclinations, and act as you wished. Now you must feel that

is no longer possible. 'An honest heart must pay its debts.' I know

your heart; as for the debt, you see now how important it is. Your life

will not suffice to pay it, but you can greatly lessen it by taking

upon yourself the interests of your benefactors; by relieving Ragaud,

who is growing old, of the heaviest work in the fields; by caring for

good Mother Pierrette, who is a true soul of the good God; and even

by continuing to consider Jeannette as your sister; which gives you

the right to offer her good advice. For remember what I tell you: 'The

distaff is known by the wood'; which means that it needs a strong

ash-stick to support a roll of hemp, whilst a mahogany wand is only

suitable for silk. Hence, I warn you that Jeanne Ragaud, after being

accustomed to display herself in the marquis' carriages, will one fine

day fancy herself a silken distaff, and we will have to untwist the

thread."

"Jeanne will one day know I am not related to her," said Jean-Louis,

weeping. "What then can I say to her?"

"Why will she know it? It would be useless to tell her. And besides,

the little thing's heart is not spoiled; she will remember that you are

the friend of her childhood and her elder."

"Father Ragaud," replied Jeannet, "told me this morning, if I wished to

wear the cassock, he would not hinder me."

"Well, then?"

"Well, then, M. le Curé, if I am ever sufficiently learned, can I not

aspire to that great favor?"

"Before our present conversation would you have thought of it, Jeannet?"

"I believe not," replied he frankly, lowering his head.

"Then, my boy, give up the idea. To wear the cassock is, as you say, a

great favor; who knows it better than I, who, after wearing it forty

years, acknowledge my unworthiness? But you must not start on a road

without knowing where it leads; and the cassock, taken through vexation

or disappointment, carries its wearer direct to the path in which he

walks with his back to heaven. You can save your soul by remaining

on the farm, which I would not answer for if you followed a vocation

formed in half an hour."

"Yes, I will remain a farm-laborer," said Jeannet; "that is my fate for

all time."

"You are vain, God pardon me!" cried M. le Curé. "I never before

noticed this monstrous fault in you, which has caused the loss of

so many of the best souls. Farm-laborer! that means a tiller of the

fields and shepherd. My son, it is one of the noblest positions in the

world; it was the calling of Abraham, of Jacob, of the great patriarchs

of the Bible, that I wished you to imitate; and they were not minor

personages. If I were not a priest, I would wish to be a laborer; at

least, I would gather with my own hand the wheat that I had planted,

instead of receiving it as the gift of a master, often a capricious and

bad Christian. Yes, yes, my Jean, take care not to be more fastidious

than the good God, who took his dear David, from minding sheep, to be

the ancestor of our Saviour. And then, I will ask you, how would your

destiny be elevated if you were really the legitimate child of the

Ragauds. Would you desire to be greater than your father? And what is

he?"

Jeannet was convinced by all these good reasons, uttered in rather a

firm tone, but which did not indicate displeasure. He threw himself

into the _curé's_ arms, and acknowledged his fault with a contrite and

penitent heart. His excellent good sense showed him that, in reality,

it was only vanity that had made him speak thus. He promised to return

to Muiceron, to preserve his secret, and to be the model of field

laborers.

Our _curé_ gave him his blessing, and watched him, as he returned to

the farm, with much emotion. Ah! if poor Catharine had known how to

sacrifice her self-love as her child had just done, how different would

have been his fate! "But," sighed the good pastor, "there will always

be frogs who will burst with the ambition of becoming oxen; and if the

ox, who thought the frog foolish, had known the elephant, undoubtedly

he would have acted in the same manner. Poor human nature! poor beasts!

The true Christian is the only wise man!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE EVANGELICAL ALLIANCE.

"We meet," said the Rev. Dr. Adams, in his address of welcome to the

members of the Evangelical Alliance in New York, "to manifest and

express our Christian unity. Divers are the names which we bear, both

as to countries and churches--German, French, Swiss, Dutch, English,

Scotch, Irish; Lutheran, Reformed, Anglican, Presbyterian, Episcopal,

Methodist, Baptist, Independent--but we desire and intend to show

that, amid all this variety of form and circumstances, there is a

real unity of faith and life; believing, according to the familiar

expression of our common Christian creed, in the 'Holy Catholic

Church and the communion of saints.'" Dr. Adams only gave expression

to a thought which was uppermost in the minds of nearly all those

five or six hundred gentlemen who assembled in this city from the

four quarters of the globe in the early part of October, and filled

the newspapers with hymns and speeches, and professions of love, and

little disputes and quarrels. "We are living," continued Dr. Adams,

"in times when, all over the world, there is a manifest longing for

more of visible unity." So the first business of the conference, after

the preliminary survey of the condition of Protestantism in the midst

of the Catholic populations of Europe--the review and inspection, so

to speak, of the army in the field--was to devote a whole day to the

discussion of Christian unity, in the hope of persuading themselves

and the rest of mankind that these warring sects were really one body

of Christian believers, and this theological battle, in which they

pass fifty-one weeks of the year, was nothing else than the communion

of saints. Indeed, a day was not too long for such a task. Anglicans

and Baptists, followers of John Wesley and disciples of Calvin, the

clergy of Calvary and the preachers of the Greene Street meeting-house,

deans of the English Establishment and dissenters who hate prelacy

as an invention of the devil--they were all here together, trying to

agree upon something, and to reconcile the fact of their Alliance with

the fundamental doctrine confessed by Dr. Hodge, of Princeton, as

the motto of the conference as well as the excuse for its existence,

that "The Church of Christ is one." We say it was no easy matter to

reconcile the fact of the Alliance with the confession of this truth.

An alliance supposes independent forces, acting together for a special

and temporary purpose, but preserving distinct organizations, and

acknowledging different commanders. There can be no "alliance" between

the members of the "one body in Christ," any more than there can be an

alliance between the right and left eyes, or the foot and the great

toe. Every one of the speakers was painfully conscious of this false

position. "There is no more common reproach against Christians,"

said Dr. Hodge, "than that they are so much divided in their belief.

There is some truth in this; but, my hearers, we are one in faith."

We confess we do not fully comprehend the distinction. Matters of

faith, according to Dr. Hodge's definition, seem to be those great

truths which all members of the Evangelical Alliance hold in common;

and matters of belief or opinion are everything else. The existence of

God, the Trinity, the Incarnation, the resurrection of the dead, the

punishment of hell, the rewards of heaven, and a few other doctrines,

more or less--these are the Evangelical articles of faith. But on what

authority does Dr. Hodge restrict his creed to these few points? Every

sect represented in the Alliance has a more or less extensive formulary

of belief, resting upon supposed divine revelation, and including a

good many other tenets besides the half-dozen or so held up by Dr.

Hodge. All depend upon precisely the same sanction. All are supposed to

be drawn from the same source. The Baptist has just the same ground for

insisting upon immersion that he has for believing in the resurrection.

The Calvinistic doctrine of total depravity has the same basis as the

Calvinistic belief in a divine Saviour. The Anglican theory of an

inspired but occasionally corrupt and lying church is just as well

supported as the Anglican's faith in the Trinity. What right have the

members of the Alliance to decide that this dogma is a matter of faith,

and that other is only a matter of opinion? All the contradictory

doctrines, they tell us, are found in the Bible. Who has the right to

decide which are binding upon the conscience, and which are open to

individual choice; which are certain, and which are only probable?

Oh! these reverend gentlemen will tell us, the essential points of

faith are those upon which we all agree. Very well. Whom do you mean

by "we"? What right have you to restrict the company of the faithful

to your eight or nine sects? You are not a majority of the Christians

in the world. You are even a small minority of those who believe in

the very points which you make the test of evangelical Christianity.

There are more than two hundred millions of Christians who believe,

just as you do, in God, in the Incarnation, in the resurrection, and in

heaven and hell; but you do not pretend to be one body with them. If

all who accept what you style the points of faith are fellow-members

with you, why do you not include Catholics? And, besides, if you

are to arrive at unity by a process of elimination--throwing out

one dogma after another until you reach a condition of theological

indifferentism where a certain number of sects can meet without

quarrelling--why should you stop at one point rather than another?

There is no logical reason why you should not eliminate the doctrine of

eternal punishment, and take in the Universalists; or the Trinity, and

take in the Unitarians; or Christian marriage, and take in the Latter

Day Saints; or the whole Bible, and take in evolutionists, and pure

theists, and the prophets and followers of free religion. Once begin

to make arbitrary discriminations between faith and belief, as you now

do, calling everything upon which your various denominations agree a

matter of ascertained truth, and everything upon which they differ a

subject of individual opinion, and it becomes impossible to say why

your common creed should not be narrowed down to a single dogma--for

example, to the omnipotence of God, or the existence of matter, or the

atomic theory, or the nebular hypothesis. Then, at least, you would be

consistent, and your Alliance would be a much more powerful body than

it seems to be at present.

This difficulty seems to have been passed over by the Conference in

New York; but the fact of denominational differences could not be

forgotten. It stared the meeting in the face at every turn. It got

into nearly all the speeches. It appeared in almost every prayer. One

after another, the preachers and essayists were moved to apologize for

it and explain it. Dr. Hodge laid down the rule, with great applause

from his uneasy listeners, that any organization formed for the worship

of Christ was a church, and every church must be recognized by every

other; that churches differed so radically about the great truths of

religion was no more to be wondered at, and no more to be regretted,

than that men and women should be organized into different towns, and

states, and nations; and, as a consequence, he held that the sacraments

of one church were just as good as the sacraments of another, and the

orders of one just as good as the orders of another. In fact, said he,

"no church can make a minister any more than it can make a Christian."

This remark was also received with applause, in which it is to be hoped

that the Church of England delegates and the Episcopalians cordially

joined. There were three bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church in

the Conference; and after the centuries of war which their denomination

has waged for the validity of Anglican orders and the unbroken

apostolic succession, it must have been an inexpressible comfort to

them to be told by the Alliance that they were no more bishops than

Henry Ward Beecher, and Octavius B. Frothingham, and the Rev. Phœbe

Hanaford. They took it meekly, however, and did not even mind being

told that their church could not make a bishop or any other minister.

The Dean of Canterbury was there, as the representative of the Primate

of all England, and he took the rather singular position, for a

churchman, that denominational differences are rather an advantage

than otherwise. God's works in nature, he said, are marked by variety.

All creation, from inanimate objects up to man, is characterized by

diversity. So it is also, he continues, with religions. The parallel,

of course, supposes that the religions are imperfect and "natural"

works, which we hardly expected an Anglican dean to admit. An imperfect

religion is one that is partly true and partly false; that is to say,

it is a system of human devising, and not a revelation from God. And

Dean Smith confesses that all the churches embraced in the Alliance

are natural rather than supernatural works when he accounts for their

diversities by the limitations of human reason. "The gift of instinct,"

he tells us, "is perfect, and produces uniformity;" but "reason is

full of diversity." It is "tentative." "It tries and fails, and tries

again, and improves its methods, and succeeds partially, and so

advances indefinitely onward, and, it may be, at times falls back, but

never becomes perfect." All this means, if it means anything, that the

cardinal points of agreement between the so-called Evangelical sects,

or their faith, as Dr. Hodge terms it, are the only points of any creed

which are not subject to constant change. The dogma which is professed

to-day may be repudiated to-morrow, and taken up again next week. The

creed for which Cranmer went to the stake may be denounced as heresy

by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and preached as "moderately true" by

the Archbishop of York. In fine, Anglicans get their faith in God and

the resurrection by instinct, and the rest of the Thirty-nine Articles

by reason; and the result, of course, is that the proportion of truth

there may be in religion is regulated entirely by the intellectual

capacity of the believer. Salvation, according to this view, is

largely the result of a school education.

Moreover, says the dean, if we knew just what to believe, we should

not take much interest in religion. "Truth and the Bible are nowhere

valued, except where there is discussion, and debate, and controversy

about them." It adds wonderful zest to a dogma to have to dig for it;

and faith, like the biceps muscle, is developed by violent contention.

But if this is so, what does the world want of Evangelical Alliances?

If religious truth is only struck out in the heat of religious

wranglings, like sparks from the contact of flint and steel, the more

fighting the better. The Church of England must have found out pretty

much everything worth knowing in the persecuting days of Edward and

Elizabeth, and forgotten more than half of it in the subsequent years

of peace; while the era of brotherly love, towards which the Alliance

looks with longing eyes, will be a period of religious indifference or

of almost universal negation.

Dean Smith is logical in one thing. "If our state," he says, "is not

one of attainment, but one of progress; if, at the most, we are feelers

and seekers after God," why, then, of course, we must look upon all

denominations with equal favor. One is just as good as another where

none has any faith. But what, then, becomes of the Anglican idea of a

visible church and an apostolic succession? Where is that depository

of divine truth to which churchmen comfort themselves by referring?

What is the meaning of that prayer in the litany of the Anglican and

Episcopal service, "From heresy and schism good Lord deliver us"? Dr.

Hodge, indeed, believes that "no church can make a minister"; but the

Protestant Episcopal Church is very positive and particular about its

orders, and is entirely satisfied that it can make bishops, priests,

and deacons; that nobody else among Protestants can make them; and that

they are necessary to the legitimate administration of sacraments and

the well-being of Christian society. Pray, how are these contradictions

to be settled? There was a charming illustration of unity one Sunday

during the sessions of the Conference, when six clergymen, representing

five or six different denominations, joined in a celebration of the

Lord's Supper at the Madison Square Presbyterian Church; and a very

pretty row there was about it afterwards. The service was held in

the afternoon, and the company of celebrants included the Dean of

Canterbury (Anglican), the Rev. Dr. Adams (Presbyterian), the Rev.

Matteo Prochet, of Genoa (Waldensian), Narayan Sheshadri, the Bombay

convert, who has been ordained, we believe, according to the rite

of the Free Church of Scotland, Bp. Schweinitz (Moravian), and Dr.

Angus, of London (Baptist). So far as we can understand the ceremony,

no particular liturgy or custom was followed, but the representative

of each sect threw in a little of his own religion. Dr. Adams opened

the exercises with a prologue. The dean followed with an apology,

and then read the Apostles' Creed and a collect from the _Book of

Common Prayer_. Dr. Angus "gave thanks for the bread," his prayer

serving, apparently, instead of a consecration. Then the bread was

handed around by the lay deacons of the church. "Bp. Schweinitz was

called on to give thanks for the cup, which was afterward passed to

the congregation." After some further address, the dean dismissed

the assemblage with a benediction. We can understand how the various

dissenting ministers might reasonably take part in such a ceremony;

but the spectacle of a dignitary of the Church of England in such a

situation would be incomprehensible, had not long experience taught us

that all manner of amazing and inconsistent things are to be looked

for in the Anglican Church as matters of course. No sooner had the

story of this joint-communion service appeared in the newspapers than

the bubble of Christian unity burst with a tremendous report. An

ex-bishop of the Anglican Establishment, the Right Rev. Dr. Tozer, of

Central Africa, who happened to be in New York, addressed a letter of

remonstrance to the Protestant Episcopal bishop of this diocese. He was

shocked at the dean's breach of ecclesiastical order, and terrified

at the consequences which might follow his rash and insubordinate

conduct. If one service is just as good as another, why naturally,

says Bp. Tozer, people will run after the attractive worship of the

Church of Rome; and "the promise held out by the Episcopal Church in

this land, of becoming a haven of rest to men who are tossed to and

fro by the multiplicity of contending creeds and systems, is nothing

else than a mistake and a delusion." Dr. Tozer's letter found its way

into the newspapers; and then a bitter controversy broke out among

the Episcopalians, bishops, priests, and laymen berating one another

in the secular press, and striving in vain to determine whether

their church was a church or not. Only one thing seems to have been

finally settled by the quarrel, and that was, that on two of the most

important of religious questions--one relating to the very foundation

of the visible church organization, the other to the most solemn of

religious rites--the Anglican denomination has no fixed belief at all.

That very dignified and exclusive body, which sets so much store by

the apostolical succession, and has strained history and reason for so

many years to establish the validity of its own orders, has practically

treated ordination as a thing of no consequence whatever. It has

admitted Presbyterian preachers to its benefices, and recognized the

validity of priestly functions performed by men to whom it denies the

priestly character; and the best explanation its defenders can give of

such inconsequent conduct is that the "intrusion of unordained persons

into English livings" was one of the "irregularities of the Reformation

period." (See letter of "Theologicus" to the New York _Tribune_ of

Oct. 20, 1873.) With regard to the Lord's Supper, the position of the

Anglican and Protestant Episcopal Churches is still more curious. All

the members of those two organizations believe it to be a sacrament of

peculiar, if not awful, sacredness. The majority probably hold that the

body and blood of our Lord, in some mysterious and indefinite way, are

communicated to the devout receiver of the consecrated bread and wine,

if they are not literally present with the visible elements; and some

High Churchmen actually believe in the real presence. Yet, in the face

of all this, we find the Episcopal Church admitting that the proper

celebration of the Lord's Supper does not require the intervention

of a regularly ordained minister. Any kind of a service will do, and

any kind of a celebrant, even a layman. It is a great mistake to

suppose, as some Episcopalians did, that there was anything novel or

unbecoming in the Dean of Canterbury's participation with heretics in

the performance of a mutilated and nondescript service. The Dean of

Westminster (Dr. Stanley) did a similar thing at the meeting of the

Evangelical Alliance in Berlin in 1859, and an overzealous churchman

who complained of it to the Archbishop of Canterbury was rebuked for

his pains. Dr. Muhlenberg, one of the leading Protestant Episcopal

clergymen of this city, expressed the only logical Protestant view

of the joint communion question in an address before the Alliance

on the last day of its meeting. The Lord's Supper, according to Dr.

Muhlenberg, is "the highest social act of religion," and the custom of

restricting its celebration, each denomination to itself, is in the

highest degree objectionable. As a matter of convenience, it is better,

as an ordinary rule, that communicants should have their own "church

homes, so to call them, where, under their own pastors, and amid their

families and friends, they feel it a good and pleasant thing so to

participate in the sacred feast. They have an indisposition to go for

it beyond these companies of immediate brethren. Nor is this unsocial,

if it be merely a preference for their own associations, for the

sacramental modes and customs to which they, like their fathers before

them, have been accustomed; but when they do it on religious grounds,

when they make it a matter of conscience, when they would forego the

communion altogether rather than partake of it outside of their own

societies, then it is that unsocialness, to call it by its mildest

name, which it is hard to reconcile with aught of hearty realization of

membership in the one body of Christ."

Dr. Muhlenberg's position is so peculiar that we have given his

statement of it in his own language, lest we may be accused of

misrepresenting him. It never occurred to us to complain of heresy

and schism on the ground that they are "so unsociable," and we

never supposed that the most liberal of Protestant sects defended

denominationalism on the plea of custom and education. The manner of

taking communion, according to Dr. Muhlenberg, seems to be as much

the result of habit as anything else--like the manner of dining or

chewing tobacco. An Episcopalian has no better reason for kneeling

reverently at the chancel-rail, and consuming the consecrated bread

and wine, rather than sitting at ease in his pew while unconsecrated

food and drink are passed to him by lay deacons, than the reason that

he was brought up to that fashion, and feels more comfortable in the

society of his own friends and neighbors. This being the case, it

follows, of course, that the bread and wine are just as good without

consecration as with it; just as much the body and blood of Christ in

the bakery and the wine-shop as on the altar; and the most rigorous

Anglican will be entirely justified in communicating according to any

rite that he fancies. Indeed, Dr. Muhlenberg declares that the various

sacramental rites and ceremonies are all more or less agreeable to

Scripture, but not essential. The sacrament is just as good without

any of them. Our Lord commanded us to celebrate the holy communion in

remembrance of him. Well, then, let us go and do it, each in his own

way, each after his own idea of what it means, each admitting that

every other way is good, and perfectly indifferent to the tremendous

question whether the elements are the body and blood of the Saviour or

only common bread and wine. Nay, there is no need of an officiating

ministry. The Christian eucharist is only the antitype of the Jewish

Passover; and as "an officiating ministry was not required for the

ancient priestly dispensation, surely none can be demanded for the

antitype under the unpriestly dispensation of the Gospel." That

simplifies the administration very much; but it occurs to us that a

sincere Episcopalian, of less liberal views than Dr. Muhlenberg, might

be embarrassed by the joint communions which he so strongly recommends.

We can imagine such a man going into Dr. Adams's church, while the Dean

of Canterbury, and the Presbyterian and Baptist, and other ministers,

stood grouped together before the pulpit, and asking what the ceremony

meant. A deacon answers, "Oh! it is nothing but the communion service;

you had better join us." "But what is your communion service? Is it

the participation of the body and blood of Christ?" "Not at all; it is

merely the highest social act of religion." "Have the bread and wine

been consecrated?" "Oh! yes--that is to say, no; well, you see, these

gentlemen don't all think alike about it. One says it is the sacrament

of the body and blood of Christ, and another says it is nothing but a

rite of hospitality; and we let every man choose for himself." "But has

there been no blessing of the elements? No prayer over them?" "Yes; a

plenty of prayers." "And what was the intention of the celebrant? The

intention, of course, regulates the quality of the act." "Oh! there

were five or six intentions; for there were five or six celebrants,

and no two of them meant the same thing." Here the inquirer, if he had

any sense, would probably conclude that the ceremony was nothing but a

sacrilegious travesty on the holy communion, and would retire deeply

scandalized; and remembering, first, that the Thirty-nine Articles of

his creed forbid "any man to take upon him the office of ministering

the sacraments before he be lawfully called and sent to execute the

same," and, secondly, that the preface to the ordination service of the

Episcopal Church declares that no man shall be suffered to execute any

of the functions of a minister in Christ's church except he be duly

ordained by a bishop, he will doubtless be not a little puzzled to

account for the presence of a dignitary like the Dean of Canterbury in

such a motley assemblage.

The protests against joint communion are not confined, however, to

the Episcopal denomination. The Baptists are likewise exercised

in mind about it. They refuse to recognize the validity of infant

baptism, or to admit to the Lord's Supper those who have not been

duly baptized; and hence, with the great majority of Christians they

do not feel at liberty to communicate. The Baptist clergyman from

London who participated in the performance at Dr. Adams's church has

exposed himself to violent criticism from his own brethren, and,

like Dean Smith, is accused of forgetting ecclesiastical discipline

and theological orthodoxy under the impulse of a moment of gushing

enthusiasm. What a charming illustration of Christian unity this

joint-communion service has afforded!

The more closely we look into the Alliance, the more preposterous

appear its attempts to jumble up conflicting doctrines, mingle

contradictions, and confuse intelligence. If it is right for different

sects to communicate together, it must be right for them to perform

all other religious services together, and doctrine and ritual become

alike insignificant. Hence, we are not surprised to find among the

papers presented to the Conference an essay on the _Interchange of

Pulpits_, in which the Rev. Mr. Conrad, of Philadelphia, argues

that it is a Christian duty for Episcopal congregations sometimes

to listen to the sermons of Baptist preachers, and for Baptists to

invite the ministrations of a Presbyterian, and so on--hands across,

down the middle and up again; orthodox to-day, heretic next week. Is

it necessary to believe anything? Is there any such thing as faith?

Is there any reality in religions which have no dogmas, and which

look upon truth and falsehood, worship and blasphemy, as perfectly

indifferent? Surely this is reducing Protestantism to absurdity. You

gentlemen have adopted the principle of individual infallibility,

first, to declare that the church of God is the mother of falsehood,

and then to accuse each other of error and deceit; and after

multiplying your subdivisions till there is danger of universal ruin

and dissension, you come together and declare that there is no such

thing as religious certitude; no choice between one sect and another;

no difference between God's messengers and the lying prophets of Baal.

Your plan of composing controversies is to obliterate the distinction

between good and evil; and if we can believe Mr. Conrad, the plan of

the apostles was the same. They founded independent congregations,

and gave them such lax notions of faith that, as Mr. Conrad remarks,

"the primitive church was inoculated with error." Nevertheless, the

apostles and their first disciples went about freely from church to

church, exchanging pulpits, so to speak; and we do not read that the

denomination to which Peter belonged had any objection to an occasional

sermon from Paul, or that the Beloved Disciple was not welcomed as a

good Christian minister when he visited the sect established by S.

Luke. In those blessed days there was, we believe, a true interchange

of pulpits. But Mr. Conrad neglects to explain the warning which S.

Paul gave to the Christians at Rome:

"Now I beseech you, brethren, to mark them who cause dissensions and

offences contrary to the doctrine which you have learned; and to avoid

them.

"For they that are such serve not Christ our Lord, but their own belly:

and by pleasing speeches, and good words, seduce the hearts of the

innocent."[130]

What have the Episcopalians, with their fiction of a hierarchy, to say

of this plan of undenominational preaching? How are we to reconcile

the presence of a Presbyterian parson in one of their pulpits with

the rule, already quoted, which forbids the exercise of ministerial

functions by one who has not received Episcopal ordination? And what

would a Baptist say to a service conducted in one of their churches by

a Methodist who had been sprinkled in infancy, and therefore, according

to the Baptist view, not baptized at all?

The plain truth of the whole matter is that there is no such thing

as Christian unity in any of these periodical performances of the

Evangelical Alliance. The sects are not drawing closer together.

Denominational differences are not disappearing. The quarrelling is

as angry and as noisy as ever. But Protestantism has taken alarm. It

is confronted by two dangerous enemies, which are growing stronger

and stronger every day, and it is anxious to keep the peace for a

little while in its own family, that it may the better look after its

defence. One of these dangers is the philosophical infidelity which

Protestantism itself has bred. The other is the Catholic faith, against

which Protestantism is a rebellion. An address, prepared by the late

Merle d'Aubigné for the conference which was to have been held three

years ago, was presented at the meeting in New York. The historian of

the Reformation tells his brethren some plain and unwelcome truths

about their condition. "The despotic and arrogant pretensions of

Rome," he says, "have reached in our days their highest pitch, and we

are consequently more than ever called upon to contend against that

power which dares to usurp the divine attributes. But that is not all.

While superstition has increased, unbelief has done so still more....

Materialism and atheism have in many minds taken the place of the true

God. Science, which was Christian in the finest intellects of former

days, in those to whom we owe the greatest discoveries, has become

atheistic among men who now talk the loudest.... Eminent literary men

continually put forward in their writings what is called positivism,

rejecting everything that goes beyond the limit of the senses, and

disdaining all that is supernatural.... Unbelief has reached even the

ministry of the word. Pastors belonging to Protestant churches in

France, Switzerland, Germany, and other Continental countries, not

only reject the fundamental doctrines of the faith, but also deny the

resurrection of Jesus Christ, and see in him nothing more than a man

who, according to many among them, was even subject to errors and

faults. A Synod of the Reformed Church in Holland has lately decreed

that, when a minister baptizes, he need not do it in the name of the

Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.... At an important

assembly held lately in German Switzerland, at which were present

many men of position, both in the church and state, the basis of the

new religion was laid down: 'No doctrines' was the watchword on that

occasion; 'no new doctrines, whatever they may be, in place of the old;

liberty alone.' Which means liberty to overthrow everything; and too

truly _some of those ministers believe neither in a personal God nor

in the immortality of the soul_." Nor was Merle d'Aubigné alone in his

bitter judgment of European Protestantism. The same feeling is more or

less clearly manifest in the essays of various foreign delegates. Mr.

Prochet, the Waldensian minister from Genoa, in presenting a sketch

of the religious condition of Italy, laid great stress upon the close

union, brotherly feeling, and unflagging energy of the priesthood. "The

clergy," said he, "with few exceptions, have gathered themselves more

closely around the Holy See, determined to stand or fall with it."

Father Hyacinthe lectured in Rome; "but the clergy left him alone, or

his few adherents were such that nothing of any importance could be

done by them." Among the laity there is a large proportion of devout

adherents of the church. There is a great multitude which does not

practise any religion, and takes more interest in politics than in

faith; but this party has not renounced its allegiance to the church,

and believes in Rome as far as it believes in anything. Atheists are

not numerous, but their influence is constantly increasing. Protestants

are the fewest and the weakest of all. There are congregations of

foreign Protestants, but "their influence is of very little value." The

Waldensians have a theological school at Florence; but we are puzzled

to know what they can teach, for "it is open to students of every

denomination; they are never asked to leave their religion to join

another." Altogether, the Protestants of Italy, mere handful as they

are, are divided into ten different denominations. The Rev. M. Cohen

Stuart, of Rotterdam, gave a somewhat similar sketch of the situation

in Holland. Nowhere, he said, has the Pope more pious devotees and more

zealous adherents than in the land which gave England William of Orange

and sheltered the Pilgrim Fathers. If the church is not increasing

there in numbers, it is daily adding to its power and influence. "There

is no rent of heresy in the solid mass of that mediæval building save

the remarkable schism of the so-called Jansenists; ... but this sect,

with its few thousands of adherents, is far more interesting from its

history than important from actual influence." Protestantism, on the

other hand, shows little but dissension, with a strong tendency towards

scepticism. "There is a tide of neology, a flood of unbelief, which

no dikes or moles can keep back.... A great many, a sadly increasing

number, are more or less forsaking the Gospel and becoming estranged

from Christian truth. Materialism and irreligion are slaying their

tens of thousands in the ranks of so-called Christians." Mr. Stuart

draws a fearful picture of the disputes of the different Protestant

theological schools, and continues: "It is evident, indeed, that the

utter confusion into which the Reformed Church of Holland has fallen

cannot last very long, lest it should lead to a total disorganization

and overthrow of the whole.... Nothing for this moment is left but

to bear, though not without earnest protest, a state of things too

abnormal and too absurd to last." Of Switzerland, again, we have almost

precisely the same story. The Rev. Eugene Reichel, of Montmireil,

complained of the activity of the Catholic Church in his little

republic, and the great increase of infidelity among Protestants. "A

deplorable unbelief has led captive the masses of the people. They have

left their churches to engulf themselves in the vortex of business

and worldly pleasure.... On every side infidelity is become rampant,

and much more aggressive than in former years. Better organized than

once, and finding an efficient support both in the indifference of

the people and the countenance afforded by government, this insidious

foe, closing up its ranks, is not slow to assail the truth." Of Spain

Mr. Fliedner gave a vague and not over-brilliant account, and of

Greece Mr. Kalopathakes could only say that Protestants had a very

hard time of it there, and that there were very few of them. American

missionaries have been sustained in Greece for forty years, and yet

there is only one meeting-house in the kingdom. Mr. Decoppet, of Paris,

declares that "the Protestant population of France is still but a

feeble minority, which holds its own, but does not sensibly increase,"

while the church is evidently gaining every day in influence; and,

moreover, Protestantism is torn by internal discords, and weakened

by rationalistic tendencies, which give its enemies "a plausible

pretext for their assertion that Protestantism leads necessarily to

negation, and that it is on the high-road to dissolution." In Denmark,

according to Dr. Kalkar, of Copenhagen, Catholicism has made rapid and

extraordinary progress. In Protestant Sweden, "unbelief has spread

among the people, especially among the educated classes," and "the

moral condition of the people is tolerably low."

Upon the discussion of the various methods proposed in the conference

to combat the enemies of Protestantism we do not know that we need

linger. Infidel philosophy engaged most of the attention of the German

and American delegates; but how could Protestantism do battle with

its own offspring? The debate on the Darwinian theory was empty--nay,

it was almost childish. The essays on the same subject were timid and

inconsequential. And strange to say, when the day for demolishing

the Pope of Rome came around, the fiery, aggressive spirit which

animated the Alliance in former days was wanting. There were rumors

of dissatisfaction among the brethren at the time-honored attitude of

the Evangelical Alliance towards the Scarlet Woman of Babylon; and

it was thought that while atheism was so rife, and faith so weak,

and Protestantism dying, so to speak, of inanition, it was unwise to

quarrel with any kind of Christianity which seemed able to arrest the

downward progress. Those who judged thus instinctively felt, what they

would be slow to acknowledge, that between the Catholic Church and

no faith at all there is not a middle position. The whole Conference

teaches the same truth. Protestantism drifts away into the darkness and

the storm, but the Rock of Peter stands immovable, the same yesterday,

and to-day, and for all time.

"Upon this rock will I build my church, and the gates of hell shall not

prevail against it."

FOOTNOTES:

[130] Romans xvi. 17, 18.

CATHOLIC LITERATURE IN ENGLAND SINCE THE REFORMATION.

CONCLUDED.

After the death of Alexander Pope, in 1744, it was a long time before

English Catholic literature could boast of any living name. Prelates,

indeed, and priests there were, whose admirable writings circulated

among their co-religionists, but few who were known to the public

generally as successful aspirants for literary fame. Yet the devotional

and controversial writings of the time--the works, for example, of Bps.

Hay, Challoner, and Milner--took no mean part in the cultivation of the

intellect and taste. The influence of classical authors from without

was discoverable in their style, and they kept pace in general with

the enlarged experience of the age. There is no philosophy so deep as

Catholic philosophy; none so comprehensive, affecting, and complete. It

embraces all other philosophies so far as they are sound; and far from

being at variance with any branch of human science, it incorporates all

knowledge into itself as parts of a system of universal truth. It is

the philosophy of life and of society; the philosophy of the soul, her

joys and sorrows, her aspirations and ends. It solves all the questions

which vex the inquiring spirit, so far as it is possible for them to

be solved under our present conditions of being. Catholic philosophy,

under this point of view, is set forth in the most touching manner by

Bp. Challoner in his _Meditations for Every Day in the Year_. Apart

from the edifying character of these reflections, it is impossible to

read them attentively without allowing them distinct literary merit.

While they evince a tenderness and pathos that are sure to win on

the reader's heart, they exhibit also much art in composition. The

sentences are well balanced and musical; the subject is always exposed

methodically; and the appeals, however addressed to the feelings, are

controlled by strict reasoning.

Take, again, Bp. Milner's _End of Controversy_--a series of letters

addressed to the Protestant Bishop of St. David's. It is a complete

armory. If Dr. Challoner's _Meditations_ was fitted to implant the

divine philosophy of Catholicism deeply in the breast, Dr. Milner's

_End of Controversy_ was no less calculated to arm the sincere Catholic

with every needful weapon of defence against the assailants of his

creed. If luminous arrangement, clear reasoning, and profound learning

constitute claims to literary merit, that book possesses it in no

ordinary degree. Edition after edition has been published, and it has

been produced in so cheap a form as to be accessible to readers in

the humblest circumstances. Though the face of controversy between

Catholics and Protestants has much changed of late years in England,

firstly by the Anglo-Catholic or Tractarian movement, and, secondly,

by the wide spread of infidel opinions under the form of positivism,

yet the old arguments in support of Catholicism remain unchanged, and

there are few cases of heavy resistance which Dr. Milner's letters will

not meet even now. Ingenious additions and variations have been made by

subsequent controversialists to supply passing needs, but, after all,

these grand old field-pieces, when brought fairly into line, will be

found equal to the task of demolishing any bench of Protestant bishops

and any assembly of Presbyterian elders.

The _Lives of the Saints_, by the Rev. Alban Butler, appeared for the

first time in 1754, ten years after Pope's death. The venerable author

was Principal of the English College at St. Omer, then the principal

seminary for English ecclesiastics. The wide celebrity of the work,

and the fact of its having been made a reference-book in every good

Catholic library, render it needless to dwell on its excellences.

Suffice it to say that it exhibits a profound acquaintance with the

subjects of which it treats, and preserves a wise medium between

credulity and disbelief. The copious notes, containing accounts of the

writings of sainted fathers and doctors, are invaluable to literary

men; and the _Lives_ in general shows that the author's knowledge

and research extended far beyond the bounds of theology, hagiology,

and church history. His nephew, Charles Butler--himself a well-known

literary character--published an _Account of the Life and Writings

of the Rev. Alban Butler_, in which he gives, as nearly as possible,

a list of the principal works and sources from which the author of

the _Lives of the Saints_ derived his information. He then goes on to

say that literary topics were frequently the subject of his uncle's

familiar conversation, and quotes from memory many of his criticisms on

Herodotus, whose style he greatly admired, Cicero, Julius Cæsar, the

works of Plato, and the modern Latin poems of Wallius, together with

the relative merits of the sermons of Bossuet and Bourdaloue.

Charles Butler always took a laudable pride in dwelling on his

uncle's merits, and in making them better known to the public. To his

editorship is owing the publication of the _Notes_ of Alban Butler's

travels during the years 1744-46. He informs us in a short preface

that in many places they were little more than mere jottings, and not

intended for publication; that their meaning, also, was frequently

difficult to decipher. By his care and diligence, however, they were

brought into a readable form; and the volume, published in Edinburgh

in 1803, and now rarely to be met with, is valuable as showing the

highest degree of knowledge of Italian ecclesiastical affairs then

attainable by a cultivated and inquiring traveller. Seldom has a

book of travels had more facts condensed into it. It is a monument

of close observation; and at a time when handbooks were very few and

very imperfect, it must have been a precious _vade mecum_ in the hands

of Catholic travellers, and particularly ecclesiastics. The writer

seems, in every spot he visited, to have gathered up all that could be

collected respecting it either from books or individuals. The amount of

statistics is enormous, and the attention to details truly laudable.

Had these _Travels_ been written for the public, and graced with the

flowing style and the free and copious reflections which abound in the

_Lives of the Saints_, they would have been read frequently to this

day, and have ranked high among compositions of a similar kind.

The writings of Charles Butler are of no mean value, in consequence

of his having directed his attention to English Catholic history at a

time when scarcely any other writers thought it worth their while to

obtain accurate information on the subject, and still less to record

it for the benefit of others. Charles Butler made it his business to

preserve everything of importance which he could collect respecting the

political and religious condition of his co-religionists in England

since the time of the Reformation; and all subsequent historians have,

in such matters, been greatly indebted to his _Historical Memoirs_

and _Reminiscences_. His style, it is true, is very sketchy, and his

matter reads like notes and memoranda; but the intrinsic value of what

he places on record atones in some measure for this defect. In his

opinions he inclined rather to the liberal school of thought, and this

fact brought him into serious collision with Bp. Milner on the subject

of the veto and other matters then in debate. There can, however, be

no doubt of his sincere attachment to the Catholic religion, while

his love of literature and all that concerns mental progress is no

less apparent in his works. Acquainted as he was with most of the

distinguished men of the day, he had ample opportunities of observing

their peculiar gifts and habits. The remarks which he makes in his

_Reminiscences_ on the parliamentary eloquence of Chatham, North,

Fox, Pitt, and their compeers, whom he had seen and heard, have this

merit, that they were derived from no second-hand sources. His _Horæ

Biblicæ_, _Germanic Empire_, _Horæ Juridicæ_, his numerous biographies,

his _Historical Memoirs of the Church of France_ and of _English,

Irish, and Scottish Catholics_, were not merely up to the standard

of his time, but often beyond it, in consequence of the peculiarity

of the materials that he brought together. While he was familiar

with a wide range of literature, English, foreign, and ancient, he

was also conversant with algebra, music and other fine arts. The

motto he adopted for his _Reminiscences_ from D'Aguesseau shows his

love of study: _Le changement de l'étude est toujours un délassement

pour moi_--"A change of study is always a relaxation for me." If he

is sometimes formal and verging on priggishness--as when he styles

himself all through two volumes "the Reminiscent"--the fashion of his

day, which was far more stilted than we should approve, must be his

excuse. If we had enjoyed the pleasure of his acquaintance, we should,

no doubt, have pronounced him "a gentleman of the old school."

The Rev. Joseph Berington was another Catholic of the last century who

has embalmed his memory in a useful work. Charles Butler wrote of his

_Literary History of the Middle Ages_: "It presents the best account in

print of that important subject." The _Biographie Universelle_, that

Pantheon of genius, contains a very imperfect but interesting monument

to his memory. He was a contemporary of Charles Butler, and a link

in the chain of English Catholic authors since the great overthrow

of religion. Between the years 1776 and 1786, he published several

controversial works directed against infidelity and Protestantism. He

then published the _History of Abelard and Heloise_, with the genuine

letters of those around whom Pope's poem had thrown much romantic

interest. It soon reached a second edition, and was followed by a

_History of Henry II. and his Two Sons_, vindicating the character of

S. Thomas à Becket. But it was not till 1814 that he published the

work on which his reputation mainly rests, _The Literary History of

the Middle Ages_. By that time his experience had matured, and he had

collected a large body of materials from numberless sources. His work,

when it appeared, was the best compendium to be found; but since that

period the researches of Maitland, Kenelm Digby, and many others have

thrown open to our view more clearly the fair fields and wealthy mines

of mediæval lore. This volume served as a stimulus to the inquiries of

other students, and it was thought worthy of republication so late as

1846. What we admire in it is the taste of the writer and his genuine

love of the subject on which he treats. He does not write like a dry

bibliographer, but in a genial way--like one whose learning has not

eaten out his individual human heart.

But the merit of Berington and Charles Butler fades into insignificance

when compared with that of Lingard. Before his time, English history

was almost unknown. The Catholic side of a number of questions had

never been fairly presented, and the true sources of history had either

not been discovered, or were very scantily resorted to. It was Dr.

Lingard who first made the public sensible of the value of documents

brought to light by the Record Commission; the Close and Patent

Rolls extant in the Tower; the Parliamentary writs; the papers and

instruments of the State Paper Office; the despatches of De la Mothe

Fénelon, the French ambassador in London in the reign of Elizabeth;

the letters and speeches of Oliver Cromwell; and the archives of the

_Ministère des Affaires Etrangères_ in France. Accustomed as we now are

to see history written by the lights of such incontestable evidence, we

often wonder how our forefathers could have accepted with complacency

the jejune records founded in too many cases on tradition and fancy. To

Dr. Lingard and Miss Strickland is principally due the praise of having

introduced a more respectable and reliable method.

Historians generally train themselves unconsciously for their larger

works by the composition of some smaller ones. It was thus with

Lingard, who published, in 1806, his _Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon

Church_, and lived to watch over its success, and improve it in

numerous editions, during a period of forty-five years. He availed

himself gladly of the labors of other workers in the historic field,

and saw, with singular pleasure, the laws, charters, poems, homilies,

and letters of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors collected and published. But

no work on the Anglo-Saxon portion of English history is more valuable

and interesting than his own. He causes the church of that epoch to

live before us with its laws, polity, doctrines, sacraments, services,

discipline, and literature. He consults the original authorities, and,

putting aside wearisome controversies on points of detail, confines

himself to facts well ascertained.

It was during his residence at Pontop and Crook Hall, and before

removing to Ushaw--in a neighborhood where Weremouth and Jarrow

recalled the memory of Bede, and where Tynemouth, Hexham, Lindisfarne,

and many other spots spoke eloquently of the past--that Lingard

used, in his spare moments, to compile the several papers on the

religion, laws, and literature of the Anglo-Saxons, of which his

work is composed. Seated by the evening fireside, he would read them

to his companions, and their interest in his theme, and surprise at

the extent of his learning, increased with every reading. When, at

length, the series reached its close, his friends earnestly requested

him to publish them as a connected history; and thus the foundation

of his future reputation and usefulness was laid. If amateur authors

would more frequently try their strength in this way, without rushing

unadvisedly into print, they would be spared much disappointment and

expense, and the standard of current literature would be raised.

The publication of _The Anglo-Saxon Church_ naturally led to Lingard's

being solicited to extend his history to a later period. Why should not

he, who was evidently so competent, trace the fortunes of the church

through the Norman, Plantagenet, Lancastrian, and Yorkist periods?

Nay, what reason was there why he should not give the world a Catholic

version of the history of the Reformation, so commonly and flagrantly

misrepresented? How many old Catholic families would be delighted

to peruse a faithful record of events in which their ancestors were

concerned! Might not he throw a halo round many illustrious Catholic

names, and tear up by the roots many Protestant historic falsehoods?

Had not several of the Stuart kings shown a bias, and more than a bias,

towards the ancient religion? And who could exhibit the different

phases in the career and character of those kings so well as he? If

Queen Mary had been unduly reviled, and Queen Elizabeth extravagantly

praised, on whom could the task of rectifying these mistakes be

devolved so safely as on Lingard? Such questions stirred his activity

and laudable ambition; for he was not unconscious of his ability to

write the history of his country. At first, indeed, he modestly shrank

from so serious an undertaking, and contemplated only an abridgment

for the use of schools; but a secluded mission like that of Hornby,

to which he had retired, is highly favorable to the composition of

important works. The _Abridgment_ was revised when he had buried Henry

VII., and, after being rewritten, was thrown aside. The scaffolding was

thrown down, but the house stood.

When Lingard visited Rome in 1817, he was, in the first instance,

discouraged by the reception he met with. It was intimated to him by a

member of the Sacred College that Dr. Milner had already sufficiently

exposed and refuted the calumnies contained in Hume, and that further

researches for the purposes of English history were unnecessary or

of slight importance. Every writer of eminence has met with similar

rebuffs. Lingard was mortified, but not deterred from the object he

had in view. Before he left Rome, the archives of the Vatican had been

opened to him without reserve, his admission to the libraries was

facilitated, and transcripts of such unpublished documents as he might

require were promised him. Unfortunately, the privilege of consulting

the Vatican treasures was of little use, seeing that the French

Revolution had thrown the codices into much confusion.

In the early part of 1819 the three volumes of the _History of

England_, extending to the death of Henry VII., were published, having

been purchased by Mawman, the publisher, for a thousand guineas; and

other volumes followed at irregular intervals, till, in 1830, the whole

history down to the Revolution of 1688 had appeared. For the first and

second editions the author received altogether £4,133--an extraordinary

amount, considering the unpopularity of Catholics at the time of its

appearance, and the small number of English Catholic readers. But its

fame extended beyond the English shores; translations in French and

German were published; and an Italian translation was printed, by the

Pope's desire, at the press of the Propaganda. His Holiness subscribed

for 200 copies of this translation; and Cardinal Cristaldi, the

_Trésorière Générale_, for a yet larger number. It was reproduced in

America, and in Paris by Galignani, and read at Rome with enthusiastic

delight. Pius VII., in August, 1821, conferred on the author the

triple academical laurel, creating him at the same time doctor of

divinity and of canon and civil law. Leo XII. invited him to take up

his residence in Rome; but from this Lingard excused himself by saying

that it was necessary he should examine original papers which could be

found in England only. On his departure, the same pontiff presented

him with the gold medal which is usually reserved for cardinals and

princes, and he is said to have designed for him the dignity of the

cardinalate.

As time went on, Lingard's knowledge of English history widened and

deepened. He availed himself eagerly of the new sources of information

which this century has opened so abundantly, and, by the constant

revision of his work, he rendered it increasingly valuable. It would

be difficult to overstate its merits, one of the highest of which is

its impartiality and fearless statement of what the writer knew to

be true. He avoided all appearance of controversy, and often refuted

Hume without appearing to do so. His great aim was to write a history

which Protestants would read, and in this he succeeded. In 1825, the

President of the English College at Rome, Dr. Gradwell, wrote to him,

saying: "Your _History_ is much spoken of here as one of the great

causes which have wrought such a change in public sentiment in England

on Catholic matters." Dr. Wiseman, writing to Lingard in July, 1835,

said: "All the professors at Munich desired me, again and again, to

assure you of the high esteem they entertain for you, and the high

position your work is allowed, through all Germany, among historical

productions. Prof. Phillips, formerly professor of history at Baden,

now at Munich, requested me to inform you that he owes his conversion

(which made immense sensation, on account of his well-known talents)

chiefly to your _History_, which he undertook to review." A few weeks

only before Cardinal Wiseman's death, he thus expressed his sense of

Dr. Lingard's merits, both as an author and a man: "Be assured of my

affectionate gratitude to you for much kindness in my early youth, and

still more for the great, important, and noble services which you have

rendered to religion through life, and which have so much contributed

to overthrow error, and give a solid historical basis to all subsequent

controversy with Protestantism."

In mentioning those writers who have helped to construct an English

Catholic literature, it would be impossible to omit the name of Thomas

Moore. Though an Irishman by birth, the English, among whom he chiefly

resided, are accustomed to reckon him among their own; and though,

unhappily, he ceased, at an early period of life, to observe regularly

the duties of his religion, he never ceased altogether to frequent the

services of the Catholic Church; and in his writings he maintained to

the last the truth of Catholicism, and the immense superiority of its

system over all modern forms and sections of Christianity. His _Travels

of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion_ is no less forcible in

argument than humorous in style; and numberless passages in his diaries

and poems prove that Catholicism retained its hold over his heart as

well as his understanding, though it did not always influence duly his

practice as a member of the church. Probably his passion for society,

and his fondness for the great, were in some measure the causes of

his conforming outwardly to Protestant observances, and allowing his

children to be educated in the doctrines and usages of the Church of

England. Certain it is that his own affections were never weaned from

the faith of his parents; and one of his most intimate friends, Lord

Russell, who was also his biographer, assures us that, when in London,

it was his custom to frequent the Catholic chapel in Wardour Street.

We cannot in this place discuss as fully as it deserves the question

of Moore's personal Catholicity. Suffice it to refer to a passage

in his _Diary_, under the date November 2 to 9, 1834, and to the

following, dated April 9, 1833: "In one of my conversations with Lord

John (Russell), we talked about my forthcoming book, and I explained

to him the nature of it, adding that I had not the least doubt in my

own mind of the truth of the case I undertook to prove in it--namely,

that Popery is in all respects the old, original Christianity, and

Protestantism a departure from it." Such was the lesson which the

_Travels of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion_ was intended

to teach; nor could anything less than a deep sympathy for the faith

of the people of Ireland have inspired Moore with such touching

lamentations over their wrongs and sufferings. The frame of his mind

was essentially religious; and those who have been wont to think of

him as a dissolute devotee of fashion will feel surprised to discover

in the authentic records of his life a fond and faithful husband, an

affectionate son, a loving parent, and, as far as his feelings were

regarded, a devout Christian. His _Sacred Songs_ were not efforts

of the imagination merely; they expressed the genuine emotions of

his inmost heart; and how beautifully, and in numbers how inimitably

melodious! There is a disposition among some critics to disparage

Moore's poetry, and to treat him merely as a love-sick rhymer; but

his fame is proof against such pitiful assailants; and his poems will

awaken echoes in the human heart when their artificial and obscure

poetizings shall

"... bind a book, or line a box,

Or serve to curl a maiden's locks."

There cannot be a doubt that his writings contributed largely to

the success of the movement in favor of Catholic emancipation, and

that his _Irish Melodies_ in particular conspired with the speeches

and addresses of O'Connell to kindle in the breasts of Irishmen and

Irishwomen the determination to set their country free. The enthusiasm,

even to tears, which they excited on the lake, in the grove, in the

music-hall and the banqueting-room, when sung to the soft notes of the

piano or harp, burst forth sooner or later in action, and produced

results by which senates were moved and populations stirred. The power

which poetry has over men's hearts and actions is a test of its merits

that rises far above the technicalities of a pedantic school; and

Moore's lyrics are not found wanting when tried by this standard. They

are truly "magnetic." They have fired many a soldier on the field of

battle, and excited many an orator at the hustings; they have comforted

many a solitary mourner, and smoothed many a touch of sickness and

pain. We have, of course, no apology to offer for some of those in

which he celebrates earthly love; though it must be admitted he has not

been unmindful of that higher, that divine love, which alone can crown

earthly affections with true happiness. No one has sung more sweetly

than Moore the truths that God is "the life and light of all this

wondrous world"; that he dries the mourner's tear; that "the world is

all a fleeting show"; that there is nothing bright but the soul may

see in it some feature of Deity, and nothing dark but God's love may be

traced therein. What hymn-book contains a spiritual lesson more true

and beautiful than this?

"As morning, when her early breeze

Breaks up the surface of the seas,

That in their furrows, dark with night,

Her hands may sow the seeds of light,

"Thy grace can send its breathings o'er

The spirit, dark and lost before,

And, freshening all its depths, prepare

For truth divine to enter there!"

But it is in Moore's national poems that we must look for the principal

gauge of his influence on public opinion. Their effect in England was

no less magical than in Ireland. Wherever they were sung or read,

they turned enemies into advocates; and mammas little dreamed that

political treatises were entering their homes in the shape of rolls

of music. By adapting modern words to ancient airs, they appealed

to listeners by the twofold charm of antiquity and novelty. They

surpassed the plaintive sweetness of Carolan, being addressed to

more refined audiences than had ever gathered round Erin's minstrels

of old. During one-and-twenty years, from 1807 to 1828, the _Irish

Melodies_ transmitted the "light of song" "through the variegating

prism of harmony"; and the cruel acts against minstrels in the reigns

of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were atoned for by the rapturous welcome

given in England under the last two of the Georges to the most tuneful

expressions of patriotism that ever broke from lip and lyre since the

days of "the sweet Psalmist of Israel." They laid bare the bleeding

heart-strings of the Irish cotter, exile, and emigrant; they pleaded

for the redress of his wrongs, centuries old; they invoked a Nemesis

on his oppressor; they enlisted on his side the suffrages of the

noble, the tender-hearted, and the brave. They coupled Ireland with

Poland in the minds of all lovers of political justice; and they even

suggested analogies between the Irish and the persecuted and outcast

people of Israel. That they promoted indirectly, and still promote,

the cause of Catholicism is certain; for the sequences of mental

associations are governed by rules as fixed as those which attend the

sequences of natural products. Under the symbol of lovers, which all

can understand, they frequently set forth the relation between the

Irishman and his country, including his religion. To the true Irishman,

indeed, of that period, the ideas of his native land and his father's

faith were inseparable, and he would have thought that which was

disloyal to either to have been treason against both. Moore's Catholic

education--the never-forgotten lessons of Catholic parents, whom he

fondly loved--constituted a large element in the power and charm of his

ever-varied and incomparable _Melodies_.

The practical importance of journalism as a branch of literature cannot

be too highly rated; for, though in itself it seldom reaches the

highest literary excellence, it brings it down to the level of ordinary

understandings, and retails to the public what in the wholesale they

would not buy. In the beginning of 1840, the Catholic field in England

was sufficiently extended, and its prospects were so promising that

a weekly organ of greater ability and wider scope than any which

then existed was imperatively required. No one appeared better able

to conduct such a journal successfully than Frederic Lucas. Born of

Quaker parents, and educated at the London University, he had, at an

early age, been distinguished for his ardent pursuit of literature in

preference to art, science, or mathematics. Skilful as a debater,

and insatiable in his historical researches, he was attracted to the

subject of religion by its controversial and historic side. The works

of Bentham, and the stirring events of the revolutionary period of

1830, drew him deep into politics, while the poetry of Byron, Shelley,

and Wordsworth strewed his pathway with shells and flowers, and colored

every object around him with rainbow hues. Called to the bar in 1835,

he became intimately acquainted with Thomas Carlyle, personally and

as an author. The writings of this eminent historian and philosopher

had for him a special charm, to which the peculiarity of their style

was no drawback. He took great interest in the lectures on _Heroes

and Hero Worship_ when they were first delivered; and it was from his

accurate notes that a full report of Lecture No. 1 was published in the

_Tablet_. Though the tendency of Carlyle's works is towards anything

but Catholicism, they had, strange to say, an indirect tendency that

way in Lucas' case. They called up many sympathies in favor of the

middle ages, and pointed to increase of faith as the grand remedy for

human ills.

There was about this time a great stirring of the public mind on

religious subjects, and Lucas, reflecting deeply on the chaotic state

of Christendom and the ever-multiplying forms of schism, became

attracted to views set forth with great ability by Oxford divines,

tending to revive mediæval practices and produce a tranquil reliance on

ancient ecclesiastical authority. But he felt no inclination to stop

at the half-way house. To exchange Quakerism for Anglicanism would, he

thought, be a loss rather than a gain; for the doctrines of the Society

of Friends could, at least, be stated definitely, whereas those of

the Church of England were matter of ceaseless debate between three

parties--High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church. He therefore broke

through every barrier, and ruptured many ties of friendship, interest,

and old association. His _Reasons for becoming a Roman Catholic_ was a

pamphlet remarkable for the poetic exuberance of its style, and still

more from the fact of its being addressed to Friends, and its defending

Catholicism from a Friend's point of view. A few articles published in

the _Dublin Review_ established Lucas' literary reputation among his

co-religionists, and he was soon invited to edit a new Catholic weekly

journal, which he named the _Tablet_. The first number appeared on the

16th of May, 1840, and during fifteen years Lucas continued to direct

the undertaking, and to take a leading part in its composition. Some of

the literary and miscellaneous papers were, in the early days of the

publication, contributed by non-Catholics; but it was then, and has

ever since been, regarded as an exponent of Catholicism--not, indeed,

absolutely authoritative, but in the highest degree weighty, and

semi-official.

It can scarcely be necessary to speak of the ability which this journal

displayed in Lucas' hands. One anecdote will suffice to prove the

intellectual readiness and aptitude of the editor. An article which

appeared in the _Dublin Review_ in 1849, on the "Campaigns of the Duke

of Marlborough," at once attracted the notice of Sir William Napier,

the historian of the Peninsular War. Competent judge as he was, he

supposed the article to be written by a soldier, and could not conceive

that any other than a military man could exhibit so much familiarity

with the manœuvres of armies and the tactics of generals. When he

learned that it was a civilian who thus described and commented on

the battles of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, he

hastened to make his acquaintance, and offered him every species of

encouragement.

But if English Catholics were fortunate in having a really literary

man at the head of their most popular journal, they were still more

so in possessing an archbishop who was a connoisseur in art, skilled

in science, and profound in ancient and modern lore. There were few

subjects with which Cardinal Wiseman was not conversant; and when

weary of business and serious study, he would often refresh his own

mind and entertain his friends by discussing topics altogether outside

the ordinary grave circle of a prelate's discourse. He could talk of

pancakes and posy-rings, of "Cymbeline" and "Peter Bell," as fluently

as of general councils and the _Acts of the Martyrs_. His _Essays_,

reprinted from the _Dublin Review_, his _Connection between Science and

Revelation_, his _Fabiola, a Tale of the Catacombs_, and his _Lives of

the Last Four Popes_, abundantly establish his literary reputation,

and are equally creditable to his research, observation, and inventive

faculty. The story of _Fabiola_ was composed, as he tells us, "at all

sorts of times and places, early and late; in scraps and fragments

of time, when the body was too fatigued or the mind too worn-out

for heavier occupation; in the roadside inn, in the halt of travel,

in strange houses, in every variety of situation and circumstance,

sometimes trying ones." In the midst of his episcopal labors, he found

time for the delivery of numerous lectures on secular subjects, which

attracted public attention to many curious points in literature, art,

and science. In the present age, when every field of knowledge and

experiment is crowded with eager students, and when a disposition

is seen everywhere to subordinate all discoveries and researches to

high, if not always correct, views of religion, it seems to be of the

utmost importance that Catholics in general should, as far as they are

able, copy the example of Cardinal Wiseman in cultivating the happy

and hallowed alliance of truth divinely revealed and truth humanly

ascertained, feeling sure that, however the two may seem here and

there to clash one with another, the discrepancy between them is only

apparent, and will vanish on closer investigation.

Dr. Newman has adopted a perfectly unique mode of enriching the

Catholic literature of his country. He is now, in his advanced age,

republishing all his works from the commencement of his author-life.

Many of these appeared while he was still a clergyman of the Church

of England; but to these he appends qualifying or explanatory notes,

thus laying before his readers both his first and second thoughts.

This often gives him an opportunity of rebutting his former errors,

and, by a brush of arms, laying low many a favorite Anglican defence.

The series serves, also, to fill up various parts of his biography

which had been sketched only in the _Apologia pro Vita Sua_. It

is, therefore, welcome to the reading public in general, to whom

his earlier life has never lost its interest in consequence of his

conversion. The avidity with which his works are read by non-Catholics

is no small proof of their merit intellectually considered. Indeed,

to use the words of one writing in a hostile spirit in the _Pall Mall

Gazette_ of Sept. 23, 1872: "The extreme beauty of his language, the

rarity of his utterances, his delicate yet forcible way of dealing

with opposition when obliged to do so--all these things have invested

his image with a kind of halo, to which, for our parts, we scarcely

remember a parallel."

Nothing could prove more conclusively the esteem in which he is held by

the English public than the reception given to his _Apologia_. Though

this publication was polemical, though Dr. Newman's adversary was a

Protestant clergyman and professor in the University of Cambridge,

the verdict given by the leading journals and reviews of the day was

emphatically on the side of the Priest of the Oratory--the convert

from Anglicanism! Mr. Kingsley was universally condemned as having

advanced what he could not substantiate; and the beautifully naïve

account which the assailed gave of his own life, opinions, literary and

ministerial career, was welcomed and hailed with praise, admiration,

and delight. The _Spectator_ (than which no review in England stands

higher) styled the _Apologia_: "An interior view of one of the

greatest minds and greatest natures ever completely subjected to

the influence of reactionary thought"; and it added: "Mr. Kingsley

has grievously wronged a man utterly unintelligible to him, but as

incapable of falsehood or of the advocacy of falsehood as the sincerest

Protestant." The _Union Review_, a High Church organ, said of the

same work: "Since the _Confessions_ of S. Augustine were given to the

world, we doubt if any autobiography has appeared of such thrilling

interest as the present." The _Saturday Review_ was scarcely less

emphatic. "Few books," it said, "have been published, in the memory

of this generation, full of so varied an interest as Dr. Newman's

_Apologia_." To these extracts we must add one more from a writer in

the _Times_: "So far as one can judge from the opinions of the press,

it is universally acknowledged that Dr. Newman has displayed through

his whole life, and never more so than at the time he was most bitterly

assailed, the most transparent idea of an honorable and high-minded

gentleman."

It is not so much to the theological as to the literary character of

Dr. Newman's works that we wish to call attention. As a writer of

sermons, he has never been surpassed. Old as the Christian religion is,

he never failed in preaching to present some portion of it in a new

light. The Scriptures of the Old Testament in his hands acquire new

meaning and import; and the subtlety of his thought is only equalled by

the limpid clearness of his style. To those who remember him only as

he appeared in the pulpit of S. Mary the Virgin's, Oxford, his image

is that of a seer piercing the depths of nature and redemption, and

enunciating, under the influence of a divine afflatus, truths full of

awe and tenderness, but often too vast for the comprehension of his

hearers.

The test of any work of art is this--that it will bear the closest

inspection. The fine gold of Dr. Newman's sermon-writing becomes more

evident when his discourses are molten down in the crucible of severe

criticism. They have nothing to fear from dissection; rather they court

the anatomist's knife. Their beauty does not lie on the surface merely,

though that surface is passing fair; they have that interior charm and

sweetness, that plaintive and mysterious tenderness, which belongs

to the notes of a Stradivarius violin when played by a master-hand.

They suggest more than they say; they are replete with thoughts that

often lie too deep for tears, and make us feel that we are greater

than we know. They win upon our hearts like a living voice, and make

us love the writer, whom we have perhaps never seen. "Eloquent" would

be a poor and vulgar adjective to apply to them. They are more than

eloquent; they are poetry, religion, and philosophy combined in prose,

which is prose only because it is not in rhythm.

Largely as Dr. Newman is gifted with the imaginative faculty, he has

not acquired, nor, indeed, deserved to acquire, the same honors as

a poet as by his prose writings. His verses entitled "Lead, kindly

Light," are faultlessly beautiful, and some parts of _Gerontius_ are

very fine; but in his poetry in general there is a want of color and

detail. His mind has not been turned sufficiently to the minuter

qualities and phases of natural objects to make a consummate poet. He

is too abstract, chill, and classical for the luxurious requirements of

modern verse. But when, in his prose, he launches into matter highly

poetical in its nature, as in _Callista_, when he describes the ravages

of the locusts, or in his _Sermons_, when he dwells on the assumption

of Our Lady's body into heaven, his language is equally copious and

brilliant, reaching the highest form of speech without any sacrifice of

simplicity, point, or color. Whatever Dr. Newman writes, be it sermon,

history, or fiction, it has the air of an essay. It is a charming

disquisition--the outpouring of the thoughts of a great and original

mind on some point which deeply interests him, and the connection of

which with other matters of high import he sees more clearly than other

men. But he is not discursive; he does not straggle about from one

subject to another, but keeps closely to that which is in hand. Hence,

to cursory readers he often seems to be forgetting some truths, because

he dwells so fully and forcibly on others. It is their minds which are

at fault, not his. All parts of a large system of Christian philosophy

are present to his view at all times; and for this very reason he can

afford to spend himself on each in detail and labor upward from the

particular to the universal. In this respect he resembles Plato, while

in others he has been compared, not unjustly, to S. Augustine:

"Whene'er I con the thoughtful page

My youth so dearly prized,

I say, This foremost of his age

Is Plato's self baptized!

"But kindling, weeping, as I read,

And wondering at his pen,

I cry, This Newman is indeed

Augustine come again.

"The sweet, sublime 'Athenian Bee'

And Hippo's seer, who ran

Through every range of thought, I see

Combined in this _new man_."

When Thomas Moore was visiting Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, nearly

fifty years ago, they both agreed that much of the poetry then

appearing in periodicals, and passing comparatively unnoticed, would,

not many years before, have made the reputation of the writers. If

they were alive now, with how much stronger emphasis would they make a

similar remark! Magazine poetry in England now is as superior to that

of 1825 as that of 1825 surpassed that of 1775. There are not a few

poets at this moment, whose names are scarcely known, who would, at an

earlier period of English literature, have been crowned with laurel

by general consent. The great poets of this century have raised the

standard of poetry, and verse nowadays is what Scott and Wordsworth,

Byron and Moore, Shelley and Tennyson, have made it. Mr. Aubrey de

Vere, in the time of Daniel, Carew, Drummond, and Drayton, would have

been a star of the first magnitude; whereas he is now, partly on

account of his Catholic principles, observed and admired by the public

far less than he deserves. Born of a Protestant family, and educated

in the Protestant religion, he has in ripe years chosen the better

part, and embraced the faith of the large majority of his countrymen.

He has thrown himself into the views of Irish Catholics on political

subjects, and has, without disloyalty to the existing government,

reproduced in modern verse the passionate sentiments of Irish

chieftains, captives, exiles, emigrants, and serfs of the soil in days

long past. Residing, however, chiefly in England, and representing,

as he does, the later colonists of Ireland, we may venture to class

him among English authors, or, at least, to consider his poems as a

contribution to English Catholic literature. Occasional obscurity

and faulty rhymes are, in his case, redeemed by poetry's prime

excellence--originality of thought and expression. Lines pregnant with

truth and beauty are constantly recurring, and the deeply religious

feeling which pervades all has the great advantage of not being

expressed in hackneyed and conventional language. The _May Carols_ is

a perfect conservatory of lovely images clustering round the central

figure of immaculate Mary. The 21st carol, on "The Maryless Nations,"

is perhaps better known in the United States than in England, for it

is said that this prophet is less honored in his own country than in

America; yet it may fairly be quoted here as a very favorable specimen

of Mr. Aubrey de Vere's reflective verse:

"As children when, with heavy tread,

Men sad of face, unseen before,

Have borne away their mother dead,

So stand the nations thine no more.

"From room to room those children roam,

Heart-stricken by the unwonted black:

Their house no longer seems their home;

They search, yet know not what they lack.

"Years pass: self-will and passion strike

Their roots more deeply day by day;

Old servants weep; and 'how unlike'

Is all the tender neighbors say.

"And yet at moments, like a dream,

A mother's image o'er them flits;

Like hers, their eyes a moment beam,

The voice grows soft, the brow unknits.

"Such, Mary, are the realms once thine

That know no more thy golden reign.

Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine!

Oh! make thine orphans thine again."

There is another "May Carol" which has always struck us as particularly

beautiful, because so highly figurative. Metaphor and music make up the

soul of poetry. It is an apostrophe to the south wind, and is headed

by the motto, _Adolescentulæ amaverunt te nimis_, a text from the

_Canticles_, which sufficiently explains the mysticism of the lines:

"Behold! the wintry rains are past,

The airs of midnight hurt no more;

The young maids love thee. Come at last:

Thou lingerest at the garden door.

"'Blow over all the garden; blow,

Thou wind that breathest of the South,

Through all the alleys winding low,

With dewy wing and honeyed mouth.

"'But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, shape

Thy music ever to one Name;

Thou, too, clear stream, to cave and cape

Be sure to whisper of the same.

"'By every isle and bower of musk

Thy crystal clasps as on its curls;

We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk,

We charge thee, grave it in thy pearls.'

"The stream obeyed. That Name he bore

Far out above the moonlit tide.

The breeze obeyed; he breathed it o'er

The unforgetting pines, and died."

This is the very algebra of language, and all the terms employed are

raised, as it were, to their highest powers. Such verse could proceed

only from one of

"The visionary apprehensive souls

Whose finer insight no dim sense controls."

There is another poem by Mr. Aubrey de Vere, which deserves to be

quoted for its ingenuity; nor can we, in reading it, but be reminded

of what was said of Euripides, and might, with equal truth, be said of

him: "In all his pieces there is the sweet human voice, the fluttering

human heart." The Irish race in these verses is compared to a great

religious order, of which England is the foundress:

"There is an order by a Northern sea,

Far in the west, of rule and life more strict

Than that which Basil reared in Galilee,

In Egypt Paul, in Umbria Benedict.

"Discalced it walks; a stony land of tombs,

A strange Petræa of late days, it treads.

Within its courts no high-tossed censer fumes;

The night-rain beats its cells, the wind its beds.

"Before its eyes no brass-bound, blazoned tome

Reflects the splendor of a lamp high hung;

Knowledge is banished from her earliest home

Like wealth: it whispers psalms that once it sung.

"It is not bound by the vow celibate,

Lest, through its ceasing, anguish too might cease;

In sorrow it brings forth, and death and fate

Watch at life's gate, and tithe the unripe increase.

"It wears not the Franciscan's sheltering gown,

The cord that binds it is the stranger's chain:

Scarce seen for scorn, in fields of old renown

It breaks the clod; another reaps the grain.

"Year after year it fasts; each third or fourth

So fasts that common fasts to it are feast;

Then of its brethren many in the earth

Are laid unrequiem'd like the mountain beast.

"Where are its cloisters? Where the felon sleeps!

Where its novitiate? Where the last wolf died!

From sea to sea its vigil long it keeps--

Stern Foundress! is its rule not mortified?

"Thou that hast laid so many an order waste,

A nation is thine order! It was thine

Wide as a realm that order's seed to cast,

And undispensed sustain its discipline!"

The Catholic press in England, which at the commencement of this

century was smitten with barrenness, now teems with ceaseless

productions. Few of them, however, except those we have mentioned, are

destined to form part of standard literature. Even Miss Adelaide Anne

Procter's verses are not as widely appreciated as they deserve to be,

though, during her lifetime, they obtained for her the reputation of

being one of the most tuneful moralists that ever sung or breathed.

Mrs. William Pitt Byrne has earned well of the public by the lively

manner in which she has described so many Catholic countries, and

the diligence with which she has collected her materials. Her works

on Belgium, France--Paris in particular--Spain, and Hungary have

supplied amusement and instruction to a large number of subscribers

to circulating libraries, and have thus accomplished a great part of

the purpose for which they were written. F. Faber's numerous volumes

are too well known to need much comment on this occasion. They are

intensely devotional, full of fervid eloquence, and rich with the

coloring of a poetic mind. Many of his _Hymns_ are popular, and will

long remain so, because they are simple, forcible, and direct. Lady

Georgina Fullerton has succeeded as a religious novelist, and has been

the first as an English Catholic to occupy the ground which is now

especially hers. Kenelm Digby's _Ages of Faith_, _Compitum_, and other

works have a special charm for those who love choice quotations and

pictures of mediæval piety; Mr. T. W. Allies has ably and valiantly

defended the Papal supremacy; Mr. John Wallis has rendered _Heyne's

Songs_ in graceful English lyrics; Mr. Charles Waterton's _Wanderings_

are deservedly prized by naturalists; Mr. Richard Simpson's _Life of

Campion_ displays much historical research; F. Morris has depicted

admirably the sufferings of Catholic martyrs and confessors under the

Reforming sovereigns; the _Life of the Marquis of Pombal_, by the Conde

da Carnota (an English work), though too favorable to the Portuguese

prime minister, is highly valuable so far as it is documentary; and

the papers read before the _Academia of the Catholic Religion_, and

published in two volumes, supply in themselves a test of the literary

proficiency of many distinguished members of the church in England at

the present time. The following works also deserve to be mentioned

as valuable additions to the stock of English Catholic literature:

_The Evidence for the Papacy_, by the Hon. Colin Lindsay; _The Life of

Cardinal Howard_, by F. Palmer; Buckley's _Life and Writings of the

Rev. Father O'Leary_; _Christian Schools and Scholars_, by the author

of _The Knights of S. John_; Dr. Husenbeth's _Life of Bishop Milner_;

Mr. Maguire's _Rome, its Ruler and its Institutions_; and Dr. Rock's

_Hierurgia_.

Among Catholic poets, we ought not to forget Mr. Coventry Patmore,

whose playful, pleasing, and thoughtful octosyllabics--_The Angel of

the House_ and _Faithful for Ever_--found many admirers ten or twelve

years ago. There is in these fluent productions a simplicity which

at first sight strikes one as namby-pamby, but which, on further

consideration, is seen to be a light veil of serious thought and

genuine emotion. There are minds which can never appreciate poetry of

the highest order; who admire it only because they are taught that they

ought to do so, but cannot love it, even though it be stamped with

the approval of ages. "None ever loved _because he ought_" is true in

reference to more subjects than one; and it is well that second-rate

poetry should be written and preserved for second-rate appreciations.

Mr. Coventry Patmore's works fulfil a purpose, and are therefore not to

be despised, though they will never obtain a large reward.

It is to be hoped and expected that, as time goes on, Catholic

literature in England will enlarge its borders without declining in

orthodoxy. Colleges and universities yet to be founded will encourage

learning in all its branches, and prove to the world by new examples

that science and religion mutually support each other. The more firmly

the children of the church are rooted in the faith, the more strength

will their intellect acquire, and the more freedom will they be able

to indulge with safety. The literary spirit, animated and guided by

the true religion, will ever find new fields of useful speculation and

research; and the rebuke of ignorance, so often cast on members of the

church, will fall pointless when they are able to meet non-Catholic

historians and professors on their own ground, and to rob them

frequently of a crown in the arena of literary combat.

THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Among the epic romances of the middle ages, the first place must be

given to the _Song of Roland_. It deserves this, not only on account

of its antiquity, but also for the importance of the hero, and for

the _triumphant loss_, as Montaigne would have called it, which it

immortalizes. It is a _chanson de geste_, supposed to have been

composed by Turold or Théroulde, a troubadour who lived during the

first thirty years of the XIth century, though the only place where he

is mentioned is the line with which the Bodleian MS. of the _Chanson de

Roland_ terminates.

This poem is a curious example of the work of popular imagination upon

actual events, and shows, with remarkable unity and originality, the

power of this species of transformation.

The historical narrative, as related by Eginhard, son-in-law of

Charlemagne, recounts a grievous and unavenged disaster--the complete

destruction of the rear-guard of the French army, which, after a

succession of victories, was returning from Spain, and, being surprised

by mountaineers in the gorges of Roncevaux, left no living witnesses.

But Charlemagne's nephew, Roland, with all his peers, were among the

slain; it was needful, therefore, to do honor to his fall, and wash

away the affront against the arms of the always victorious king. Grief

and admiration combined to accomplish the task, and we have before us

the legend, which not only perpetuates the memory of the catastrophe,

but which makes of a death-dirge a hymn of victory.

The most ancient manuscript of this poem extant is, without doubt,

the copy in the Bodleian library at Oxford, which is supposed to be

of the XIIth century. Among other considerations, the brevity of this

manuscript as compared with others is a proof of its greater antiquity.

It has not more than four thousand lines, whereas others have six, and

even eight, thousand. But whether even this is the primitive version,

without alteration or addition, we have not the means of knowing.

That which, in the first place, distinguishes the _Chanson de Roland_

from all other productions of the mediæval poets anterior to Dante

is its unity of composition; but there are also other noticeable

differences. The first is in the subject itself, which is matter of

actual history, as we have seen from the testimony of Eginhard, who

adds, "This reverse poisoned in the heart of Charles the joy of all the

victories which he had gained in Spain." It was not a simple skirmish,

but the utter defeat of a valuable portion of his army--the only defeat

he had known during the thirty-eight years of his reign. It is easy

to understand how profound would be the impression produced by the

catastrophe, which, moreover, was indelibly deepened, when, half a

century later, the army of one of the sons of Charlemagne, by a fatal

coincidence, was cut to pieces in this same defile.

The imagination of the people was not long in merging these two

disasters into one, and in gradually changing nearly all the accessory

circumstances of the first event. But it matters little that Charles

is invested with the imperial purple more than twenty years before

the time; that he is represented as a white-bearded patriarch, when,

actually, he could not have been more than thirty-five years of age;

that his relationship to the hero of Roncevaux is more than doubtful;

that the Gascon mountaineers are transformed into Saracens; and that,

instead of their chief, Lopez, Duke of Gascony, of whom the charter

of Charles the Bald speaks as "a wolf in name and in nature," we have

two personages--King Marsilion and the traitor Ganelon. All these

transformations, which are easy to be accounted for, alter in nothing

the basis of the poem, which is historic truth, while legendary truth

has become its surface and superstructure.

Another point to be remarked is that in the _Chanson de Roland_

the subject is national. In other compositions of the period, the

heroes are Normans, Provençals, Gascons, and so forth, animated by a

patriotism either as circumscribed as their own domain, or as wide as

the world which they traversed in search of adventures. In the poems

recounting their acts and deeds, the name of France, when it happens

to be mentioned, has merely a geographical sense, being used as simply

designating the province of which Paris was the capital--"La France,"

"La douce France," so often invoked in the "Lay of Roland"; and the

glow of true and loving patriotism which warms this poem would alone

distinguish it from every other _chanson de geste_ that has been

written.

The figure of Charlemagne next demands our attention. By a strange

contradiction the Carlovingian poems, so called because they glorify

the companions of the great emperor and the deeds performed by them

during his reign, are, with scarcely any exception, nothing more than

so many satires upon Charlemagne himself, who is represented either as

a mute and doting imbecile, or else as a capricious despot; all the

wisdom and courage of the time being monopolized by the great barons.

The reason is not far to seek. At the epoch when these poems were

written or "improved," royalty in France was struggling to recover the

power of which the great crown vassals had possessed themselves at its

expense, and the feudal league defended its acquisitions _not_ by force

of arms alone. One of the most effectual means at that period of acting

upon the popular mind was by the influence of minstrelsy--that is to

say, by poesy and song; and the troubadours and _jongleurs_ of the time

willingly gave their services to promote the interests of their more

immediate protectors and patrons. Under the name of Charlemagne, it is,

in fact, Louis le Gros or Louis le Jeune whom they attack, glorifying

his epoch, but depreciating himself, as in "Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon"

and similar sarcastic romances. Turold is almost alone in showing

us the king "à la barbe grifaigne," with the authority and grandeur

befitting so great a monarch, and as one who rises above his peers more

by his dignity than by his lofty stature. The knights by whom he is

surrounded are noble and valiant, but he surpasses them all.

In this homage rendered to the personal glory of Charlemagne, and

in this sentiment of nationality, which is a remnant of the old

monarchical unity, of which, in the XIIIth century, the remembrance

had long been extinguished, but which, towards the close of the XIth,

still existed, we have two characteristics which stamp the date of

this poem more unmistakably than could be done by any peculiarities of

orthography or versification.

It is marked by two other specialties: the absence of gallantry or

amorous allusions, and the austerity of the religious sentiment.

Scarcely a line here and there lets us know that Roland has a

lady-love. It is his own affair, with which the public has nothing

to do. In the whole poem two women only appear, and these only in

slightly sketched outline. One is Queen Bramimonde, who appears for

an instant, as she unfastens her bracelets, and lets their priceless

jewels sparkle temptingly before the eyes of Ganelon; while later on

we are again given a passing glimpse of her, first as captive, and

then as Christian. In the other, "la belle Aude," the affianced bride

of Roland, we have a momentary vision of beauty and faithful devotion

even to death. She appears but to die of love and grief too deep for

words. A few centuries later, could any French poet have been able

to resign so excellent an opportunity for pouring forth a flood of

sentimental verses? Even the poets of the XIIIth and XIVth centuries

have lengthened out this tempting subject in endless variations.

As we pass on to the last consideration, we meet with other contrasts

between the forefathers and their posterity. Religion, in the time of

Wace and of Chrestien of Troyes, was still powerful and honored. Their

heroes, even the most worldly and pugnacious, are exact in saying their

prayers, kneeling devoutly, and confiding their souls to the care of

the Blessed Virgin; still, in times of great solemnity or extremity,

in the midst of danger, or face to face with death, we do not find the

calm and serene fervor, the submission as well as faith, which fill the

heart of Roland and his companions.

With regard to another point: if the "Lay of Roland," or, rather, if

the popular tradition which gave it birth, makes Saracens instead of

Gascons appear at Roncevaux, it is not pure fiction. After the death

of Charlemagne, the Saracens had so often quitted their province of

Castile to make inroads upon Aquitaine, and Western Europe had them

in such terror, that the fear of present misfortune had soon effaced

the remembrance of the old combats of Christian against Christian

on the Spanish frontier. A fixed belief had grown that every enemy

ambushed in the Pyrenees could not at any period have been other than

an army of mis-believers; and to this may be added the idea, which was

germinating, that a day would come when, in defence of Europe and of

the faith, it would be necessary to destroy the vulture in its nest

by carrying the sword into the country of Mahomet. It was not only

that the slaughter of Roncevaux cried out for vengeance; the Holy

War was in the spirit of the times, and naturally passed into the

poems. These, without preaching a crusade, prepared the way a century

beforehand, and the idea, dimly shadowed, it is true, but actually

present, is expressed in the last five or six lines of the poem, which

is, moreover, especially noticeable as being one which immortalizes

defeat and death. It is the glorification of courage, in misfortune and

in success, vain as to this world, but of eternal value for the next,

where the glory of the warrior pales before the glory of the martyr.

And this thought leads us to our last consideration, namely, the

meaning of the vowels A O I, with which every stanza terminates. From

the moment that Roland had died fighting against the Mussulmans, he

became a saint, whose name must forthwith be inscribed in the popular

martyrology. It was, therefore, only fitting to consecrate to him a

poem after the model of the hymns of the church, so many of which, as

well as the Latin poem on S. Mildred, are terminated by the vowels e u

o u a e--the modulation of _sæculorum amen_. This is the opinion of the

learned Abbé Henry, although neither he nor any of the other writers

whom we have consulted mention their suppositions as to the exact

meaning of the vowels A O I.

The _Song of Roland_ is mentioned in numberless romances, was imitated

in almost every language of Western Europe, and appears to have been

made use of as a war-song by the French armies before it had developed

itself to the proportions in which it has reached us. There is no

reasonable doubt that it was parts of this poem that were sung by

Taillefer on the advance of the Normans at the Battle of Hastings, and

not the "Song of Rollo," their first duke, as several modern authors

have supposed. We quote the words of Robert Wace: