Thus writes F. Denis Petau (author of _Dogmes Théologiques_ and

_Doctrine des Temps_) to F. Bollandus, August 9, 1641, shortly after

the publication of the celebrated _Augustinus_. The Calvinists of

Holland have taken the same view as F. Petau; for them Jansenius is an

ally, a friend, whose opinions are less opposed to theirs in substance

than in form. Did not the Bishop of Ypres candidly acknowledge that

he "almost entirely" approved the Calvinist Synod of Dordrecht?

The Abbé of Saint-Cyran, another patriarch of Jansenism, remarked:

"Calvin thought justly, but expressed himself ill--_bene sensit,

male locutus est_." However, there are important differences between

the two heresies; but it would take us too much out of our way to

indicate them in detail. These words of the false Synod of Pistoia

perfectly express the germinal idea of Jansenism: "In these latter

days a general obscurity prevails in regard to the most important

truths of religion.... It is necessary, therefore, to remount to the

pure source of the principles which have been obscured by novelties,

in order to establish a uniformity of doctrine which shall be a

subject of edification for the faithful, and gratify the wishes of

our most religious prince.... To establish this unity of principles,

the enlightened sovereign suggests to the bishops to take for their

rule the doctrine of S. Augustine against the Pelagians and the

semi-Pelagians, who, through their system, have destroyed the spirit of

the Christian religion, and preached a new gospel."[204] It must needs

follow from this that the authority of the church is not an efficacious

remedy against error, since it was possible for the general belief

of the faithful to be obscured for centuries in regard to the most

important truths.

Is this in any wise different from what the reformers of the XVIth

century pretended? Did not Calvin, especially, have always in his mouth

the name of the great Bishop of Hippo? Jansenius develops the same

thought in his preliminary work, _De Ratione et Auctoritate_.[205]

Baius had prepared the way for him.[206] For the authority of the

teaching church, always youthful and full of life, as S. Irenæus says,

the Jansenists substituted S. Augustine, who was no longer at hand to

protest against the abuse that had been made of his words--words often

rugged and obscure. So much for the general ground; let us now enter

into detail.

Following Baius, Jansenius sets out with this fundamental axiom, which

is, as it were, the culminating point whence one takes in his whole

system: The complete man is not a compound of body and soul only (as

the Catholic doctrine declares, in consonance with sound philosophy);

but a third principle, the Holy Ghost, the sole source of all wisdom,

of all charity, is necessary, in order to complete the rational

being, and to render him worthy of his Creator and of his natural

destiny.[207] Without this grace--for so Jansenius considered it--body

and soul constitute only a sensual and animal being, defenceless

against all evil desires, and incapable of rising to the knowledge and

love of good. The immediate consequence of these principles is that God

could not create man without bestowing upon him the Holy Ghost and all

the other gifts which faith manifests to us in our first parents.[208]

These were, no doubt, so many graces, says Jansenius; but these graces

were none the less due to human nature, which without them would have

been incomplete.[209]

"The first man was created in a state of _perfect_ innocence, and

could not come forth otherwise from the hand of God. The idea of

any other state whatever is a chimera which would degrade humanity

and openly conflict with the perfections of a sovereign Providence.

Faith teaches us that Adam was established in justice and charity.

He therefore loved his Creator, and had within himself no perverse

inclination."[210] Thus speak the sectaries of Pistoia, faithful

interpreters of Jansenist thought. The church has condemned this

conclusion; she teaches us that God could have created man as he is

born at present, without sin, to be sure, but still without that

_perfect_ innocence which consists in the supernatural and purely

gratuitous gifts of charity and integrity.[211]

However, sin entered into the world, and at one blow man lost all

the gifts of the Holy Ghost: he had fallen into that abnormal state

of incompleteness in which God could not have established him in the

beginning. "He hastened from darkness to darkness, from error to error,

from sin to sin: powerless to deliver himself from that love which

held him attached to himself."[212] But "the infected root must (by

a physical necessity, as Jansenius says)[213] produce defective and

corrupt fruit. He transmits to his children, therefore, in the order of

generation, ignorance of good and a vicious inclination to evil."[214]

This is original sin, according to the Jansenists.

The Catholic Church, in whose eyes sin is above all a moral disorder,

teaches that ignorance and concupiscence are not sins, but the

consequence of the first transgression, and the occasion to man in his

fallen state of voluntarily committing new sins.

Jansenius exaggerates from the first the extent of the wound which

ignorance caused in us. The fallen man, according to him, is no longer

possessed of organs for perceiving the truths which concern the higher

interests of the soul; God, the future life, natural right, are so

many closed books, which revelation alone can open for us.[215] This

is a sort of religious scepticism, often revived since, and always

rejected by sound theology. It is the real source also, we may be sure,

of the peculiar mysticism which has flourished among the Jansenists

from the beginning. By a natural consequence, Jansenius treats reason

and science as enemies of faith; he would have them banished afar from

theology. It is not intelligence, says he, but memory, and, above all,

the heart, which penetrates revelation.[216] Is this the same as to say

that the adversaries of the _Augustinus_ have opened the door to modern

rationalism, as Sainte-Beuve insinuates? By no means. Between the two

errors lies the truth as proclaimed by the Scriptures and the fathers,

maintained by the sovereign pontiffs, and definitely decided in the

Holy Council of the Vatican.[217]

Ignorance, the fruit of sin, is itself imputed as sin, say the

Jansenists; in other words, we are guilty before God of the faults

into which ignorance causes us to fall unwittingly and in spite of

ourselves.[218] This is also the teaching of Scipio Ricci's false

synod. Pelagius, we are told by it, "could not understand why the

ignorance of good which is born with us, which is _necessarily_

transmitted to us in the order of generation, and by which man falls

into error without wishing to, and in spite of himself--_invitus ac

nolens_--ought not to excuse sin."[219]

Pelagius, who denied the fact of the original fall, would not admit

that ignorance, the consequence of the fall, was an evil or a weakness,

especially in view of man's supernatural end; but faith, equally with

good sense, forbids our maintaining that one can be guilty without

willing to be so--_invitus ac nolens_.

The second wound of man in his fallen state is denominated

concupiscence. In the system of Jansenius "it is a movement of the soul

which leads to the enjoyment of self and of other creatures for some

other end than God. It is, therefore, an affection of the soul contrary

to order, and _bad in itself_. Hence it is that man without grace (that

is, deprived of grace), and under the slavery of sin, since cupidity

reigns in his heart, whatever effort he may make to withdraw himself

from its influence, refers everything to himself, and by the general

influence of the love which dominates him, _spoils and corrupts all

his actions_."[220] This error of Jansenius has been stigmatized as it

deserves in the bulls directed against Baius and Quesnel.[221] These

writers present the error under forms the most various; for example,

"All that man does without grace is sin. All the works of infidels are

sins. The sinner, without grace, is free only for evil."

According to Catholic doctrine, man by his fall has become the slave of

sin, and has from himself only sin and falsehood, in the sense that of

himself he is for ever incapable of justifying himself from the stain

of original sin and from the sins he has voluntarily committed; he

can do nothing, absolutely nothing, towards his supernatural destiny;

his weakness is so great that, without assistance from on high, he

cannot but fall frequently and grievously, especially when assailed

by powerful temptations. In these truths there are motives enough for

humbling our pride, without needing to go so far as the Jansenists,

and say that the necessity of our sinning is an absolute and continual

necessity. This theory would be less repulsive if, with the fathers,

the abundance of grace were also proclaimed. Christ's redemption, the

latter tell us, embraces all time; but his grace is more palpable to us

in these days, and more generally diffused. Divine assistance is always

at hand, say they unanimously, at the moment it is wanted; so that

man can at least call upon God for help, and thus obtain the strength

of which he stands in need. Jansenius, on the contrary, pitilessly

restrains the measure of liberating grace. Let us hear what the Synod

of Pistoia has to say on this subject:

"The Lord willed that, before this plenitude of time [the time of our

Saviour's appearance upon earth], mankind should pass through different

states. It was his will that man, _abandoned to his own lights_,

should learn to distrust his _blind reason_, and that his wanderings

should thus lead him to desire the assistance of a superior light.

This was the _state of nature_ in which man knew not sin, and suffered

himself to be drawn by concupiscence without being aware of it."[222]

Thus, then, there was a long series of centuries in which mankind in

general were abandoned to ignorance and cupidity, and when, without

knowing it, without wishing it, they fell from sin to sin. Is this not

frightful? But what follows is still more cruel: "God then gave him a

law which brought him to a knowledge of sin. But man, being POWERLESS

to observe it, became a prevaricator under the law. Sin became even

more widespread, either because the law forbidding it heightened the

desire for it, or because prevarication--that is, contempt of the

law--was added to its violation.... The law, therefore, was given by

God, ... not to heal the wounds of mankind, but to acquaint him with

the malady and with the necessity of a remedy."[223] Thus viewed, the

law of Sinai is an injustice and a subject of derision.

Finally, "The Son of God descended from the bosom of his Father and

brought salvation."[224] Now, at least, grace, like a current of life,

will pass into the veins of languishing humanity! Alas! no; the further

we advance the more disheartening becomes the doctrine of Jansenius.

He acknowledges at the outset that progress in the individual follows

the same course as in the species. I will explain his thought: many

men, even under the Christian law, have not the gift of faith--they

are in the _state of nature_; others are enlightened by the rays of

divine revelation or by the interior light of grace--they are in a

state analogous to that of men under the law. "While earthly love

reigns in the heart, the light of grace, if it be alone, produces the

same effect as the law.... It is necessary, therefore, that the Lord

should create in the heart a holy love, that he should inspire it with

a holy delectation, contrary to the love which reigns there. _This

holy love, this holy delectation, is, properly speaking, the grace

of Jesus Christ_; it is the grace of the New Testament.... Dominant

love is a holy passion which operates in man, in regard to God, the

same effects which dominant cupidity operates therein in regard to

the things of earth."[225] Millions of men are thus excluded from all

participation in redeeming grace. Jansenius says distinctly that the

graces indispensable to salvation are not accorded at all times except

to the small number of the elect; all others receive nothing, or only

temporary and insufficient helps, which serve but to render them more

guilty. In this sense, the Jansenists refuse to admit that Christ

died for the eternal salvation of all men; the predestined alone were

comprehended in the great contract by which Jesus, in dying, offered

his life, and the Eternal Father accepted his stainless oblation as the

price of justifying grace. It is in this sense, also, that the fifth

proposition of Jansenius has been condemned as heretical: "It is a

semi-Pelagian error to say that Christ died or shed his blood for all

men in general."[226]

Hence arose that horrible Jansenist doctrine of predestination,

borrowed from Calvin, in which God is made to appear pitiless even in

his mercies, the reprobate as a victim less guilty than unfortunate,

and the elect one as a spoiled child who ought to blush at his immortal

crown.[227]

I shall return to this latter point hereafter. Meanwhile, let us point

out another consequence of the doctrine here laid down. If it be true

that man is often abandoned by grace, and if, in consequence of his

impotence, he necessarily violates the divine commands, must we, then,

believe that God orders what is impossible? No doubt of it, reply the

Jansenists; Pelagius first dared to deny this consequence--that the

just themselves do often lack necessary grace.[228] This monstrous

error is expressed in the first proposition of Jansenius, as follows:

"Some of God's commandments are impossible to the just in the state

of their present strength, whatever will they may have, and whatever

efforts they may make; and the grace through which these commandments

would become possible to them is wanting."[229] Catholics, with the

Council of Trent (session vi. chap. xi.), say quite the contrary.

It is a doctrine universally held in the church, and borne out by

the unanimous consent of the fathers, that no one is deprived of the

graces indispensable to salvation, except through his personal fault.

Theologians also, for the most part, teach, with reason, that God

confers the grace of conversion on sinners the most obstinate and

hardened.

How is it that Jansenius was unable to perceive one of the clearest

points of Christian revelation--the infinite mercy of God towards the

sinner? It was the inevitable consequence of his doctrine concerning

liberty.[230] In his eyes, the equilibrium of the human will has been

irreparably lost; man naturally follows the attraction which dominates

him.

Without grace, our poor will tends irresistibly to the depths of

sin; an evil cupidity dominates it. But let the delectation of divine

love take possession of this entirely passive and powerless heart,

and it will be drawn to good by an equal necessity. Now, we see but

too well that this holy passion which operates in man, in regard to

God, the same effects which the dominant cupidity operates in regard

to the things of earth, is the privilege of but a small number. One

only explanation is possible--all the rest are without grace. Be it

observed that, according to the Jansenists, every grace is charity,

irresistible, victorious delectation. The _Augustinus_, it is true,

speaks of certain _little_ graces which do not at once carry the soul

to the heights of perfection. Such as they are, they are none the

less efficacious; if their power is not greater, it is because God

has not given them more force than they in effect possess. The grace

called by the theologians _sufficient_ is held in aversion by the

Jansenists; it is a grace which has for them the demerit of not being

efficacious.[231] The three following propositions from Jansenius on

liberty and grace have been pronounced heretical:

"In order to merit or demerit in the state of fallen nature, it is

not necessary that man should have a liberty opposed to necessity

(as to willing); it suffices that he should have a liberty opposed

to constraint."[232] "In the state of fallen nature, we never resist

interior grace."[233] "The semi-Pelagians admitted the necessity of an

interior and preventing grace for all actions, even for the beginning

of faith; they were heretics in so far as they assumed that grace to be

such that the human will could resist it or obey it."[234]

Quesnel renewed every one of these errors,[235] and the Synod of

Pistoia gives Quesnel's book an unreserved approbation.[236] Ricci

and his adherents tell us, with Jansenius, that the equilibrium of

the human will is lost, and that "this idea of equilibrium is a rock

against which the enemies of grace" (that is, Catholic theologians)

"have dashed themselves." They themselves ignore every grace from

Jesus Christ, except that which _creates_ in us a holy love, a holy

delectation.[237]

The efficacy of grace, say they, "does not depend on our will, but

produces it by changing us from not willing to willing, _through its

all-powerful force_.... Far from waiting our consent, grace creates

it in us."[238] In the synod's whole body of doctrine, by means of

which it aims to bring back the faith to its primitive purity, we find

not a word in contradiction of the heretical system of Jansenius; it

everywhere follows, on the contrary, the spirit of that system, but

carefully avoids reproducing literally any one of the famous five

propositions. But we do find in the acts of the synod that celebrated

conclusion which concentrates in itself the poison of the Jansenist

heresy in its full force: "There are in man two loves, which are, as

it were, the two roots of _all_ our actions--cupidity and charity;

the first is the bad tree, which can produce only bad fruit, and the

second the good tree, which alone produces good works. Where cupidity

dominates, charity reigns not; and where charity dominates, cupidity

reigns not."[239] As if there were not, remarks Pius VI., lying between

culpable love and divine charity, which conducts us to the kingdom of

heaven, a legitimate human love![240]

When our common humanity is thus debased and disparaged, a distance

is necessarily placed between it and its sole mediator, Jesus Christ,

himself man also, but evidently incapable of taking upon himself a

nature as incomplete as ours. Hence, the disciples of Jansenius have

generally manifested an antipathy to devotions which bring us into

intimate relations with the sacred humanity of our Saviour. The tender

and Christian devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus is especially

intolerable to them.[241] As to the Blessed Virgin Mary, her title of

Mother of God, so solemnly defined in the Council of Ephesus against

Nestorius, hardly finds favor among them. To the Jansenists, Mary is

certainly not the Immaculate One who crushes the head of the infernal

serpent. They represent her the most frequently as the Virgin depicted

by Michael Angelo, trembling and almost hiding before the glance of

Christ the judge, on the last day.[242] _Her greatness is terrible_,

said the Abbé de Saint-Cyran to Mère Angélique. Could it be otherwise?

Could Jansenist fatalism give more room for confidence than for

intercession?

May I be permitted to add a last word to this already long analysis?

It is said that Jansenism has had the merit of recalling Catholics

to a respect for the sacraments.[243] Is this said seriously? Luther

had made all spiritual life centre in faith; the sacraments were thus

nothing but ceremonies proper to excite this principal sentiment. In

place of faith, Baius and Jansenius have substituted charity. Redeeming

grace, the divine adoption, justice, holiness, all these they identify

with love, as Luther identified them with faith. Now, I ask, what is

it that renders the sacraments so worthy of veneration? Christian

tradition replies with one accord: it is their efficacy; the sacraments

are truly the causes and the instruments of grace and charity; they

are, as it were, vases filled with redeeming blood. But the Jansenists

do not so regard them. According to them, the sacraments do not confer

sanctity; they suppose it.[244] Before baptism, and before penance,

the adult must have _dominant_ charity in his heart; without this,

his repentance, and even his prayers, would be but movements of the

dominant cupidity, and, consequently, new sins. It may be thought

that I exaggerate; I subjoin, therefore, passages from the Synod of

Pistoia, in which Quesnel and Jansenius speak again: "When we have

unequivocal signs that the love of God reigns in a man's heart, we

may with reason judge him worthy of participation with Jesus Christ

in the reception of the sacraments. This is the rule which should

be observed in the tribunal of penance (in the question of granting

absolution). Works alone afford a morally certain proof of conversion.

When the love of God takes possession of the soul, it becomes active

and efficacious."[245] Again: "The first disposition for praying as

we ought is a perfect detachment from all created things and a kind

of disgust for all earthly consolations."[246] Until the sinner has

received this grace of the Holy Ghost, he is unworthy of absolution

quite as much as of communion. The words of Saint-Cyran to poor Sister

Mary Clare are well known: "It is necessary to come, living, to

penance. This is why I have kept you waiting so long. I have left you

to live; for five months you have been living a spiritual life." So far

no sacraments. The practice was still worse than the theory, as we well

know. And this is the way in which Jansenism would recall Catholics to

a respect for the sacraments! It has, at one blow, narrowed Christ's

functions and those of the church.[247]

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

FOOTNOTES:

[203] De Potter, in his _Life of Scipio Ricci_, points out the identity

of the Netherland schismatics with the Jansenists of Pistoia. The

Marquis of Ricci's whole collection of documents was open to him; but

he has not published those which we give further on.

[204] _Synode de Pistoie_, translated by Du Pac de Bellegarde, and

approved by the Schismatics of Utrecht, p. 239 _et seq._ Pistoia, 1788.

[205] See, especially, chapters xii., xiii., xvii., xxi., xxii., xxiii.

[206] Edition Gerberon, pp. 489, 240, etc. In his first reply to Philip

Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde Baius thus expresses himself: "But because

Holy Scripture, which can neither deceive nor be mistaken, contains

within itself truth itself; and the church is not enlightened _except_

by the truth written in the sacred books, and, _left to herself_, could

easily fall back into her darkness; _therefore_, it is more suitable to

say that Holy Scripture gives authority and dignity to the church of

Christ, than the reverse." We know that the project of Jansenius was

first to publish only the _Vindiciæ Michælis Baii_. The _Augustinus_

took its source from this.

[207] Baius, _De Prima Hominis Justitia_, b. i. Jansenius, _De Gratia

Primi Hominis_, c. 1; _De Statu Primæ Naturæ_, b. i. c. iii. _et seq._;

b. ii. c. i. _et seq._

[208] _Loc. cit._, Quesnel _in II. Cor. 5_, etc.

[209] Jansenius, _De Statu Puræ Naturæ_, b. i. c. xx.

[210] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 242.

[211] _Bull of S. Pius V. against Baius_, prop. 21, 55, 78, 34, 26.

_Bull of Clement XI. against Quesnel_, prop. 35. _Bull Auctorem Fidei

against the False Synod of Pistoia_, Nos. 16, 17.

[212] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 243.

[213] _De Statu Pur. Nat._, b. i. Calvin, _Institut._, b. ii. c. i;

Luther _in Psalm LI_.

[214] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 244.

[215] _De Ratione et Auctoritate_, c. iv., vii., _et seq._ Baius, _De

Prima Hom. Just._, b. i. c. viii.; _De Charitate_, c. v.

[216] _Ibid._ For consistent Jansenists, science in the natural order,

especially in what appertains to man, is impossible. When one has only

an incomplete being to study, all of whose harmonies are in disorder,

how can we have any certitude as to the nature of that being?

[217] Session III. _De Fide._

[218] Jansenius, _De Statu Naturæ Lapsæ_, b. ii. c. ii.-vii. Quesnel,

_in Rom._ i. 19 and _II. Thessal._, iii. 18. _Prop. Condemned_, 40 _et

seq._ _Prop. Condemned by Alexander VIII., 7th December, 1690._

[219] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 246.

[220] _Ibid._ p. 247.

[221] Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. ii. c. vii. _et seq._; b.

iii. c. ix. _et seq._; b. iv. c. xviii. Quesnel, _in Luc._, xvi. 3; _in

Joann._, viii. 34, 36; _Prop. Condemned_, 38, 39, 41, 45, 46, 48, etc.

Baius, _De Virtut. Impiorum_, c. vi. _Prop. Condemned_, 16, 25, 27, 30,

35, 36, 37, 40, 61 _et seq._

[222] _Synode de Pistoia_, p. 249 _et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 18, 19, 21.

Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvatoris_, b. i. Quesnel, _in Hebr._,

viii. 7; _Galat._, v. 18; _Marc_, xii. 19, etc. _Prop. Cond._, 6, 7,

64, 65.

[223] _Synode de Pistoie_, _loc. cit._

[224] _Ibid._

[225] _Ibid._, p. 251, 259. _Prop. Cond._, 21, 25. Baius, _De

Charitate_, c. v. _Prop. Cond._, 16, 38, etc. Jansenius, _De Gratia

Christi Salvat._, b. v. Quesnel, _passim. Prop. Cond._, 40, 44, 45-67.

_Protestation du P. Quesnel_ (1715, without any other date), p. 190,

_et seq._

[226] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. iii. c. xx., xxi.

Quesnel, _Prop. Cond._, 32, 29. _Causa Quesnelliana_, p. 188 _et seq._

[227] Calvin, _De. Prædestinat._, b. iii. v.; _Instit._, b. ii. c. v.

Jansenius, _ibid._, b. ix.

[228] Jansenius, _ibid._, b. iii. c. vii. _et seq._; _De Hæresi

Pelag._, b. iv. c. xvi. _Baius, Prop. Cond._, 54.

[229] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. iii. c. xiii.

[230] Baius, _De Libero Hominis Arbitrio_, c. ii. iv. _et seq._ _Prop.

Cond._, 39. Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. iv. c. xxi. _et seq._

_De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. vi. c. v. _et seq._, xxiv. to the end.

Quesnel _in Luc_, viii. 24, etc. _Prop. Cond._, 10, 22-25, 38, etc.

[231] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. and vi. Quesnel,

_in Matth._, viii. 3, etc.; _Prop. Cond._, 9, 10, 11, 19, 20, etc.

_Protestation du P. Quesnel_, p. 102 _et seq._

[232] Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. iv. c. xxi. _et seq._, cited

above.

[233] Third proposition. See _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. and vi.

[234] Fourth proposition. See _De Hæresi Pelag._, b. vii., last chap.;

b. viii. c. vi., viii. _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. c. xv.

[235] See preceding notes and _Causa Quesnelliana_, p. 163-193.

[236] Edit cit., pp. 196 and 547; Appendix (v. ii.), p. 340 _et seq._

[237] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 242.

[238] _Ibid._, p. 252.

[239] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 252. _Prop. Cond._, 23, 24, 25. Baius,

_De Charitate_, c. vi. _Prop. Cond._, 38, etc. Jansenius, _De Gratia

Christi Salvat._, b. v. c. iii. _Protestation du P. Quesnel_, p. 190

_et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 44, etc.

[240] Bull _Auctorem Fidei_, No. 24.

[241] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 521, 528. _Prop. Cond._, 61 _et seq._

[242] Rivière, _Le Nestorianisme Renaissant_, 2d part (1693). Van der

Schuur (Utrecht, 1699), _De Kleyne Getyden_. _Synode de Pistoie_,

p. 259 _et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 69.; _Ibid._, appendix, p. 121 _et

seq._ Baius, _Prop. Cond._, 73. We know that the Jansenist bishops of

Holland loudly protested against the proclamation of the dogma of the

Immaculate Conception. See _Port Royal_, vol. i. p. 233.

[243] _Port Royal_, vol. i. p. 446; vol. ii. p. 189 _et seq._, 154, etc.

[244] Baius, _De Sacramentis in Genere_, c. iii. v. _Prop. Cond._,

33, 43, 70, 10, 12, 31 _et seq._, 57, etc. Saint-Cyran in _Aurelius_

follows the principles of Baius on this point.

[245] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 257 _et seq._, 376-397. _Prop. Cond._,

25, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, etc.

[246] _Ibid._, p. 516. See Quesnel, _Prop. Cond._, 59 _et seq._

[247] On this point, to which I can only refer _en passant_, see

Linsenmann, _Michael Baius und die Grundlegung des Jansenismus_, c. v.

(Tubingen, 1867).

AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.[248]

The third Crusade had commenced. The cry, "God wills it," had gone

forth from many a manly breast, and already Frederic of Germany, Henry

II. of England, and Philip Augustus of France had received the cross

from William, Archbishop of Tyre. But a more powerful monarch than

Saladin, against whom their combined strength was to be directed,

struck Frederic before he reached Palestine, and called Henry II., whom

domestic difficulties had detained in England. Death gives not back

that which he takes, and, for the want of a leader, the German army was

broken up.

Richard, the brave Cœur de Lion, took his royal father's place, both

on the throne and in the Crusade, and, with Philip of France, started

on his glorious mission. Among those brave men who gathered around

England's standard, joying to be led by so bold a king, who, with

his lion's heart, dared every danger of sea, land, or fierce and

cruel Moslem, was one of the oldest and proudest of Norman blood.

His forefather, who had fought by the side of William the Conqueror,

had distinguished himself by many a daring deed, and had won from

his royal master, in recognition of his bravery, an earlship over a

fair and smiling province of "merrie England"; then, renouncing his

Norman title in behalf of a younger son, and marrying his eldest to

the daughter of a Saxon knight, he established his right to the soil

of his adopted country. Much of his fearless nature seemed to have

come down with the blood of Robert de Bracy, who, at the ripe age of

fifty-five, had found himself unable to resist his monarch's call, and

to whom Cœur de Lion himself owed much of wise counsel. Robert de Bracy

was a man of stern aspect, but withal so compassionate and forbearing,

that he won the love of every one who came in contact with him. His

bravery had already been proved when, as a young man, he fought beside

Henry II, during the war against France; and, later, in that most

dreadful invasion of Ireland--dreadful, because of the blow it gave to

Irish independence, and for the gradual sinking of her people, from

that time, from the eminence in erudition and lore for which they were

renowned among the nations, and which, be it to their credit said, they

are using every effort to regain. A man perfectly incapable of the

least dishonorable action, he was revered as a knight "without stain

or reproach." A fervent Catholic, his religion was his pride, and he

never was ashamed of kneeling in church beside the poorest beggar, nor

felt insulted because poverty's rags touched his velvet robes. But the

good earl's heart received a terrible blow when he heard of the murder

of Thomas à Becket. His faith in his king was shaken, and nothing but

the stern duty of allegiance could have induced Robert de Bracy to

remain in England. So when the Crusade was preached, he gladly seized

the opportunity to show his love for the crucified King--for him whose

throne was a cross, and whose crown was of thorns--and enrolled himself

among the Crusaders. He was joined by his only son and Sir John de

Vere, who, like himself, was of Norman blood--a brave, honest man, of

strict integrity, whose character will be better seen in the unfolding

of the story. The earl was deeply attached to the young knight, and

the highest proof he could give of his love was in his willing consent

that, on their return from Palestine, Sir John should wed his daughter,

Agnes de Bracy, whose heart was no less pure than her face was lovely.

"An' we'll make an earl of thee, my lad!" cried the impetuous King

Richard when the betrothal was announced to him.

The court of the earl's castle was crowded with armed retainers,

knights, and esquires, who formed the retinue of De Bracy and De

Vere. Even on and beyond the lowered drawbridge might be seen bands

of neighing steeds, their impatience checked ever and anon by their

riders, who awaited the earl to head and lead them to the rendezvous

of the Crusaders. Court and castle alike resounded with the clank of

steel and tread of armed men, while buxom waiting-maids and merry lads

hastened to and fro in the bustle attendant on such a departure. Here

and there stood a page giving the finishing polish to his master's

sword, and, again, others assisted in the girding on of the armor.

Every now and then might be heard the wailing of some fond wife or

mother, contrasting somewhat strangely with the jests of those who had

no tie to make the parting a sacrifice in the good cause. Apart from

all this, in one of the inner rooms of the castle, were gathered the

earl and his family. Lady de Bracy's loving eyes wandered sadly from

her honored husband to the manly features of her son, kneeling by her

side, and back again to the earl, who was soothing the grief of his

youngest child, Mary, just old enough to know that her father was going

over land and sea, and that she might never see him again. In the deep

embrasure of one of the windows, partly concealed by heavy curtains,

stood Sir John and his betrothed. Agnes had been weeping, but being

calmed by Sir John, whose grief partook more of the nature of joy than

fear, since on his return he was to claim her as his bride, she rested

her head quietly against his breast, both her hands clasped around his

neck, while her uplifted eyes sought to read every expression of his

noble face.

"Beloved," he said in a low tone, "it will not be for long, please God,

though I would that thou wert my wife e'en ere I go. And," he added,

continuing his whispered tones, "I were no Christian knight to doubt

thy faithfulness. I'll prove thee mine on our return from the holy

wars."

Agnes looked steadily at the face so lovingly bent over her, and,

unclasping her hands, she drew from her girdle a scarf, such as was

worn in those days, and bound it on Sir John's sword-belt. Then,

returning her head to its resting-place, and feeling his arm drawing

her tightly to him, as though by the very motion to thank her, she said:

"An' there is thy love's guerdon; thou shalt wear it in battle, and,

when thine eyes fall on it, remember that _one_ is praying for thee in

bonnie England."

Any further discourse was prevented by the earl, who cried:

"Sir John, we have no time to lose; the men are ready, the steeds drawn

up, and our presence alone is needed for immediate departure. Come,

Agnes, my daughter." And as he placed one arm around her, with the

other he drew his wife gently to him. Raising his eyes to heaven, he

exclaimed: "O God! protect these dear ones while I am fighting the good

fight in thy name and for thee. And this child," he added, as, tenderly

kissing his wife and Agnes, he loosened his hold and took Mary in his

arms--"this child, Mother of God, belongs to thee; keep her pure,

that thy name, borne by her, may be ever spotless!" Then, calling the

knights, he hastily quitted the apartment, not daring to look back.

The son tore himself from his mother's farewell embrace, and quickly

followed; but Sir John still lingered. At last, summoning his courage,

he strained Agnes to his breast:

"Farewell, my beloved! God have thee, my own, in his keeping for so

long as it seems best to him that we be parted."

As the drawbridge was raised behind the retreating soldiers, Agnes

stood at the loophole of the main turret, where, with her mother, she

watched till the men, horses, and banners disappeared, shut from sight

by the declivity of a distant hill, when she sank on her knees, and

prayed fervently for the loved ones who had started on their perilous

journey.

We have said that Agnes de Bracy was lovely; that word can hardly

convey the true nature of her charms. Personal beauty she had, and

much: dark eyes, a clear complexion, a perfect mouth, disclosing

perfect teeth, and breaking into a smile of winning beauty, together

with a graceful form; a character of womanly sweetness, and great

strength of will. But as Spenser hath it:

"Of the soule the bodie forme doth take;

For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make."

It was the soul in Agnes de Bracy, rich in God's sweet grace, which

gave her that wonderful expression; the pure heart, "without guile,"

which caused her eyes to gleam with a look that made Sir John once

exclaim, "Methinks, Agnes, thine eyes would soften the stony heart of

the Mussulman himself, and e'en make a Christian of him."

Nor was Sir John deficient in those qualities which would be apt to

win the admiration and love of such as she. Like the earl, he was a

most devout Catholic. With a full, heartfelt appreciation of his holy

faith, he could not--as many, alas! do--put it on and off with holiday

attire, but every word and action proved how thoroughly it was a part

of himself, and how, without it, in spite of great natural talents, he

would be--nothing.

To follow the Crusaders on their journey, every step of which was

fraught with danger; to watch the course of events as they shaped

themselves during the march of the two armies, is not the province of

this story. About three years later, the earl, with wounds scarcely

healed and a heavy heart, stood before the drawbridge of his castle,

which was being rapidly lowered at the unexpected blast of his bugle.

The clanking of the heavy armor was a joyful, long-looked-for sound to

the inmates of the castle, who had assembled in the court to welcome

back the earl and his followers. Weary and dust-laden, they passed

under the portal of the gateway, a sad remnant of their former numbers,

greeting those who stood expectant with joy or fear. Suddenly a loud

wailing arose, as many a mother looked in vain for the well-remembered

form of her brave lad, who died fighting the Saracen; and the sounds

of glad rejoicing were hushed in the presence of the angel of sorrow.

The earl and his son made their way rapidly to the same room that had

witnessed their farewell, and there their loved ones awaited them. A

thrill of terror passed through Agnes' frame as she missed the features

of Sir John; and, seeing a strange look in her father's eyes, which

were fixed so tenderly but sorrowfully on her, she clasped her hands

tightly, and cried out: "My God! my God! thy will, not mine, be done;

but, oh! if _he_ is dead!"

"Agnes, my child, my precious child!"--and Robert de Bracy drew his

daughter to him--"God knows my heart is heavy enough with the story I

have to tell thee, yet it is not what thou dost expect. Sir John is

living, strong and well, but"--and his lips quivered with emotion--"but

he is Saladin's prisoner; and I fear me greatly that neither gold nor

silver will ransom him."

"Saladin's prisoner, my father? Saladin's prisoner? And will nothing

ransom him?" And bowing her face in her hands, she wept bitterly.

But her violent grief was not of long duration; her nature was too

thoroughly schooled. She checked its first outburst; and, trusting

to Him who had always given her help in her troubles, she breathed a

short, fervent prayer. Then, raising her head, she turned to the earl,

and in her sweetest voice:

"Forgive me, my father," she said, "for that I have not been thy

daughter, and, in my selfish sorrow for what God has ordained, I have

forgotten to bid thee welcome home."

"Agnes! Agnes!" And the old earl nearly broke down under the weight of

his sorrow--sorrow all the keener for the suffering of his daughter.

"Agnes, we will not give up all hope. I would have begged of Saladin

on my knees for _his_ ransom, but it could not have been; I was ordered

away, and no respite granted."

"Give up all hope? No, indeed, my father. Far from me be such a

thought! God will help us, and my beloved shall be ransomed if it is

his will; for he gave him to me, and he can take him away."

* * * * *

Lo! Damascus is rising before us; not the Damascus of to-day, but

the quaint, beautiful Oriental city of the XIIth century. The golden

crescents of her domed mosques flash in the light of the Eastern sun.

Her thoroughfares are crowded with men in their Turkish garb, and women

veiled after the manner of their nation. Her shops are resplendent

with jewels, pearls, and jacinths; fragrant with the perfumes of musk,

ambergris, and aloes-wood; glittering with rustling silks and heavy

brocades, interwoven with gold, and scarlet, and silver. Houses,

beautiful in their quaint architecture, meet the eye at every corner,

together with palaces, the residences of emir and vizier. But with

naught of these have we to do. Our story takes us into the heart of

the city to the palace of Saladin, Sultan of the Turks. As we enter,

we behold banners unfurled. Shields, helmets, every species of armor

decorate the main hall, along whose sides are ivory benches, where the

eunuchs wait their master's orders. A great dome is overhead, and the

sun, pouring down through its latticed windows, floods the hall with

light, and causes the steel of the armor and the jewels of the hall

to sparkle and flash with brilliancy. At the further end is a heavy

curtain of brocade, richly wrought with various kinds of embroidery in

white, red, and gold. Two tall armed men guard the corners. We will

imagine the curtain lifted for us, and enter. There sits Saladin on

his throne. His followers are around him. Rich are the robes which

fall from his shoulders, well befitting the Sultan of the East. If the

hall was gorgeous in its beauty, the room of the throne is no less

so. The hangings on the walls are figured with various wild beasts

and birds, worked with silk and gold. The sandal-wood work gives out

its own peculiar perfume. In fact, all betokens a royal presence. And

of what sort is Saladin? Great talents in him combine for mastery;

great activity and valor. The severity and rigor, so inflexible as to

make the bravest heart quail with fear before him, was often replaced

by such kindness, such generosity, that the poor, the widowed, and

orphaned did not hesitate to appeal to his mercy. And as he sits before

us, we must draw back and continue our story.

An eunuch has presented the bowl and vase, and, having performed the

ablution, Saladin turned slowly round, gazing steadily at the stern

faces before him. "By Allah!" he exclaimed, as his eyes rested on the

one nearest him--"by Allah! I trow, Moslem chiefs, you are brave, yea,

very brave and very skilful. You have beaten back the Christians. You

have proved yourselves true sons of Mahomet; but, for all that, I know

a braver man than you. Eunuch! bid the Christian slave come forth."

At his sultan's orders, the eunuch made a low bow, and retired behind

one of the hangings. In a few moments he returned, followed by a guard

of men, and Sir John de Vere in their centre. As they approached with

him, Saladin waved them back, and bade the Christian only to remain

before the throne. Then suddenly he made a sign--a sign dreaded alike

by vizier and eunuch. It was obeyed, and a soldier, stepping forward,

waved a sharp and gleaming scimitar over the head of the captive;

but he did not flinch, nor move a muscle of his face, but continued

gazing with stern, unshrinking eye straight forward. The sultan, as if

satisfied with the courage the prisoner evinced, motioned the soldier

back. Then he said:

"John de Vere, thy father's land, thine ancient home, thou shalt see no

more; but I have great need of men like thee. I command thee, forsake

thy Christian faith; and, if thou wilt adore Mahomet and God, there is

no favor thou shalt ask, by my royal word, that shall not be granted

thee. I will set thee above all men. I alone will be above thee. I will

make thee my son. I will give thee palaces, gold, and precious gems;

and from all the queenly maidens thou shalt choose one and wed her as

thy bride. Thou canst not refuse that which my caliphs strive for years

to obtain, and which to thee is given in one day. I bid thee reply."

As Saladin finished, he sank back on his throne, and a quiet smile

played around his lips as he awaited his captive's answer. Sir John

listened to him calmly and patiently. Then having bowed low, he

raised his head erect, and made the Christian's mark--the sign of the

cross--upon himself.

"Saladin," he said, "Sultan of the Mussulmans, since thou dost bid me

reply, I will first return thanks for all the favors I have received at

thy hands. From the first day of my captivity till now thou hast loaded

me with kindnesses; for these I am grateful, though gratitude may not

seem to be in the answer I make thee. Know, then, I, a Christian,

cannot renounce my faith. I am a sworn soldier of my God--of him

who died for me. Dost thou think that I, who bear the cross upon my

shoulder, could on that cross bring scorn? Thou dost promise me a

Moslem wife. In that far-off land--which God grant I may see before I

die!--I have a love, whom as my very life I love. To her sweet heart

I will not be false. Saladin, I cannot bear a Moslem name nor wed a

Moslem maiden."

"Ah!" cried the sultan, "thou dost not know woman's heart. Perchance

she whom thou lovest so fondly is the bride of another; nor doubt me,

that heart, fickle and false as any woman's, which swore such fealty to

thee, belongs now perhaps to thy rival. Never yet was woman known to be

constant. Ah! John de Vere, thou hadst better remain with me."

As he ceased, the curtain was raised, and two by two came those holy

men vowed to ransom Christian captives from the hands of the Turks.

They approached Saladin's throne, and, opening their bags, they poured

out with lavish hand an untold treasure at his feet.

Then the chief monk said:

"The bride of Sir John de Vere, O Sultan Saladin! sends all she hath,

gold and gems, and bids thee take them, but to restore to her her

betrothed."

"The other captive knights may go with thee," replied the sultan; "but

as for all these gems and gold, his lady-love would give them for a

dress. Sir John de Vere may not go with thee. No wealth can ransom him,

for I love him with a more than brother's love, and hope to win his in

return. Why, I would give a hundred slaves, if he would renounce his

Christian faith. So thus to thy lady this answer; for I will prove how

Christian maidens love. Tell her that, before I yield my thrall, she

must cut off her own right arm and hand, and send it hither to ransom

John de Vere!"

"Saladin," said the captive, "thy permission for one word to say to

these monks before they go. I bid you, brothers," he added, turning to

them, "to speak of me as dead. For, O sweet-heart! my betrothed bride,

well do I know that not only arm and hand, but even life itself, thou

wouldst willingly give for me; and I cannot prove thy death, that I may

live. Do not tell her the sultan's cruel words. O brothers! I beg you

do not!"

As sole reply, they gathered up the useless treasure, and, returning to

their ships, they sailed for England. With mournful hearts they landed

on the shore, and travelled day and night till they reached De Bracy's

castle. There they laid down their full bags, and told Agnes that for

neither gold nor silver could Sir John be ransomed; but if it was still

her heart's wish that he should see his native land again, the sultan

had promised that for one gift her betrothed should go free.

"And that gift?" said Agnes.

"Is," replied the head monk slowly, "thine own right arm and hand, cut

off for his sake. This is the ransom asked. Thou canst not prevail on

Saladin to take a meaner thing."

Every face grew white at these cruel words. They shuddered as they

listened to the monk; only Agnes preserved her usual calmness. The

earl clutched his sword, and could hardly refrain from vowing death

to every man of the Moslem race. Little Mary cried out, clasping her

sister tightly, "Sure, Agnes, such a wicked man cannot be found." But

quieting the child, she looked at Lady de Bracy. The face of the mother

was marked with keen suffering. It was a dreadful moment for the brave

spirit of Agnes; she knew she must make answer, and that at once. But

how could she tell those, who suffered so much at the very thought of

the deed, of her resolution? "My God! it is hard; but as we love in

thee, thou must help me to do what is right," was the prayer which rose

from her heart, as with her lips she framed her answer.

"My dear ones, your daughter need not say how much she grieves for your

sakes that she must suffer. Cruel is the ransom asked; who could know

it better than I? But God loves us, and did he not, because of his

love, give his own beloved Son? And do we not see every day how churls

and nobles give their lives for their king? 'Greater love than this

no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' That, my

father, we know from the holy Gospels. Wouldst thou have thy daughter

shrink duty, thou, my lord and father, who hast bled by Cœur de Lion's

side?" She hesitated a moment, then, her sweet voice growing clearer

and stronger, she continued:

"I am John de Vere's betrothed, and to him I owe my fealty, even though

it should cost my life. My lord and father, what is my life? Long years

spent in pleading with God to end the banishment of my love. And at

last he has heard, at last my prayer has been granted. Only it must be

proved that my love is pure; so he sends me pain, and I will take it,

grateful to endure; for is not the reward great?"

* * * * *

Once again the holy friars found themselves in the beautiful city of

Damascus. Eagerly they threaded their way through its broad but devious

thoroughfares till they reached the palace of the sultan. Within, in

the room of the throne, sat Saladin in royal state. By his side stood

Sir John de Vere. He still retained the badge of slavery, for he was

too true to give up his faith; but to Saladin's councils he was often

summoned. When any measure to be taken against the Christians was the

theme of debate, he remained respectfully but firmly silent. Against

his brothers he could not in conscience speak; to do so for them he

knew would prove more than useless. But yet many were the subjects on

which his knowledge and fine sense of justice could be brought to bear;

and Saladin was not the man to fail in taking advantage of his wise

judgment.

Some such serious business had called around the sultan his advisers,

and, as usual, Sir John stood foremost among them. They had all but

finished the subject under consideration, when the folds of the curtain

were lifted, and a herald entered the royal presence.

"Sultan, our lord," he said, "the monks appointed to ransom the

Christians stand without. They crave an audience again."

"Let them enter," was the command given, and swiftly obeyed. Again the

curtain was lifted upon the holy men, and again it fell, shutting them

from the outer hall, as they stood in the presence of Saladin. The

superior stepped forward:

"We thank thee, sultan, for the favor thou hast accorded us in this

audience. But we bid thee learn, O monarch! a lesson we bring thee--a

lesson of how great, in a nobler faith than thine, is love's purity and

power." A dim foreboding seized Sir John at the monk's words, and his

whole form shook with ill-suppressed emotion, as he listened to the

conclusion:

"Monarch! what are women to thee? Slaves, toys of an idle hour, the

playthings of passion. What women of thine would do for thee as Agnes

de Bracy hath done for him who stands beside thee--him whom thou

callest thy slave? Thy cruel words have been heeded. Lo! the answer."

And he laid at Saladin's feet a casket, richly wrought in gold and

silver. Sir John looked as one frenzied, then seizing the casket

pressed it to his heart:

"Why did you tell her, O cruel monks? Did I not ask you to speak of me

as dead? O fair arm! O dear, sweet hand! that thou shouldst cut it off,

my beloved, and for my poor sake!"

Saladin stretched out his hand to take the casket; but Sir John only

pressed it the tighter, and sobbed aloud. At this, the superior of the

monks, coming forward, said something in a low voice, which caused the

young knight to lift up his face and look at the brother. Then, turning

to the sultan, he placed the casket reverently before him. Saladin

took it and opened it; as he raised the lid, the perfume of aromatic

spices escaped therefrom. Lifting the linen, he looked steadily for a

moment, then large tears were seen to escape from his eyes and roll

down his cheeks. All the higher nature of the man seemed to be aroused.

Calling his nobles around him, he held the casket silently for their

inspection. Within it lay embalmed the lily-white right arm and hand of

Agnes de Bracy. There was no mistaking the delicate form of the arm,

the shape of the tapering fingers. Severed from the shoulder of that

noble girl, they lay in all their beauty, a reproach to the cruelty of

the sultan. In that throne-room not one man but was moved to tears.

Then Saladin closed the casket, but, still keeping a firm hold on it,

he cried out:

"Mahomet and God witness for me! with a deep brother's love I love

John de Vere, and I thought I might retain him by me if I asked this

ransom. But now I would give my kingdom to recall those words. Haste,

John de Vere, haste to thy noble love. O fair arm! O fair hand! True,

brave heart! Oh! that I could claim such love as thine! John de Vere,

tell that noble woman that Saladin yields his selfish love. Take to her

gold, gems; load the ship with all of wealth and beauty I have; but

they would vainly prove Saladin's grief. She who has proved thee such

a noble love will make thee a noble wife, John de Vere. But thou canst

not take with thee this precious casket. Among my treasures I shall

store it away. It will prove to future ages how Christian maidens keep

their troth, and how pure is their love."

* * * * *

More than this the legend tells us not. But it is said that in a church

in England may still be seen a statue of the knight and his noble,

one-armed lady.

FOOTNOTES:

[248] Some years ago, a poem appeared in an English weekly with the

same title, "An English Maiden's Love." The author stated that, when

a mere girl, she read the incident in a very stupid old novel founded

upon the same subject, and which she never could succeed in meeting

with again. We have not seen the novel, but have ventured to borrow

the incident, and offer it to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD in its

present form.

OUR MASTERS.

Freedom is the boast of half the civilized world, and the envy of the

other half. It is the embodiment of the desires of our age, the goal

of the individual, as well as the collective life of nations. It is

a treasure jealously guarded or a prize passionately longed for, the

pretext for riot and disorder, the burden of diplomatic messages, the

ostensible object of all civic government. England records in the

words of a national song, "Britons never will be slaves," her proud

determination to grasp it; America asserts elasticity of personal

liberty as the chief attraction of her territory; everywhere the cry

is, "We will do as we like, and accept no dictation from any man." It

is a somewhat strange commentary on this fierce vindication of one

man's rights that they invariably clash with the rights of all other

men, provided the latter happen to differ in the interpretation of

freedom. Again, it is a curious psychological phenomenon that this

much-vaunted freedom generally ends in a frantic appeal to the state

to force one particular set of principles upon a large majority to

whom these principles are repulsive. In some countries "freedom"

means expulsion from a quiet retreat deliberately chosen years ago

by men and women in full possession of their senses: witness the

depopulated monasteries and the poor religious thrust out to starve

or beg. In others it means the minute supervision of state officials

over the educational and religious interest of thousands--a sort of

domestic inquisition in perpetual session on moral subjects, which

the individual inquisitors do not pretend even to have studied. In

conjunction with this species of freedom we have the ravenous appetite

for unbelief of all shades, for laxity of morals, for the elasticity

of the marriage-tie, for a pleasant and dignified way of losing our

souls, for decorous but unrestrained indulgence of our passions--in

short, for the manifold attractions of the "broad road." This is the

serious side of the question--the one to be dwelt upon by preachers and

philosophers, and that which the heedless actors in the world's drama

are apt to pass by as a matter of course--a thing taken for granted

long ago.

But there is another aspect, more personal and more intimate, in which

this question appears to us. We boast of being free, and at every turn

the commonest circumstances of our daily life belie us. Free! why, we

are tied as fast as we can be to a perpetual pillory; like the prisoner

of Chillon, we can just walk round and round our post at the length of

our chain, and wear a groove into the hard stone of our surroundings.

Free! with a hundred masters: the gout, dyspepsia, the doctor, the

cook, society, the weather. Free! with the newspaper to dictate our

ideas and opinions, to choose, recommend, and puff our candidates, to

lay down the law in criminal cases, to patronize the jury and pass

sentence on the prisoner!

It would be hard to find a condition in life which is not eminently

a bondage, and a bondage the more galling because the bonds are so

insignificant. It is almost equally hard to know where to begin the

record of our abject submission to external trammels. You are tired,

and want to sleep an extra hour in the morning. Of course, you think

you have only to will this, and it is done. But you are not allowed

to sleep; the noise in the street increases; the bells of the cars

mingle in determined clangor with the whistle of the steamboat; an

organ-grinder takes up his position under your window, and serenades

you into madness; the "horn of the fish-man is heard on the hill"

(Murray Hill); presently the fire-alarm sounds, and the clatter of

engines follows close upon it; while all the time the flies are

industriously reconnoitring your face, walking over your eyelids,

losing themselves in your hair, and, despite your half-unconscious

protest, you must own after all that you are awake.

Then the whole tenor of your mind for the day may depend upon the

exact degree of tenderness in the customary beefsteak or on the extra

turn given to the crisp buckwheat. So the wire-pulling is done in the

kitchen, and your vaunted independence as a man and a citizen goes

down ignominiously before the fiat of the cook. This kind of thing is

interminable. You are at the mercy of your tradesmen, and, for the sake

of peace, you pay the bills and submit to be cheated with inferior

provisions while paying the price of superior ones. The newspaper is

not always ready to your hand when you feel inclined to look at the

news of the world, and straightway your mind becomes uneasy, your

temper rises, and you have again surrendered your freedom. You order

your horse, but find he is lame, and so you must forego your plans for

the day; you make up your mind to start by the early train to-morrow,

and enjoy a day in the country, and find, when you open your window

in the morning, that the rain is pouring with dismal steadiness, and

promises to do so for many hours to come. Sometimes your wife keeps

you waiting fifteen minutes for dinner, and, on sitting down, you find

the soup cold and the _entrées_ spoiled; and it is well known that not

even Job could have stood that! The wind and tide wait for no man; and

so you are hurried out of bed against your will at unseasonable hours

of the night or morning, and packed on board the steamer bound for

Europe while yet half asleep and as sulky as a bear, your free-will

practically gone as much as if you were a bale of goods being shipped

and checked for Liverpool.

Social customs are no less a hidden tyranny. If you would not appear

eccentric, you must do as others do--wear a dress-coat when you would

fain be in your shirt-sleeves, and a smile when you are dying for an

opportunity to yawn. If you are a silent man, you must nevertheless

join in the gossip of your fellow-guests, and laugh at unmeaning

jokes, for fear people should call you a misanthrope, and avoid you

as a "wet blanket" to conversation. If you have any decided opinion,

you must keep it to yourself, and avoid the vacant stare of astonished

good-breeding which is the penalty of any energetic statement. It

is vulgar to be too demonstrative or to have any settled opinions;

enthusiasm is out of fashion, and indifference has at least the

advantage of never committing you to anything. If a little deviation

in manner from the recognized standard is not reprehensible, then it

is voted amusing, and the self-asserting individual is considered a

good butt; but no one dreams of asking his advice or even crediting him

with common sense. All his real qualities are lost sight of, and he is

judged by the mere accident of "originality." No one takes the trouble

further to investigate his character; he is "odd," and people either

drop him as a bore, or run after him as a lion.

If a man has a hundred invisible masters, a woman has five hundred.

From the cook to the dressmaker, from the nurse to the baby, she is

surrounded by tyrants. She is at the mercy of the _coiffeur_, who comes

in an hour behind time, and tumbles her hair into shape in a violent

hurry, so that she is late at the ball; she lives with the sword of

Damocles above her head in the shape of the dressmaker, who _will_

send in a ball-dress so loosely sewn together that it splits in many

places before the evening is over; if she is poor, she is the slave

of desire, perpetually tantalized by the splendors she cannot reach,

eating her heart out because Mrs. Jones has got a new bonnet so far

finer than her own, or Mrs. Smith's rich uncle gave her a cashmere

shawl impossible to outrival; if she is married, the regulating of the

domestic atmosphere will cost her many an anxious thought, a curtailed

hour of leisure, an uneasiness regarding a possible storm when Harry

comes home and finds his new hat mangled by the pet puppy; if she

is single, she will be always scheming for an escort, and fretting

lest she should be overlooked, and so on through every variety of

possible female situations. To this picture there is a companion. See

the unhappy bachelor of moderate means, in a forlorn boarding-house,

pining for the simplest luxuries or the innocent liberty of stretching

at full length on a lounge without taking off his working-clothes;

sighing for a variety in the round of his monotonous meals, and

for the possibility--without hazard of starvation--of an occasional

morning snooze when the inexorable breakfast-bell calls him to the

renewed treadmill of existence. But woe to the man who rashly turns

to matrimony, and surrenders, without mature deliberation and cogent

reasons, the liberty--such as it is--which still remains to him. His

change may be from the "frying-pan into the fire," and the nightly

fate of the wretched Caudle, of curtain-lecture memory, may claim

him for life. Is the rash Benedict "free," when the irreproachable

wife begins to make her hand felt, and, together with the immaculate

table-linen, the punctual and succulent meals, the orderly household,

the never-failing newspaper always at hand at the right moment, yet

silently conveys to him the awful impression that she is heaping coals

of fire on his head? A man may be in prison, and, if he can pay for

them, may yet enjoy every luxury and attention; still, it would be

rather stretching the point to say that he was therefore free. So both

sexes know how to tighten invisible bonds around each other's claims,

and "freedom" is practically as meaningless as the apparent life of a

still green tree woven round by the graceful and fatal vine.

The majority of mankind are quite debarred from any tangible freedom

by the lack of means with which to procure it. A poor man cannot,

physically speaking, be a free agent; but, in compensation, the richer

and higher placed a man is, the more social and moral trammels will

he encounter. Excess of want and excess of possession often end by

producing the same result. The poor man cannot move from his post,

because he has not the money to do so; the rich man cannot move from

it, because he has too much money to watch over. Wealth, too, brings

its responsibilities; and a conscientious man, in whose hands lie the

life and comfort of hundreds of his fellow-creatures, cannot leave

his post because his tenants or operatives would suffer through his

absence. In fact, no one, in a certain sense, can be "free," except

an unprincipled man and an unbeliever. Selfishness is the only road

to such animal freedom as would content a sensualist. A Christian, be

he poor or rich, cannot aspire to this worldly freedom, because his

religion tells him that he is _not_ free to desert those with whom

God has linked his fortunes. Family circumstances fetter one to an

incredible degree; conscience is a perpetual trammel; and even the

exigencies of position are sometimes a legitimate restraint on our

actions. Many persons of narrow minds, not particularly influenced

by moral forces, fall a prey to Mrs. Grundy, and dare not face the

opinion and comments of their neighbors. In the most trivial things we

are slaves to the verdict of society. Who would not rather have danger

than ridicule? How many things, whether lawful or unlawful, are we not

ashamed to do, because of what "people would say," quite irrespective

of the intrinsic right or wrong, expediency or uselessness, of the

thing itself? It may well be said that it is less a sin in the eyes of

the world to break every one of the Ten Commandments than to enter a

room with your hat on, or ask a girl to marry you on nothing a year.

It would require more pluck to stand up for an unfashionable religion,

or defend an unpopular person in a cultivated assemblage arrayed on

the opposite side of the question, than it would to storm a citadel

or rescue a sinking ship. To contravene one-quarter of an article of

the impalpable code of society entails downright ostracism; and the

lynch-law administered to social delinquents effectually keeps people

in this imaginary groove, where the invisible penalties of religious

codes are unavailing to enforce good morals. How hollow the system

is which thus intrenches itself behind such paltry defences we need

not say; but how infinitely more galling and more belittling is this

servitude than the yoke of God which men fly from! Absolute hardships,

real privations, men will cheerfully undergo, provided it is with a

worldly object; nobody minds being a slave when the devil is master and

the livery is cloth-of-gold.

One of the axioms of the day is that marriage should be a profitable

speculation. To what lengths do not men and women proceed in order to

fulfil this inculcation to the letter? The writer once heard the hunt

after wealthy marriages likened to the vicissitudes of S. Paul on his

journeys. The likeness was forcible, though hardly elegant; but, at

any rate, it was earnestly and not irreverently meant. The best of it

was that it was so startlingly true, and that no part of the world, no

system of society, could escape the allusion. Perils by sea and land,

perils by robbers, perils by false brethren, watchings and hunger,

cold and nakedness--there was not one detail which did not find its

counterpart in the modern race after matrimonial advantages. People

undergo for the world more hard penances than would suffice to bridge

over purgatory, did they suffer them for God. Wolsey, in his disgrace,

cried out that if he had served his God but half so well as he had

served his king, he would not now be reaping a meed of contempt and

ingratitude. So with the world; it despises those who toil for it, and

no one is less respected by it than the very man who has sacrificed

principle to win its life-homage. As to the marriage lottery, there is

very little that is not staked for a lucky throw of the dice. Health is

ruthlessly sacrificed; delicate girls brave the night air, the draughts

in the corridor, the sudden change from a fetid heat to intense cold,

the unwholesome meal at abnormal hours, the loss of actual rest, all

for the questionable pleasure of attending a ball every night in the

week, and being seen "everywhere." Economy is disregarded, and reckless

outlay on flimsy, temporary dress indulged in without a murmur;

delicacy and modesty are tacitly put by as unfit considerations in

the present, however useful they may prove in the future; underhand

inquiries as to a young man's habits and associates, his fortune and

his prospects, are unblushingly made, quite as a matter of business;

snares and pitfalls are judiciously contrived for the coroneted or

gilded victim; pride of birth, of which, at any other time, the

practised diplomatists of the _salons_ are so tenacious, is pocketed

at the approach of some plebeian prize, and the son or daughter of a

self-made man is welcomed with admirably simulated rapture when duly

weighted with the parent's hardly-earned money. Stranger than all,

this mania of gambling in marriage--for it is nothing less--seizes

even persons whom you would naturally suppose would, by instinct or

principle, be averse to any such transactions; but though you will find

them proof against every other meanness, the very shadow of this one

will unsettle their minds. Good people seem impelled to join this race

as by an irresistible fatality, and will actually blind themselves to

the repulsiveness of such a course by glossing it over as an outgrowth

of a sacred instinct, parental love, and solicitude. Needy and idle

men, seeking a fortune by marriage with an heiress, are not a whit

better--nay, a shade more despicable--than mercenary women on the same

lookout.

But it must be confessed that there is a healthier and nobler side to

human nature which is too often obscured by the supposed requirements

of our worst tyrant--society. There are women who, being rich and

high-minded, view this pursuit of themselves with disgust; and there

are men, equally high-minded, but poor, who love these women, but, for

fear of being classed with interested suitors, and sometimes for fear

of a contemptuous refusal, never come forward and acknowledge their

love. The woman who sees this may love such a man, but maidenly dignity

forbids her making it too plain; and "society" thus manages to make

two honest hearts wretched for years, sometimes for life, and perhaps

in the end to efface in them even the belief in true and disinterested

affection. And we dare to call ourselves "free"!

Business and our material interests are so many burdens and trammels to

our liberty. Say that we are easy-going and indolent, fond of sedentary

pleasures; but a long and uncomfortable journey becomes necessary, and,

under the penalty of material losses, we are obliged to choose the

lesser of the two evils. Or reverses swoop down so suddenly upon us

that, having been used to elegant leisure and comparative security, we

are incontinently thrown on our own resources, and obliged to work, if

we would not starve. Even the choice of work is not always open to us,

or we may happen to choose some unremunerative work, which fate and our

hard-hearted neighbor will persist in making useless to us. Even with

prosperity work itself becomes a tyrant; and when the lucky worker

thinks of enjoying his earnings in peace and retirement, the restless

demon of habit steps in to make his very retirement wretched. He is

allowed no peace, but sighs for the counting-house or the workshop; and

one has heard of such haunted men going about disconsolately beneath

the weight of fortune, until solaced by a miniature feint of the old

work--a place where, far from the satin, gilding, and ormolu of the

fashionable mansion, they can plane and turn common chairs and tables,

or sit in a leathern apron, cobbling their own boots. Poor millionaire!

are you "free"?

Other men are slaves not so much to their passions as their tastes.

Such an one undergoes tortures if another's collection of china is

better than his own, or if a rival bids higher than he can afford to

do for an old Italian or Flemish picture. This man would give himself

more trouble to secure an old carved _secrétaire_ of English oak or

Indian ebony than he would to promote some work of charity; another has

a hobby about sumptuous bindings, or rare lace, or any _bric-a-brac_

of the kind; inartistic furniture is an eyesore to him, inharmonious

colors upset his equanimity, and everywhere, even in church, any defect

of form irritates and repulses him. He is hardly master of his own

thoughts, and is apt to form hidden prejudices; he lives in the clouds,

and often makes himself disagreeable to those who do not.

The tyrannous custom of making funerals and weddings an occasion of

useless pomp is perhaps one of the most reprehensible of all. The

fashion has insensibly grown till one's perverted sense of what is

"fitting" has almost acknowledged it to be a necessity. So the mourners

are disturbed, their privacy broken in upon, delicacy outraged in

every possible way, the curiosity of strangers gratified, an unseemly

hubbub substituted for the solemn stillness natural to the presence of

death--all in order that the world's fiat may be duly obeyed. People

pretend that all this fuss is to honor the memory of the dead. No such

thing; it is to feed the vanity of the living. It must not be said

that Mr. S--- did not provide as good a table, as handsome any array

of carriages, as great a profusion of flowers, as richly ornamented a

coffin, for his wife's funeral, as did Mr. R---- last year on a similar

"melancholy occasion," any more than in the lifetime of the two ladies

could it have been suffered to have gone abroad that Mrs. S----'s rooms

were not as uncomfortably crowded for a reception as Mrs. R----'s, or

her carriage not of the same irreproachable build.

The world has undertaken to decide for us, in the privacy of home as

well as beyond its walls, exactly the degree of outward respect to

be shown to the dead. Such and such a particular texture, and crape

of such and such a particular width, is the measure of the widow's,

the daughter's, or the sister's grief; less would be indecorous, more

would be eccentric! The milliner tells us in a subdued voice how much

jet is allowable, and how soon the world expects the appearance of a

white collar in place of a black one, just as the world dictates the

exact length of a court-train, and mentions the appropriate number

of feathers to be worn in the hair. In England, a widow's cap is _de

rigueur_, and not to wear it would be to brand one's self with the

mark of a flirt and a questionable character. In other countries in

Europe, it is not in use, and the character of French and Italian

widows is not dependent on an extra frill of white crape. How a poor

and proud woman, unwilling to be behind her neighbors in respect of

decorous mourning-robes, can manage the enormous expense of a thing

so perishable and so dear as crape, in such quantities as to entirely

cover a dress, is a mystery which the peremptory laws of society do not

care to enter into and do not pretend to solve.

Weddings are hardly, under the iron hand of custom, what one might

reasonably expect them to be--_i.e._, family festivities. They are not

occasions of personal rejoicing over the happiness of your nearest

and dearest--oh! no, that is humdrum and "slow"; so the wedding-day

is turned into a gorgeous manifestation of your worldly wealth--a day

of hollow ostentation and often of hidden sadness. The extravagance

of your floral decorations, and the judicious display of the bride's

presents, cost you more thought than the solemn covenant about to be

made; the adjustment of the pearl necklace, the graceful folds of the

bridal veil, the perfect fit of the white kid glove, are of far more

importance than the vow pronounced so lightly at the altar. It is the

reception, not the sacrament, that predominates in most minds. Instead

of a family gathering, reverently waiting in prayer for the happy

consummation of a very solemn and awful contract, you have a mob of

slight and careless acquaintances, down to the very scourings of your

visiting-list, assembled to stare and gape at the show, to talk slang

and make unseemly jokes, to criticise your hospitality, and make bets

as to how soon the marriage may be followed by a separation. Everybody

asks how much money has the bride, what is the standing of the

bridegroom, what are the settlements, etc. When they go away, they do

not even thank you for the lavish expense, whose fruits they, and they

alone, have enjoyed; but, instead of that, they abuse your champagne

and rebuke your extravagance. Privacy--a necessary condition of

domestic happiness--is impossible on this great day; prayer is almost

out of the question; reflection is scared away. It might be hoped that

the young couple would now be allowed to retire into private life,

after this free exhibition of themselves as the central figures of a

puppet-show. But, no; fashion pronounces otherwise. A wedding-trip,

though not deemed quite indispensable by the code of society, is still

favorably looked upon, and, if possible, is a still worse thing than

the wedding itself. Dissipation is the order of the day; the change

of toilets becomes the all-absorbing topic of the bride's thoughts

and conversation; the tour must include the showiest watering-places;

perpetual motion and a full meed of frivolity are ensured, a

kaleidoscope of discreet admirers provided, little mild triumphs of

flirtation enjoyed, with the added zest of perfect security from

embarrassing proposals, and equal immunity from the new-made husband's

wrath, since he could not thus early begin to lay down the law; and

a most miserable foundation is laid for the after-comfort of home.

Besides, what does a wedding-trip imply? That life is a drudgery, and a

respite is necessary before taking up the burden. The home is thus made

a vision of imprisonment--scarcely a wise preparation. Then the foolish

and utterly useless expenditure probably cripples the young couple, in

ordinary cases, for some time to come. The month's trip has swallowed

what would have covered half the year's expenses, and "going home,"

instead of holding out a bright prospect, is connected with dulness,

retrenchment, and monotony. This is what society and its tyranny have

succeeded in making of marriage. Are such couples "free" agents?

Who _is_ free on this earth? Who is not the slave of petty caprices,

even if he escapes the worse servitude of degrading vices? The

drunkard, the sensualist, the gambler, are victims of low passions that

destroy health and sap vitality, while they surely lead to a lonely or

a violent end; but with such aberrations we do not propose to deal. But

even those who pride themselves on their freedom from any vice or bad

habit, what are they, often, but puppets swayed by absurd influences

radiating from such sources as the loss of a night's rest, the delay of

a meal, the failure to reach a certain train?

Children and pets are well-known tyrants, not only to the mother or the

maiden aunt, but to the male creation in general and the old generation

in particular. The grandfather is ready at all times to be made a

hobby-horse, the grandmother to drudge for king baby. The children's

dinner is the event of the day; Harry's destructiveness of his first

pair and all following pairs of trousers is the burden of the household

lament; little Cissy's first tooth is a matter of deep interest; baby

Maggie is allowed to pull mother's hair down just before dinner,

unrebuked--nay, even encouraged. Pet poodles and favorite parrots,

and, indeed, all tame companions of mankind, absorb a wonderful amount

of human interest and attention, and often demand it at unseasonable

hours; compelling idleness, or at least encouraging loss of time. In

fact, our time and mind are ever occupied with supplementary things,

forced upon us by custom or caprice; and we secretly but helplessly

rebel, incapable, we think, of either resistance to our own follies,

or courage to laugh in the face of Mrs. Grundy.

It is impossible to stand absolutely free in the world, but there is

freedom and freedom. Of all freedoms, that of the free-thinker is the

narrowest. Uncertainty is a grievous spirit, doubt a bad master; and

the poor free-thinker finds that his mental companion and philosophic

guide offers him but slight comfort under misfortune. Moral restraints

are to him but chaff in the wind, religious forms mere dust shaken off

his shoes; but what remains? He deems himself king of the world of

thought, but he finds his kingdom turned into a desert; he acknowledges

no ties or duties, undertakes no responsibility, works (if he works)

for himself alone, and then finds that what he earns he cannot enjoy

unshared. Temporary human companionship on earth has no charms for him;

for he reflects that annihilation follows death, and it is therefore

useless to make bosom friends of men who will so soon be less than

nothing, and whose only memento will be in the richness of the crops

grown over their graves. The mental solitude of the free-thinker is

not an agreeable or a soothing one; much less is it fruitful in high

thoughts or heroic actions.

If any ask in an earnest spirit, where are the fewest masters, and

where freest men?--we would answer, in the cloister.

A startling answer to the worldling; a suggestive one to the thinker.

Let us examine it, and see whether it can be substantiated. Religious

are the men supposed to be the most subjected to authority in the

world--those whose duty it is to have not only no will of their

own, but even no individual thought, no opinion of any kind. Even

so, in a sense; and on that account, not despite it, _but because

of it_, are they the freest men on earth. The secular clergy are

comparatively free, because they have one object only; that is, one

Master. Priests are not burdened with family and household cares,

scarcely with social necessities; but none the less are they sometimes

vexed by circumstances which they cannot control, and are made to pay

the tithe of that slavery which any contact with the world, even for

the world's good, and by men who are not of the world, necessarily

entails. Religious even of active orders are still freer, because they

are less of the world; but the man who stands before God in silent

contemplation, as the eagle pauses before the sun and looks into its

depths, is the freest of all. A purely contemplative order, whose

mission, higher yet than that of the captains of Israel, is that of

Moses praying with uplifted arms for the triumph of the people of

God--such is the home of the highest and truest freedom.

The ascetic has found the secret that philosophers seek for in vain,

that attitude of godlike calm in the midst of all transient storms of

life. The supremest exercise of freedom is to surrender that freedom

itself, with full confidence that the person into whose hands it is

surrendered is the representative of a higher power. A king would not

be free were he prevented from abdicating his kingship; the religious

vow is the abdication of a kingdom greater than is constituted by

so many thousands of square miles. This renunciation once made, no

earthly event can be of the slightest interest to the disenthralled

man. No care for his body, no solicitude for his reputation, remains;

he has disrobed himself of his earthly belongings, and let slip every

vestige of the garments of worldliness. A spirit--practically almost

disembodied--he looks above for inspiration, comfort, guidance,

knowledge. The miseries of earth, if poured into his ear by some

despairing fellow-mortal, gain from him the divine pity of an angel

rather than the passionate sympathy of a man; he is raised above the

wants of nature, the wrangles of society, even the perplexities of the

intellect. Taught no longer by men or by books, he speaks face to face

with God in his long prayers and meditations, and no human interest

ever distracts his mind from this exalted colloquy. Insensible to the

influences of time, place, and circumstance, he is still as free as

air when hunted from his retreat by men to whom his whole life is an

enigma; the oracle speaks to him in the midst of a crowd, and he no

more hears the murmur of those around him than if he were at sea, a

thousand miles from land; a palace, a prison, or a scaffold are all

reproductions of his cell, for the same all-filling Presence surrounds

him, blinding him to all else. His indifference is so galling to his

enemies, his freedom so mysterious and so provoking, that they would

rather put him to death than witness the unutterable calm they can

neither disturb nor emulate; but that death is only the one more step

needed for his perfect bliss--the one veil to be yet lifted between the

ascetic philosopher and the freedom that taught him his philosophy.

Serene land of passionless perfection, which men call the monastic

life! How many, even among religious, scale thy furthermost heights?

Yet it is a consolation to mankind to know that there _is_, even on

earth, a sanctuary where human nature, be it only represented by ever

so few, can reach to that ideal state of perfect communion with God and

perfect contempt of all trammels which alone should be dignified with

the name of philosophy.

A LOOKER-BACK.

"For as he forward mov'd his footing old

So backward still was turn'd his wrinkled face."--_Faerie Queene._

There are some people in the world who, like the sad mourners that come

up through Dante's hollow vale with heads reversed, have not the power

to see before them. Their eyes are always peering into the past, they

go groping in the dim twilight of bygone days; they wander off the

highway of ordinary life, till they lose their place in its sphere;

they have no knowledge but legendary lore, no wisdom but that of past

generations. And when, by some accident, they cross the current of the

present age, they grasp at the very first relic of the past as a link

with the receding shore.

It was such a one that found himself adrift on the high tide at Charing

Cross--which Dr. Johnson so loved; and, amazed and confused by the

incessant, tumultuous flow of a life in which he had no part, took

refuge in the thousand sanctuaries of the past to be found in London.

Belonging by a peculiar grace, as one born out of due time, to the

ancient church--for ever ancient, for ever new!--he turned particularly

to those old Catholic foundations around which cluster so many

associations, at once religious, historical, and poetic. Having read of

them from childhood, and learned to connect them with the past glory

of the church, and familiar with all the romantic and legendary lore

concerning them, when he found himself in their midst his heart and

soul and imagination were at once aflame. It was then to such places as

Westminster Abbey, Christ's Hospital, the Charter-House, and the Temple

that his heart instinctively turned on his arrival in London.

Not that he actually visited them first. The Divine Presence, alas! no

longer dwells in them incarnate; and it was of course, as became one

with pilgrim-staff and scallop-shell, to the foot of the Tabernacle

he hastened, the first time he issued from his lodgings, to offer

up his prayer of thanksgiving to _Jésus-Hostie_ for a safe voyage

across the Atlantic. But at his very threshold he could see a spot

associated with many terrible memories, marked by a stone: "Here stood

Tyburn Gate." Here the last prior of the Charter-House was executed,

and Robert Southwell, the Jesuit poet of Queen Elizabeth's time,

whose last words were expressive of his attachment to the Society of

Jesus and his happiness to suffer martyrdom. Many others, too, of

religious and historic memory, ascended here from earth to heaven.

Close beside the spot is the Marble Arch of Hyde Park. "Beyond Hyde

Park all is a desert!" said our pilgrim with Sir Fopling Flutter,

glad to be diverted from memories too sad for one's first impressions

of a foreign city. Two serene-looking "Little Sisters of the Poor,"

providentially crossing the path, directed him to the French chapel--a

modest sanctuary, but where such men as Lacordaire, De Ravignan, and

other distinguished French pulpit-orators have been heard. The way

thither was through Portman Square, once the property of the Knights

of S. John of Jerusalem. Here the celebrated Mrs. Montague once lived.

In one corner of the square stands apart--in a large yard, a square

old-fashioned brick house with an immense portico in front, and a

two-story bow window at the end--one of those houses that we at once

feel have a history. This is Montague House, where Mrs. Montague used

to give an annual dinner to the London chimney-sweeps, "that they might

enjoy one happy day in the year"--a house frequented by the literary

celebrities of the time--where Miss Burney was welcomed, and Ursa Major

grew tame.

A short distance from the French chapel is the Spanish church,

dedicated to S. James, with its S. Mary's aisle lighted from above,

giving a fine _chiaro-oscuro_ effect to the edifice. It was pleasant to

find an altar to the glorious Patron of Spain in a city where he was

once so venerated, and whose name has been given to one of its social

extremes. The devotion of the English to S. Jago di Compostella was

extraordinary in the Middle Ages. So general was it, that the Constable

of the Tower, in the time of Edward II., used to receive a custom of

two-pence from each pilgrim to Spain going or returning by the Thames.

Rymer mentions 916 licenses to visitors to that shrine in the year

1428, and 2,460 in 1434. And here, in this modern English church, is a

statue of the saint, with the scallop-shell on his cape, first assumed

by pilgrims to Compostella as a token that they had extended their

penitential wanderings to that sainted shore. English Catholics of the

olden time seemed to have had a special love for pilgrimages, and we

hail a renewed taste for such a devotion as a revival of the spirit of

the past.

It was the good fortune of our modern pilgrim to hear the Archbishop

of Westminster preach a few days after in the Spanish church on the

state of the soul after death--a preacher that harmonizes at once with

the past and the present--full of sympathy with the present, full of

the spirit of the past. A S. Jerome from his cave, a S. Anthony from

the desert! is the first thought, and his wonderfully solemn style of

preaching is in harmony with his ascetic appearance. Nothing could be

more impressive and affecting. Neither did our wanderer forget the

ivy-clad oratory at Kensington, still perfumed with holy memories of F.

Faber. He felt the need of thanking him here for the thousand precious

words he had spoken to his soul through his beautiful hymns and

invaluable works on the inner life; soothing it in sorrow, and arming

it against the transitory evils of life. Such evils follow every one,

even the pilgrim, and it was good to repeat here Faber's lines:

"These surface troubles come and go

Like rufflings of the sea;

The deeper depth is out of reach

To all, my God, but thee!"

What a round of sweet devotions in this church, with the taper-lighted

oratory of Mary Most Pure! Oh! how near to heaven one gets there!--the

beautiful shrine-like chapel of S. Philip Neri, and the solemn Calvary

where, between the two thieves, the Divine Image is outstretched on the

huge cross, embalming the wood--

"Image meet

Of One uplifted high to turn

And draw to him all hearts in bondage sweet."

Many pious hearts seem drawn here to meditate on the Passion, and, one

after another, go up to kiss the blood-stained cross. Oh! how many ways

the church has of leading the soul to God! Guido declared he had two

hundred ways of making the eyes look up to heaven. The church has many

more with its multiplied popular devotions, each peculiarly adapted

to some cast of soul. It would be heaven enough below to have a cell

somewhere near this sweet school of S. Philip's sons and the beautiful

altars they have set up.

While thus gratifying the devotional instincts of his heart, some

religious monument of bygone ages was constantly falling in our

pilgrim's way. How could he pass S. Pancras-in-the-Fields without

falling into prayer, as Windham in his diary tells us Dr. Johnson

did, recalling the Catholic martyrs burnt here at the stake in Queen

Elizabeth's time? The bell of S. Pancras--O funeral note of woe!--was

the last to ring for Mass in England at the time of the so-called

Reformation. A wonder it did not break in twain as it sounded that last

elevation of the Host! Has it ever uttered one joyful note since that

sad morn, when the altars were stripped, the lights one by one put

sorrowfully out, and the Divine Presence faded away? No, no; it has the

saddest tone of any bell in London, at least to the Catholic ear. As

it was here he was laid away, it is no wonder that faithful Catholics,

down to the present century, were in the habit of coming to S. Pancras

at early morning hour to seek some trace of their buried Lord. Perhaps

he sometimes appeared to such devout souls, as of old to his Mother

and Magdalen. It is certain that, at least, he spoke to their hearts

as they lingered here to pray--pray that he might rise again! And

here they wished to rest after death, till they were again allowed to

have a cemetery apart. This was the burial-place of the Howards and

Cliffords, and others of high lineage, both foreign and native. One

old friend lies here, John Walker--well known from his _Dictionary_,

once extensively used in America, a convert to the Catholic Church,

and a friend of Dr. Milner's, who calls him "the Guido d'Arezzo of

elocution, who discovered the scale of speaking sounds by which reading

and delivery have been reduced to a system."

S. Pancras was once a popular saint. The boy-martyr of Rome, whose

blood was shed in the cause of truth, was regarded in the middle ages

as the avenger of false oaths. The kings of France used to confirm

treaties in his name. The English, with their natural abhorrence of

lying, so honored him as to give his name to one of the oldest churches

in London. Cardinal Wiseman has popularized his memory in these days

through _Fabiola_.

Again, what a flood of recollections comes over the pilgrim in passing

through Temple Bar, or going across London Bridge, first built by the

pious brothers of S. Mary's Monastery in 994. The old bishops and monks

were truly the _pontifices_ of the middle ages--not only as builders of

"The invisible bridge

That leads from earth to heaven,"

but good substantial arches of stone over stream and flood. The Pont

Royal over the Seine was built by a Dominican. So was the Carraja at

Florence. The old bridges of Spain were mostly due to the clergy.

Bridge-building was esteemed a good work in those times, and prayers

were offered for those engaged in it. At the bidding of the beads, the

faithful were thus invited: "Masters and frendes, ye shall praye for

all them that bridges and streets make and amend, that God grant us

part of their good deeds, and them of ours."

London Bridge was rebuilt of stone nearly two centuries later. Peter

of S. Mary's, Colechurch, began it. Henry II. gave towards it the

tax on wool, which led to the saying that "London Bridge was built

on wool-packs." Peter did not live to complete it. That was done by

Isenbert, master of the schools at Xainctes--a builder of bridges in

his own country. He finished London Bridge in 1280. Near the middle

of it was a Gothic chapel, dedicated to S. Thomas à Becket, and under

the wool-packs--that is to say, in the crypt--a tomb was hollowed out

of a pier of the bridge for Peter of Colechurch. When this pier was

removed in 1832, his remains were found where they had lain nearly six

hundred years. On the Gate-house of London Bridge was hung the head of

Sir William Wallace. Bishop Fisher's (of Rochester) was hung here the

very day his cardinal's hat arrived at Dover; and two weeks after, that

of his friend, Sir Thomas More. Here, too, were suspended the heads of

F. Garnet, of the Society of Jesus, and scores of Catholic priests in

Queen Elizabeth's time.

Yes, London is full of Catholic memories. Bridewell, Bedlam, Mincing

Lane, Tooley St., and many more are names of Catholic origin, now

corrupted, the derivation of which it is pleasant to recall as they

meet the eye. One strolls through Paternoster Row, and Ave Maria

Lane, and by Amen Corner, out of love for their very names, reminding

us of the Catholic processions around Old S. Paul's. Shall it be

confessed?--profaner thoughts here mingle with such memories. Passing

through Paternoster Row, one naturally looks up, expecting to see

the splendid Mrs. Bungay come forth to take her drive with a look of

defiance at the chaise-less Mrs. Bacon at the opposite window!

Not far from here is Christ's Hospital, so familiar to us all through

Lamb, Coleridge, and Leigh Hunt. It is at once recognized by the

bust of Edward VI. over the entrance. It is pleasant to be allowed to

wander through the arcades and quadrangles at one's pleasure, with no

guide to disturb the delightful memories evoked by such a place. Going

into a quadrangle, surrounded by a kind of cloister hung with memorial

tablets, the first thing noticed is a marble slab on the wall to the

right, inscribed:

"In memory of the Rev. James Boyer, who for many years was head

grammar-master of this Hospital. He died July 28, 1814, aged

seventy-nine years."

One could not help pausing to read and copy this tribute to so old

an acquaintance. To be sure, "J. B. had a heavy hand," which was

rather too familiar with a rod of fearful omen, but he ground out some

fine scholars, and has been immortalized by the great geniuses that

expanded under his tuition. I can see Master Boyer now, as Charles Lamb

describes him, calling upon the boys with a sardonic grin to see how

neat and fresh his rod looked!--see him in his passy, or passionate

wig, make a precipitate entry into the school-room from his inner den,

and, with his knotty fist doubled up, and a turbulent eye, single out

some unhappy boy, roaring: "Od's my life, sirrah! I have a mind to whip

you"; and then, with a sudden retracting impulse, return to his lair,

and, after a lapse of some moments, drive out headlong again with the

context which the poor boy almost hoped was forgotten: "And I _will_,

too!"--treating the trembling culprit to a sandwich of alternate lash

and paragraph till his _rabidus furor_ was assuaged.

Lamb, in his delightful essay, _Recollections of Christ's Hospital_,

dwells on some of his fellow-pupils whose memory one cannot help

recalling while lingering under these arches. And chief among them,

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, logician, metaphysician, bard--who in these

cloisters unfolded in deep and sweet intonations the mysteries of

Jamblichus or Plotinus, or recited Homer in his Greek, or Pindar,

while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the

inspired charity boy." He tells us, too, of Thomas Fanshawe Middleton,

"a scholar and a gentleman in his teens," but said afterwards to have

borne his mitre rather high as the first Protestant bishop of Calcutta,

though a more humble and apostolic bearing "might not have been exactly

fitted to impress the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with

reverence for home institutions and the church which such fathers

watered." There is a monument to the memory of Bishop Middleton at S.

Paul's, where he is represented, in his robes of office, in the act

of confirming two East Indians, but the hand raised over their heads

has all the fingers broken off but one. Let us hope what apostolic

authority he possessed was centred in that digit!

Above all, at Christ's Hospital one recalls the gentle Elia himself.

Perhaps in yonder dim corner he furtively ate the griskin brought from

the paternal kitchen by his aunt. "I remember the good old relative,"

he says (in whom love forbade pride), "squatting down upon some odd

stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the viands (of higher

regale than those cates which the ravens ministered to the Tishbite),

and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. There was love

for the bringer, shame for the thing brought and the manner of its

bringing."

Under these pillared arches, so shadowy to-day with the heavy London

fog, Richardson perhaps conceived his first dramatic scenes, and Leigh

Hunt began to weave the delicious fancies that have since charmed us

all. Yonder was the dormitory the young ass was smuggled into, which

waxed fat, and proclaimed his good fortune to the world below, setting

concealment any longer at defiance.

While thus musing, an instalment of the eight hundred boys at the

Hospital came out to their sports in their quaint costume of black

breeches, long yellow stockings to the knees, and a dark-blue gown

down to the heels, garnished with bright buttons bearing the likeness

of Edward VI., and confined by a leather belt. White bands at the neck

give them a clerical look by no means at variance with so monastic a

place. They had innocent, open faces, such as we find in our monastic

schools, reminding one of Pope Gregory's well-known exclamation:

"_Non Angli sed angeli._" They tucked up their skirts and betook

themselves most heartily to their sports. It was queer to see their

long yellow-stockinged legs flying across the quadrangle. They have

caps, it is said, about the size of a saucer, which they dislike so

much that they prefer going bare-headed, but they did not mind the fog,

now almost amounting to rain. Children, we all know, are, as Lamb says,

"proof against weather, ingratitude, meat under-done, and every weapon

of fate." One of them stopped to pump some water for the visitor to

offer as a libation to the memory of Charles Lamb.

"Pierian spring!" scornfully shouted Master Boyer to a young writer of

a classical turn: "the cloister pump, you mean!"

The school-room visited bore marks that would have done credit to

a Yankee jack-knife, and revived pleasant reminiscences of youthful

achievements in a New England school-house. The chapel, too, with its

mural tablets, and flag tombstones, and painted window, of Christ

blessing little children, is interesting. At the right of the chancel

is a remnant of old monastic charity. An inscription in yellow letters

on a claret-colored ground announces that "the bread here given weekly

to the poor of the parish of S. Leonard's is from a bequest of Sir John

Trott and other benefactors," and on the other side in equally glaring

characters: "Praise be to thee, O Lord God, for this thy gift unto the

poor!" There is rather a more amusing inscription of a similar nature

at S. Giles', Cripplegate, opposite the monument to Milton:

"This Bvsbie, willing to reeleve the poore with fire and withe breade,

Did give that howse whearein he dyed then called ye Queene's heade,

Fovr fvlle loades of ye best charcoales he wovld have brovght each

yeare,

And fortie dosen of wheaten breade for poore howseholders heare:

To see these thinges distribvted this Bvsby pvt in trvst

The Vicar and Chvrch wardenes thinking them to be IVST:

God grant that poore howseholders here may thankfvll be for svch,

So God will move the mindes of moe to doe for them as mvch:

And let this good example move svch men as God hath blest

To doe the like before they goe with Bvsby to there rest:

Within this chappell Bvsbie's bones in dvst a while mvst stay,

Till He that made them rayse them vp to live with Christ for aye."

The said Busby is represented above this curious inscription, in

bold relief, as a be-ruffed man of jovial type, holding a bottle in

one hand, and a death's-head in the other, so that one does not know

whether to laugh or cry. It would be more reasonable to cry over the

grave of that dreadful prevaricator Fox, called the Martyrologist,

said to be buried in the same church, only one does not know where

to weep, as the precise spot is not known. So one has to be satisfied

with sighing before a huge stone set up to his memory at the end of

the church, and thinking with Lessing that "if the world is to be held

together by lies, the old ones which are already current are as good

as the new." What a pity Fox had not belonged to S. Pancras' parish!

However, that saint seems to have kept an eye on him, and avenged the

cause of truth. We do not suppose there are many now who are credulous

enough to accept Fox as reliable authority concerning the history of

those sad times. And if we stop to look at his tablet here, it is with

something of the same feeling that we turn down Fetter Lane to see

where "Praise God Barebones" and his brother "Damned Barebones" lived,

and wonder how any one house could hold them both.

But to return to Christ's Hospital. It must not be supposed that,

meanwhile, it has been forgotten that this institution was originally

a Catholic foundation. It was the first thought at entering, nor could

the pleasant associations of later years prevent a regret that so

monastic a building is no longer peopled by the old Grey Friars. Keats'

lines recurred to memory:

"Mute is the matin bell whose early call

Warned the Grey fathers from their humble beds;

Nor midnight taper gleams along the wall,

Or round the sculptured saint its radiance sheds!"

It was on the second of February, 1224, during the pontificate of

Honorius III. and the reign of King Henry III., S. Francis of Assisi

being still alive, that a small band of Franciscan friars landed at

Dover. There were four priests and five lay-brothers. Five of this

number stopped at Canterbury to found a house, and the remainder came

on to London. The simplicity of their manners and mode of life made

them popular at once, and they speedily acquired the means of building

a house and church. Among other benefactors, John Ewin, or Iwin, a

citizen of London, gave them an estate, as he says in the deed of

conveyance, "for the health of my soul, in pure and perpetual alms,"

and became a lay-brother in the house, leaving behind him, when he

died, a holy memory as a strict and devout observer of the rule. A

large church adapted to their wants was completed in the year 1327, and

dedicated to "the honor of God and our alone Saviour Jesus Christ." It

was three hundred feet long, eighty-nine feet broad, and seventy-four

feet high. Queen Margaret gave two thousand marks towards it, and the

first stone was laid in her name. John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond,

and his niece, the Countess of Pembroke, gave the hangings, vestments,

and sacred vessels. Isabella, the mother of Edward III., and Philippa,

his queen, also gave money for its completion. The thirty-six windows

were the gifts of various charitable persons. The western window, being

destroyed in a gale, was restored by Edward III., "for the repose of

the soul" of his mother, who had just been buried before the choir.

In 1380, Margaret, Countess of Norfolk, erected new stalls in the

choir, at a cost of three hundred and fifty marks. Many nobles were

buried here--four queens, four duchesses, four countesses, one duke,

two earls, eight barons, thirty-five knights--in all, six hundred and

sixty-three persons of quality. Among them was Margaret, the second

wife of Edward I., and granddaughter of S. Louis, King of France. She

was buried before the high altar. In the choir lay Isabella, wife of

Edward II.--

"She-wolf of France with unrelenting fangs,

Who tore the bowels of her mangled mate"--

beneath a monument of alabaster, with the heart of her murdered husband

on her breast! Near her lay her daughter Joanna, wife of Edward Bruce

of Scotland. Here too was buried Lady Venitia Digby, so celebrated

for her beauty, the wife of Sir Kenelm Digby, who erected over her a

monument of black marble.

In the middle ages the great ones of the world, at the approach of

death, the all-leveller, feeling the nothingness of earthly grandeur

and riches, often sought to be buried among Christ's poor ones, and

not unfrequently in their habit, not thinking "in Franciscan weeds to

pass disguised," but as an act of faith in the evangelical counsels,

and a recognition of the importance of being clothed with Christ's

righteousness. It was a public confession that the vain garments they

had worn in the world had been as poisonous to them as the tunic

Hercules put on. Dante laid down to die in the cowl and mantle of a

Franciscan. Cervantes was buried in the same habit. Louis of Orleans,

who was murdered by the Duke of Burgundy, was buried among the Celestin

monks in the habit of their order. Anne of Brittany, twice Queen of

France, wore the scapular of the Carmelites, and wished it to be sent

with her heart in a golden box to her beloved Bretons.

The Grey Friars' church was destroyed at the great fire, and the

monastery greatly injured. There are still some portions of it

remaining, however, which are at once recognized. Some of the books

of the old monastic library are still preserved--a library founded by

Sir Richard Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London, the hero of

the nursery rhyme, to whom the Bowbells sounded so auspiciously. He

laid the foundation of this library in 1421, and gave four hundred

pounds towards furnishing it. The remainder of the books were given, or

collected by one of the friars.

It seems that, after all, Edward VI. was not the founder of the modern

institution of Christ's Hospital. He merely gave it its name, and added

to the endowment. When the monastery was suppressed by his father,

it was given to the municipality of London, and the city authorities

conceived the idea of converting it into a refuge for poor children. It

was chiefly endowed by the citizens themselves, though aided by grants

from Henry VIII. and Edward VI.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE LIFE OF S. ALPHONSUS LIGUORI. By a Member of the Order of

Mercy. New York: P. O'Shea. 1873.

THE LIFE OF THE SAME. By the Rt. Rev. J. Mullock, D.D., Bishop of

Newfoundland. New York: P. J. Kenedy. 1873.

S. Alphonsus has never found a perfectly competent biographer, and

perhaps never will. F. Tannoja has written full and minute memoirs,

containing all the facts and events of his life, but he wrote under the

fear of the Neapolitan censorship, and could not speak openly of the

miserable infidel Tanucci and the other Jansenists and infidels, or

faithless Catholics, of the wretched period in which the saint lived,

and the corrupt court with which he had to contend. Moreover, Tannoja

had not a sufficiently elevated and comprehensive mind to be able to

appreciate and describe the life and times of S. Alphonsus in their

higher and broader relations. The Oratorian translation of his life is

a most wretched and shabby affair in respect to style and accuracy.

The religious lady who has prepared the first of the lives placed at

the head of this notice has therefore done a very great service to

the Catholic public by compiling a careful and readable biography

from the other earlier works of the kind, and adding some interesting

particulars concerning the history of the modern Redemptorists.

Bishop Mullock's life of the saint is quite brief and compendious,

but of the best quality so far as it goes. The publisher has made a

great blunder in omitting the title of Doctor of the Universal Church,

which has been given to S. Alphonsus since Dr. Mullock's life was first

published, on the title-page.

Archbishop Manning, who has given, though in brief form, the best

appreciation of the character and work of the great doctor which we

have seen, truly says that S. Ignatius, S. Charles, and S. Alphonsus

are the three great modern leaders of the church in her warfare. As one

of this great trio, S. Alphonsus deserves to be universally known and

honored among the faithful, and we rejoice in the publication of the

biography compiled by the accomplished Sister of Mercy as the best we

have in English, wishing it a wide circulation, as a means of promoting

devotion to the latest of the doctors and one of the greatest of the

saints.

LIVES OF THE IRISH SAINTS. Vol. I., No. 1. By Rev. John O'Hanlon.

Dublin: Duffy & Co.

It is not often that we have the privilege of noticing such a work

as this--the labor of a lifetime, the history of a whole nation's

sanctity. Since Alban Butler, no such hagiographer as F. O'Hanlon

has appeared, nor has any work on hagiology so full of interest and

importance been given to the world. Up to this time the saints of

Ireland, with few exceptions, were hidden saints; of the three or four

thousand souls who have shed upon her the light of their sanctity,

and earned for her the glorious title of the "Island of Saints," the

world knew scarcely anything. It was in vain that the ancient annalists

compiled voluminous records for the benefit of posterity; those that

escaped the hands of the spoiler were left unexamined, and the learned

of the nation seemed to have forgotten that their country had a holy

and heroic past, whose history it was their sacred duty to look into

and perpetuate. No attention was given to traditions of bygone days; no

light was thrown upon them; they were fast becoming dim and obscure,

and what was, in reality, fact, the rising generation was beginning

to regard as fable. This neglect, so ruinous, and even criminal,

might have gone on till it became irreparable, had not this learned

and devoted priest undertaken the great task of redeeming the past of

Erin's sanctity from the oblivion into which it was rapidly sinking.

How carefully he prepared himself, and how well qualified he is to

perform this labor of patriotism and love, the first number of his work

gives ample proof. His acquaintance with Irish lore, his erudition and

research, his fine style, all combine to make him the fittest person

that could have engaged in so great a work.

Were we disposed to find fault with him at all, we should say he is

rather critical; at least, we fancy we perceive in him a tendency to

conform to the critical spirit of the age, which perhaps is prudent,

after all, and may enhance the historical value of the work, though it

will mar somewhat, we think, the poetic beauty it ought to possess.

No literary effort has yet been attempted that appeals so strongly to

the national and religious sentiments of the Irish people; and none

should receive so large a share of their interest and support. F.

O'Hanlon's _Lives of the Irish Saints_, when completed, will be a noble

monument to Erin's faith and Erin's glory, to which his countrymen in

every land should feel proud to contribute; the appreciation that he

meets with may encourage others to enter the comparatively unexplored

mine of Irish history, and bring to light the treasures it contains.

We learn that F. O'Hanlon, who is a citizen of the United States,

has copyrighted the work here, and it is to be hoped will make

arrangements for its reissue in this country. Meanwhile, intending

subscribers may address the author directly, or order the book through

"The Catholic Publication Society," New York. It will be published

serially, and the American price is fifty cents per number.

JESUITS IN CONFLICT; OR, HISTORIC FACTS illustrative of the Labors

and Sufferings of the English Mission and Province of the Society

of Jesus in the Times of Queen Elizabeth and her Successors. By a

Member of the Society of Jesus. London: Burns & Oates. 1873. (New

York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Another publication throwing light on the period of the Elizabethan

persecution of Catholics, and more especially on the part borne by

the Jesuits themselves in this heroic struggle. So many books have

appeared lately on this subject that we may almost say that a new

branch of Catholic literature has been opened in the English language.

The "getting up" of this book is worthy of the subject, and we rejoice

that it is so; for, to take a simile from a passage in this very

volume, we may say with truth of the outward appearance of a book

in these times what the holy lay-brother, Thomas Pounde, considered

his rich dress in prison to be: "A means of inspiring Catholics with

greater courage, and conciliating authority" (p. 42). The history of

the three confessors of the faith, Thomas Pounde, George Gilbert,

and F. Darbyshire, is very interesting. In the two former we have

examples of lay sanctity and constancy, as distinguished from that of

priests, though both saints were in heart members of the Society of

Jesus, to which one was affiliated by extraordinary dispensation of the

ordinary novitiate, and the other received the habit and pronounced

his vows _in articulo mortis_. Thomas Pounde, of Belmont, a man of old

family and high connections, had all the burning zeal of a convert

whose soul had narrowly escaped the everlasting infamy of the life

of a court minion. Not only his fearlessness and constancy, but his

high intellectual attainments, claim our attention. Thirty years of

perpetual imprisonment had not enfeebled his mind, and his one desire

was a public disputation with his adversaries, nay, "with Beza and all

the doctors of Geneva," if it pleased his foes to reinforce themselves

with such noted aid. In a lengthy paper, written in 1580 to show that

the Bible alone is not the true rule of faith, he brings forward

the same reasons which we hear so much about in our day, and after

specially dwelling on the many articles of universally held Christian

faith that are _not_ directly and plainly traceable to Scripture, he

says pointedly: "Do not these blind guides, think you, lead a trim

daunce towards infidelitie?" He could not have spoken otherwise had he

meant his apology for the XIXth instead of the XVIth century.

George Gilbert, also of a good English family, was one of those rich

men who, in truth, make themselves the stewards of the Lord. With him

originated the useful and ingenious Catholic Association, in which

young men of the world bound themselves to become the temporal guides,

helpers, couriers, furnishers of the priests who labored spiritually

for the conversion of England. The companion of F. Parsons, as Pounde

had been of F. Campion, he, too, was a convert not only from courtly

vanities, but from actual Calvinism. Ardently desiring martyrdom,

he nevertheless embraced obediently and lovingly the cross of a

"sluggish death in bed"; but at least the pain of exile had been added

to imprisonment, for he was banished from his native land, and died

at Rome in 1583. His whole substance was offered to the service of

God, and what little remained at his death he left to the Society for

the spiritual needs of his country. It was not till he lay upon his

death-bed that he pronounced his vows.

F. Darbyshire was as learned as he was zealous. While in France

preparing for his perilous English mission, he refused the honors of

the pulpit and the professorial chair, and confined himself to giving

catechetical instruction; but God so rewarded his humility that grave

scholars and theologians would flock to hear him, and make notes of

the wonderful learning he displayed, while they admired the eloquence

he could not hide. He and his friend, F. Henry Tichborne, might well

congratulate themselves, later on, on the holy efficacy of persecution,

which had caused the "confluence of the rares and bestes wittes of our

nation to the seminaries," and of the happy increase in the number

of fervent inmates of the foreign seminaries They descant, too, on

the unwise policy of persecution, and the fact that no religion was

ever permanently established by the sword. The faith might have been

reft of one of its greatest glories in England had not a short-sighted

fanaticism resorted to violent means to uproot it. F. Darbyshire died

in exile in France in 1604, in the very same place, Pont-à-Mousson,

where he had so signally distinguished himself for learning and for

modesty in the beginning of his apostolate.

This book is written in simple, Saxon style. The author trusts rather

to facts than to rhetoric, just as of old the acts of the martyrs were

chronicled without much comment, whether descriptive or panegyrical.

The volume bears "First Series" on its title-page, as a promise that

it is but the prelude to other biographies as interesting. Let us hope

that the promise will be speedily fulfilled.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED JOHN BERCHMANS. By Francis Goldie, S.J. (F.

Coleridge's Quarterly Series, Vol. VII.) London: Burns & Oates.

1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

At last we have in English a biography of this angelic imitator of S.

Aloysius, as charming as himself. The other lives we have seen are

edifying but tedious. This one is equally edifying, but as fascinating

as a romance, and published in an attractive style. It is specially

adapted for the reading of young people.

LECTURES UPON THE DEVOTION TO THE MOST SACRED HEART OF JESUS

CHRIST. By the Very Rev. T. S. Preston, V.G. New York: Robert

Coddington. 1874.

We cannot do more than call attention to the publication of this work,

just issued as we go to press. It embraces stenographic reports of four

extempore lectures by the pastor of St. Ann's, New York, upon a subject

of special interest at this time. In an appendix is given the pastoral

of the archbishop and bishops, announcing the consecration of all the

dioceses of this province to the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus; together

with a Novena, from the French of L. J. Hallez.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 108.--MARCH, 1874.[249]

JOHN STUART MILL.[250]

In 1764, Hume met, at the house of Baron d'Holbach, a party of the

most celebrated Frenchmen of that day; and the Scotchman took occasion

to introduce a discussion concerning the existence of an atheist, in

the strict sense of the word; for his own part, he said, he had never

chanced to meet with one. "You have been unfortunate," replied Holbach;

"but at the present moment you are sitting at table with seventeen of

them."