This mixture of the appearance of freedom with despotism is natural

to an absolute power resting on a popular basis. We cannot see how

it could be otherwise. Ancient Rome afforded the same spectacle. The

Cæsars never ceased to repeat that they were the representatives of the

people, and the defenders of national liberty. We are not astonished

that the French government which sprang from the Revolution has

assumed this attitude. The Romans only admitted Roman civilization,

which they called “Roman peace.” Their poets often speak of “the

majesty of Roman peace.” Civilization, then, consisted in obeying the

proconsuls, paying the taxes, furnishing recruits, and working on

the roads and public monuments. At this price, the provinces enjoyed

a little tranquillity. It is noteworthy that the French Revolution

assumed to be the only light capable of guiding the world in the way

of liberty, equality, fraternity, progress, civilization, comfort,

etc. Its disciples still assert that France is continuing to fulfil

this mission. This is what Louis Napoleon meant when he said that

France alone contended for an idea. This immeasurable pride in thinking

ourselves superior to other nations has had to bow down. It was not

by virtue of our actual qualities that we undertook to assume such a

supremacy, but, on the contrary, by virtue of the errors and vices

that have sprung up in modern times. In the XVIIth century, when our

moral superiority was acknowledged and incontestable, no Frenchman ever

advertised any pretension to overrule other nations, or believed that

our nation was destined to precede others in order to enlighten them.

This pretension sprang up in 1789, at the time when a new system was

promulgated in the midst of the terrors of the Revolution. Supposing

this idea to be new, what right had France to impose it forcibly on

other nations? Europe rose in arms to repel revolutionary or Cæsarean

invasions, and before the coalition France has three times fallen.

We have been sobered by this experience. The _rôle_, brilliant as it

was, has only left us bitter remembrances. It remains for us to govern

ourselves without any pretension to govern others. Our political

and military organization has suddenly crumbled to pieces. That

masterpiece, which was a combination of contradictions, order, and

disorder, is now only a ruin. Lamentations are heard on all sides. It

is perceived that, under the pretext of equality, all Frenchmen have

been reduced to equal powerlessness. When men of good-will sprang up

on every hand to the help of France, leaders were wanting; there was

no one to direct. Overwhelmed in the first place by number, we ended

by overcoming that difficulty, and then there was a deficiency of

organization. Leaders and discipline are not the work of a day. If

education has not developed individual ability, in vain will you seek

for genuine, natural, and acknowledged leaders. The spirit of the

family alone, by forming the character, habituates men to a necessary

subordination. The atheism of the state tends to root out of every

conscience the sense of duty. How obey, if we do not comprehend the

obligation of obedience, and if those who rule over us do not seem

worthy of ruling us? Discipline is a certain moral order. It should

first exist within us by submission to Providence and to the social

order established by Providence. Imperial and republican despotism

have aimed at moulding the whole French nation after one single type.

And when the overruling, guiding will was gone, the whole nation was

paralyzed. The Roman Empire had the same fate. It fell both in the east

and west from causes analogous to those that are preying on us. An able

despotism, a vast material organization, admirable military traditions,

and the assent of the people, could not ensure the stability of the

brilliant communities of Rome and Byzantium. The same principles must

lead to the same consequences: no stable form of government; the

supreme power constantly at the mercy of elections, factions, and

violence. The Cæsarean system, whenever it obtains sway, gives glory,

and grandeur, and brilliancy to society, but also leads to anarchy and

incurable weakness.

Roman civilization was overthrown by pastoral nations: in the East,

by the Arabs and Turks; in the West, by the Germans. Cæsarean France

easily obtained the ascendancy over Italy, Austria, and Spain, because,

already initiated into Cæsarism by Roman law, they offered but slight

resistance. But when it undertook a struggle with Germany, its fortune

changed, because that country has many strong elements opposed to

Cæsarism and the principles of the French Revolution. Its _esprit de

famille_, its tendency to decentralization, and its official morality,

superior to ours, are among the differences that carry us back to the

invasions of the first four centuries. Cæsarean France has played a

great part against modern Germany. But France is not so thoroughly

Cæsarean as the Roman Empire. Its interests, its customs, and its

traditions, impregnated with Catholicism, resist this assimilation.

The Italian astuteness of the Bonapartes succeeded in making us think

despotism would lead to liberty. Our eyes are painfully opened to

the imperial _régime_ and modern institutions. We can no longer deny

that our social condition has approximated to ancient Cæsarism, and

reproduced its principal conditions. The empire did not even conceal

this imitation. The public works and the plebiscitum were the popular

side of this _régime_. No nation of Europe has experienced anything

comparable to it. In no other has the government become the contractor

and general constructor of all the public works.

The Roman Empire alone presents a similar spectacle. The emperors

provided for the amusement of the Roman people. They instituted

festivals and games. They everywhere erected buildings for ornament

or public utility, the ruins of which are still famous. The great

monuments of our ancient monarchies were due to individuals, guilds,

and the zeal of the faithful. The state did not interpose. Since 1789,

the state alone has erected edifices because it alone has had wealth.

This system of public works is only one form of communism. Though Louis

Napoleon had no taste for the arts, he had a passion for building.

This phlegmatic Cæsar, like the Roman emperors, made it a duty to

amuse the people. Family gatherings and the old festivals authorized

by religion did not meet with his approval. Such festivals are, from

their very nature, anti-Cæsarean. They recall principles and sentiments

opposed to Cæsarism. But the individual must not escape Cæsar. Public

amusements have a certain influence of their own. They must divert the

mind from all the influences of family, corporations, and religion, and

partake of the vulgar communism authorized by the state. It is thus

Cæsar undertook to amuse the people. Who does not know what the Paris

theatres became? The towns in the provinces followed the movement,

constrained by the _préfets_ and mayors. Corruption, promoted by books

and official addresses, was put in practice in every theatre of the

empire. When the immense bazaar of the Universal Exposition was opened,

Louis Napoleon invited all the sovereigns of Europe to be present.

They had no wish to attend, but yielded to his importunities. They

held a grudge against their Amphitryon. That was not the only mark of

superiority he affected with respect to them. He proposed a congress

to sanction the principles of the French Revolution. He neglected no

opportunity of influencing their policy. He was constantly shaking the

thrones of Europe by his democratic pretensions. He believed himself

alone to be legitimate, and pitied the other sovereigns who lacked the

consecration of universal suffrage. Experience has once more shown us

that immense powers may rest on fragile foundations, but the lesson

will be of no use to the Bonapartes, who are ready to recommence. Shall

it be lost on France?

Our revolutions and various _coups d’état_ within a century have

transformed us into a Cæsarean nation. All our political elements

bear the impress of this fatal destiny. The army, the magistracy,

the administration, and the schools are disciplining us for this

social system. There is no power but the state. Property is no longer

managed according to the wishes of the proprietor, but by those of the

legislator. Luxury has increased to an astonishing degree. How easily

it has pervaded all classes of society! It is the government that has

led us to yield to these new requirements of fashion. Economically

speaking, luxury is waste of capital, and an unproductive expenditure.

Old French society, founded on the right of property and the permanence

of families and fortunes, rejected luxuries, superfluities, and useless

expense. In everything, it had an eye to the solid and durable. That,

in fact, was the character of French industry. The Roman Empire was a

stranger to lasting influences and hereditary fortunes. Proscriptions

and confiscations made short work of them. Nothing must appear to

rival Cæsar, and manifest any power or independence. Christian society

pursued and attained a different object. With us, the civil code takes

the place of confiscations and proscriptions; it takes care that

fortunes are as speedily wasted as acquired; it ruins by periodical

liquidations families scarcely formed. In spite of this, the instincts

of nature incline us to a certain care of our property. Speedily

acquired fortunes, made by commerce, industrial pursuits, or legal

transmission, became a source of anxiety to the imperial mind. They

might foster independence! Thence the constant preoccupation of the

empire to lead the whole nation into luxurious habits by the temptation

of pleasures and large salaries. The multiplication of cabarets is an

unmistakable evidence of this. Obliged to expend more than they gained,

the office-holders remained in servitude. And from one to another

the emulation has extended throughout France. Cæsar not only amused

the people, but, led away by example, the people sought additional

amusements at their own expense. Thus property, idly spent, and lacking

the permanence that assures independence, ceased to limit or be an

obstacle to Cæsar’s will. All wealth became dependent on the public

credit and the stock market, and had an interest in the continuance of

Cæsar’s reign. The whole interior policy of the empire was based on

this principle. The political institution of luxury kept pace with the

theatre and literature.

The immorality of Cæsarism may be readily understood. Morality in a

nation is solely engendered by domestic life. But the family is the

_bête noire_ of Cæsarism. It was by destroying it and assuming its

functions that Cæsarism succeeded in training the people. A man,

separated from his family and the place where he ought to live, and

transported to another region where he is only accountable to the

state, a stranger to the people among whom he lives, no longer thinks

about his morality, but the service he must render to the state. How

many functionaries, inadmissible in one place on account of tricks

frowned upon by public opinion, are sent elsewhere without losing the

favor of the government!

France was as surprised by the invasion as the old world by the deluge.

Let us admire her patience and courage. We must remember, however, that

it was not Cæsarism that saved her. The official world had disappeared.

What remained rather clogged than aided the movement for repairing our

disaster. Our deliverance sprang from the people not enrolled under

the official banner. Without a government, France has shown her spirit

of unity, and revealed her moral and material resources. It was not

only the emperor, but the whole empire, that surrendered its sword to

the King of Prussia at Sedan. In the same way, Napoleon surrendered to

England after Waterloo. The high functionaries that only existed by

the will or caprice of Cæsar, and who only served him by giving up all

responsibility, were suddenly left in darkness. The emperor only sought

_ex officio_ supporters. In a country like France, these are always to

be found. Messrs. Morny, Billault, Troplong, Rouher, and Ollivier had

pliancy of mind enough to say and do anything to palliate and excuse

everything. Thus, without any counterpoise, the imperial government

consisted in a single will which was intermittent, fluctuating, and a

perpetual source of troubles and catastrophes to France. History is

not a casualty. It has its laws which control events. It is well to

repel invasions; it is better to do away with their cause. Demosthenes

replied to the Athenians who sought news of Philip: “Why, of what

consequence is it? Should he have perished, you would create another by

your dissensions. The Macedonian domination is only the result of Greek

anarchy.”

The French Empire, like the Roman, is the creation of historic

necessities produced by an age of revolutions and the application of

principles that only find complete development under an autocratic

form. Anarchy, in a proud and powerful nation with a glorious

past and a warlike spirit, will always end in military supremacy.

Christianity alone was able to check the system of perpetual war kept

up by paganism. It framed the law of nations, making them a Christian

republic. By the Revolution of 1789, France abandoned this system.

The Restoration of 1814 re-established it in part, but in 1830 the

European treaties were broken. Europe had to be on its guard against

us, and exclude us from its alliances. Louis Napoleon openly and

officially expressed his contempt for treaties. With him France took

refuge in proud isolation, affecting an intellectual dictatorship,

the prelude of wars. War alone, in fact, can impose the will of one

nation on another. This reign of armed propagandism has not ceased its

manifestations since 1848. The public schools, all the academies, and

the entire press came to the aid of Bonapartism. The personal enemies

of the emperor were his most active auxiliaries. He was well aware of

this. He carefully promoted Carbonarism in Italy, and Jacobinism in

France—two terms for expressing the same thing. The attempts against

his life only promoted his success, instead of being an obstacle to it.

He recognized, so to speak, their justice, for he had taken the oaths

of Carbonarism. When he realized that a crisis was at hand, he was not

willing for France to escape the Revolution, the reins of which he

held with apparent moderation. He successively let loose the press,

the clubs, the secret societies, and even the mob. He weakened and

degraded authority in the person of his agents, assured the pardon of

all political offences, frequently changed his ministers without any

reason or pretext, that the people might be convinced that they were

all puppets. In this way, and under the pressure of invasion, he seemed

preparing for a movement analogous to that of 1792. His death then

would have thrown us into a state of anarchy which would probably have

brought on the same invasion we have just undergone. He left behind him

only reflections of himself. When he disappeared from the scene, all

this was effaced. The regency of Eugénie amounted to about as much as

the regency of Maria Louisa—vain imitation, and a manifest proof that,

apart from the imperial person, there was no imperial government or

recognized authority, and that the empire and anarchy were brother and

sister.

The downfall of the French monarchy plunged France once more into

a state of paganism. Our wars and invasions have been of the same

character as the wars and invasions of the first centuries of our era.

The French Empire had an insatiable thirst to invade Europe. Germany,

on her side, has retained a power of expansion that recalls ancient

times. She no longer emigrates _en masse_, but by the indirect ways

of modern civilization. She first sends her pioneers. Her tillers of

the soil go to the Sclave provinces of Austria and the Russian coasts

of the Baltic. By their aptitude for labor, they take the lead, amass

capital, and end by controlling the people that receive them. There is

a German party in Russia, and this party has a controlling influence

over the czars, or Muscovite Cæsars. The Sclave race, more impressible,

more poetic, and less tenacious, less laborious, feels set aside by

the new settlers. It realizes that it is the victim of its hospitable

and beneficent nature. A reaction will soon take place. The czar will

be forced to take the national cause in hand. Russia has not uttered

its last word. She has been in some sort under foreign influence

since she imbibed the corrupt Christianity of Byzantium. It was only

under the direction of the French philosophers of the XVIIIth century

that she finally became a part of the European world. After the wars

of the Revolution and the empire, our influence greatly diminished,

and yielded to German influence. Destitute of scientific or literary

traditions, Russia sent her young men intended for office to the German

universities. They returned with the scientific jargon of the schools,

a strong dose of atheism, affiliated with the secret societies, and

without any sympathy with the tastes and sentiments of the Sclave

race. Thus favored, German influence has increased to such a degree

as to cause anxiety in the Russian Empire. In its encroachments on

Austria, Germany did not begin with pacific conquests. Silesia, seized

by Frederic II., was colonized gradually. Finally, German emigration

filled our banks, our counting-rooms, and our railway offices. This

tendency to expansion could only be restrained or repressed by our

alliance with a great nation. Unfortunately, France affected to be

above European law. She pretended to promulgate a new law, a new

civilization. She refused, in the name of the principles of 1789, to

allow that there were any legitimate sovereigns in Europe. France,

plunged into Cæsarism, found a rival in Germany, which had more

ancient Cæsarean traditions, and which, less ravaged by revolution, was

better organized than we for attack and defence. It is still increasing

in population, whereas France, under the rule of economists, diminishes

every day. This alone ought to warn French policy of the error into

which it has fallen. The German Confederation, the imposing remains

of Christian ages, was the safeguard of Europe, by maintaining a

peaceful equilibrium in Germany. France and England, unwisely governed,

allowed the German Confederation to be dismembered. The Germanic union

under Prussia was evidently threatening. Lord Palmerston and Louis

Napoleon, statesmen who had no correct notions of Christianity, could

not see anything or comprehend anything. It was, however, evident that

a peculiar kind of Cæsarism was to spring from this overturning of

Germany. A slight knowledge of history and the German character should

have been sufficient to convince Europe of this. The diplomacy which,

by the treaty of 1856, arraigned the Sovereign Pontiff at its bar,

rejoiced at the destruction of the Germanic Confederation, without

dreaming that a few years later the Empire of Germany would consign

the once powerful nations of England, France, and Russia to the second

rank. At the moment of this change, it is not useless to remark how

many deadly struggles the Papacy has had with Cæsarism. It was by

the diffusion of Christian principles that it laid the foundation of

Christian society.

The political life of the Papacy has been wholly spent in combating

Cæsarism. It struggled against the Roman emperors for three centuries,

and then against the heresies of Byzantium. In our age, Napoleon

exhausted all his arts and violence on Pius VII. Pius IX. found

himself at issue with Louis Napoleon, and Victor Emanuel, the Italian

representative of Cæsarism. The contest of the popes with the emperors

of Germany is celebrated. It was the Papacy that preserved human

liberty throughout the middle ages. Germany had seized the imperial

sceptre that had fallen from the hands of the weak successors of

Charlemagne. In the XIIIth century, the Cæsarean rule threatened the

whole of Europe. Frederic II., more perverse and more able than his

namesake of the XVIIIth century, found himself the master of Germany.

He triumphed in Italy through the support of the legists, and extended

his claims to the rest of Europe. Innocent IV., by issuing the bull of

excommunication against Frederic II. at the Council of Lyons, stopped

the German Cæsar in his career, and put an end to the invasions of

Italy he was constantly making. Italy, under the auspices of the

Papacy, displayed a long career of municipal liberty.

The development of Cæsarism in France as well as in Germany has

followed the overthrow of the temporal power of the Holy See. But the

German Empire will always retain an immense superiority over the French

Empire. It is less revolutionary, less democratic, less at variance

with its past history. It is not impossible that it may combine with

the local and municipal institutions of the country. Prussia is far

from our absolute centralization, and there is nothing to indicate that

she is to be subjected to it. She remains the ally of the great powers

of the Continent. She could easily have rallied all Europe against

imperial and Byzantine France. Let us not deny it: no victory of Louis

Napoleon’s could have secured the left bank of the Rhine. The German

coalition would very soon have drawn the rest of Europe after it. This

struggle of one against all is a necessity of Bonapartism. Nothing

can check it. Softness of manners, a refined civilization, pretended

condemnation of war, philanthropy bordering on religion, boundless

industry and credit, the military incapacity of Louis Napoleon,

nor anything else, could have prevented the war from breaking out.

“Revolution is war and bankruptcy,” said Royer-Collard. It obeys its

nature. It upheld the Bonapartes in spite of a kind of material order

and discipline they forced on the people; it required of them an armed

propaganda which they were more capable of managing successfully than

the republic itself. Louis Napoleon, with his mildness of character,

and talent as a writer, desired a peace that would enable him to

continue his utopian experiments in journalism. But he was not his own

master. He felt that a revolution at home constituted only one-half

of his obligations; the other half—revolution abroad—he was also

determined to effect, though to his regret. He regarded the bombs of

Orsini as a salutary warning, and submitted to his destiny. He extended

revolution to Italy and Mexico. He destroyed the influence of Austria.

Prussia profited by these disturbances to unite Germany. But Louis

Napoleon made a pitiful failure. He dashed against a wall with his

eyes shut. The pretext of a Hohenzollern on the Spanish throne was

ridiculous, and the legislative corps and senate that countenanced it

showed the measure of their political knowledge and independence.

It is difficult to comprehend by virtue of what principle or interest

he opposed the choice of a Hohenzollern. Had he not rejected the

hereditary principle? Had he not aided in overthrowing all the princes

of the House of Bourbon who still reigned through this principle? Was

not his own power based on election? And what did it matter to France

whether that pitiful Spanish crown was on one head rather than another?

What gratitude could he expect from those revolutionary sovereigns

whose patron or director he constituted himself? He took the petty

Subalpine king by the hand, and led him to the Crimea, and to the

Congress of Paris, and thence into all the capitals of Italy. His plans

were unveiled when he forced the unhappy Victor Emanuel to give his

daughter to the imperial cousin. Who then could cherish any illusion

as to the result? It was unfolded. Did the revolutionary union of the

south spring from it? This union could only be effected by the unity

of despotism. Napoleon knew it: his nephew forgot it. Revolutionary

nations are necessarily at war or distrustful of one another, as the

revolutionary factions of a nation are always contending, unless some

master—no matter whether it is an individual or a party—succeeds in

suppressing the rivalry.

This was the state of the case in our Revolution. Is it not a matter

of public notoriety that the name of Napoleon excites only horror and

disgust in Spain and Italy?

Louis Napoleon’s aim was not to subdue Europe by war, but to effect an

internal change of government by means of revolutionary principles.

This resulted in exciting all the great powers against him. He

thought there would be a revolution in Russia in consequence of the

emancipation of the serfs which he recommended to the Czar Alexander.

He overthrew the German Confederation though it was so powerful a

guarantee for the safety of France. It was he who made William Emperor

of Germany. The overthrow of the Confederation under the circumstances

in which it took place necessarily led to the empire, as the overthrow

of ancient France led to the imperial _régime_ that has lasted till

now. We need not be astonished at the efforts of the King of Prussia

to re-establish Louis Napoleon. They were accomplices, though Louis

Napoleon has been taken for the dupe. Not that he was not conscious

of the situation, but he warded off the flashes of reason and common

sense he had, and gave himself up to a hallucination. France imitated

him, with the conscript fathers of the senate and the legislative corps

at its head. Louis Napoleon contended for an idea, and he triumphed

after his manner, after the manner of his uncle. Conquered and made

prisoner, he was humiliated, not by defeat, which does not humiliate

the brave, but by accepting his defeat. He yielded to the conqueror, he

surrendered his sword. Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, but he was

not really cast down till he found himself on board the _Bellérophon_.

Then he realized who was victor. The lamentations of St. Helena

reveal the liberal despot. Louis Napoleon also became an author and a

journalist. He dreamed of returning to France. He published at Cassel

under the name of his friend, M. de Grécourt, a _brochure_ designed

to influence Germany in his favor. He had no doubt of being as warmly

welcomed by France as Napoleon was when he returned from the island of

Elba.

There was no change in France. Our social institutions were still

standing. The republicans had found nothing to modify in the wonderful

machinery of despotism. There was nothing to prevent him from resuming

his place. There was the invasion besides. Did the disasters of 1814

prevent Napoleon’s reascendancy in France in 1815? Was there any

lack of senators and representatives to welcome Cæsar? Was not the

popularity of the uncle the foundation of the nephew’s success? That

was the sole cause of Louis Napoleon’s accession. This popularity was

nothing more than the result of success. Power and success united

and counted the votes, and proclaimed the result. The revolutionary

power was not entirely destroyed by the events of 1814 and 1815; it

became an organized system, having its regulations, its leaders, its

journals, its secret societies, and its permanent committees variously

disguised under the forms of beneficence, pleasure, science, etc. No

regular government at variance with this many-sided, intangible power

could be established. The regular government of France especially—the

hereditary monarchy—could not take root again. Public opinion and

enthusiasm are like stage machinery that rises and falls. We witnessed

the workings of this machinery from 1848 to 1852. The inventors did not

even give themselves the trouble to hide the workings from the eyes of

the public. This reign of opinion has continued. The word of command

from the emperor was echoed by the ministers, and from them by the

_préfets_, _sous-préfets_, and mayors. The entire administration in

all its gradations walked in the same footsteps. By the public works,

loans, and illusory promises, the mass of electors were so fascinated

that they could refuse nothing to a government that was promoting

such benefits. Universal suffrage is the character in the comedy—the

simple, good-natured Demos of Aristophanes. In reality, it is the

emperor—he who has the _imperium_, individually or by a number of

individuals, who votes at the general election. In the Cæsarean system,

the emperor alone acts, but he acts in the name of the people, and as

the representative of the people. He is the voice of the people. This

must not be lost sight of when we judge the acts of Louis Napoleon.

In his _brochure_, he claims the good-will of the King of Prussia and

Germany, because it was France alone that desired the war. He did not

desire it; he was not responsible for it. This was pleading his own

imbecility and the culpability of France. What! he did not set France

against Germany? He did not break the treaties of 1815, or officially

condemn them? He did not constantly propose the policy of his uncle

as an example to France? He followed it without condemning an act or

a principle. The Jacobinism of his later years was a mere imitation

of the liberal ideas his uncle brought back from the island of Elba,

and continued to cultivate at St. Helena—ideas that M. Thiers, in his

voluminous compilation concerning the empire, regarded as serious!

This was why Louis Napoleon declared him “the national historian,”

and presided at the obsequies of Béranger, “the national poet.” This

Bonapartism in verse and prose had only one practical aim—the conquest

of the Rhine provinces. That was the favorite topic of old soldiers and

the zealous members of the imperial _entourage_. People of more sense,

who were not overscrupulous, resigned themselves to it as a necessity

of the situation. Ever since 1852, it had been thought there would be

a sudden blow aimed at Belgium or Germany. Was not Austria attacked

in 1859 without any reason or pretext, and, it may be said, without

a declaration of war, and in violation of all the laws of nations?

When and where did universal suffrage countenance this? Where was it

discussed by the ten million voters? What authority did they give

their representatives? The imperialists and liberals have refused the

electors the right which they enjoyed in 1789 to give directions to

those they elected. The member represents, then, only himself, though

individually he may have been acceptable to his constituents at the

time of the election. The elector is not free in his vote, because

he does not know his so-called deputy. And these representatives of

Cæsarism have never been free. No sooner are they nominated, than

they forget their orders and electors, and only aim at “the glory of

obedience” to Cæsar, like the senators of Tiberius.

Louis Napoleon played to perfection the game of Cæsarism. Conqueror

or conquered, he always kept a foothold. Victory immortalized him,

and assured perhaps his son’s future career. And defeat was not to

be imputed to him. As the representative of the people, he was only

a passive agent. A docile instrument of the passions and sentiments

of the people, he sacrificed himself. Did not this entitle him to

the gratitude of his fellow-citizens? He regarded the republic as

less popular than himself, and condemned by universal suffrage.

Besides, he affected to personify in a supreme degree the republican

element. It was not with respect to France he was anxious. He knew

that the Cæsarean constitution of France left a sure way always open

of regaining the throne. It was by foreigners he was overthrown. He

preferred this fall to the necessity of presiding over new disasters.

He was not sorry, either, to see the city of Paris, which of late

had been constantly opposed to the empire, and whose enmity daily

increased under its liberal laws, chastised by Prussia. King William

thus effected a _coup d’état_ which did not injure the emperor, and

made a return to despotism easier than at the beginning of the empire.

_La Situation_, the Bonaparte organ at London, insinuated that Prussia

had an interest in allying itself with Louis Napoleon, in order to

reconstruct the map of Europe. And it did not conceal that the neutral

countries, Belgium and Holland, were to pay for this reconciliation. In

this way, Bonapartism, though apparently crushed, showed signs of life,

and fostered its hopes. This was a sign it was not morally subdued. It

was overcome only to be restored. But the French republic was not in

a condition to restore it, because it confounded itself with it. It

must be ascertained if Europe feared Bonapartism or France. Bonapartism

aside, France is now a really peaceful, honest, Christian nation.

She has only been formidable since 1789 through the principles of

dissolution she has carried within herself and diffused abroad by means

of newspapers, secret societies, and armies.

The idea of giving Holland to Prussia, and Belgium to France, was

worthy of Louis Napoleon. Would Europe allow it? Prussia already

preponderates. France would gain nothing. She could not rise from

the inferiority into which she has fallen through late events. The

humiliation that Cæsarism has inflicted on our country is not a thing

of yesterday. Napoleon stated the problem clearly: France must subject

Europe to revolution, or disappear before a torrent of invasions.

These two alternatives have been successively more or less realized.

The Restoration gave peace once more to France and to Europe. France,

regaining her rank, menaced no one, and sustained herself by her

alliances. She fell again in the Revolution of 1830. Foreign sympathy

was withdrawn from us. All the alliances were broken off. The various

governments, stunned by the rebound of the Revolution, stood on their

guard. The monarchy of July sought to favor revolution moderately

abroad, and to direct it with skill at home. From that time, Europe

formed a coalition against us. During the first ten years of the

Revolution of July, the public mind was disturbed as to the possibility

of a great war with Germany. The liberal party used every effort to

bring it on, without any reason certainly, in order to fulfil one

of the conditions of the revolutionary programme, which is an armed

propaganda. It was with such views that the fortifications of Paris

were conceived by M. Thiers. The equilibrium of Europe was destroyed,

therefore, to our sole injury. The empire developed the seeds of

revolution sown by the government of July. France descended lower than

in 1830; she even lost all regard to decency, by giving herself up to

the revolutionary current. The distinguished men of talent who devoted

themselves to the service of Louis Philippe withdrew from the scene,

and were replaced by a crowed of nobodies. Assemblies, ministers, and

emperor entered on such a contradictory course that one might believe

our country had fallen into its dotage.

The Mexican war made America aware of our political weakness; and,

in the East, our diplomacy lost the last remnant of its influence

by taking a stand apart from Catholicism. The war of 1859 set

Italy against us—a country so lately governed by princes favorable

to France. The Italian unity and German unity consigned France to

a secondary rank. Finally, the commercial treaties have made us

subservient to England. Thus, in renouncing all idea of conquest,

Louis Napoleon did not give up disturbing Europe. France served as the

instrument of this work, and ended by being the victim. The material

disproportion of forces could only produce a catastrophe. Europe was

arming its men, while France, under Louis Napoleon’s direction, was

plunged in revolutionary metaphysics. It does not require any great

sagacity, however, to perceive that a revolutionary nation could not be

in a condition to sustain a conflict with a nation that has remained

true to conservative principles. What could be effected by combining

all these shattered elements? How could we depend on these bruised

reeds?

So rapid a decadence under the influence of anti-social principles

has permitted neighboring nations to renounce the traditions that

bound them to us. The admiration they felt for the superiority of

our civilization yielded to the fear of falling under a despotism

as unprincipled as it was senseless. It was from the hotbed of

Bonapartism, the inheritor of revolutionary traditions, that have

sprung the various revolutions which from 1814 to 1830 ensanguined all

Europe. The republic of 1848, exhausted in the course of ten months,

consigned its stock of revolutionism to Louis Bonaparte. He made it

yield with usury. Until 1859, he hesitated and felt his way, being

fettered by public sentiment, which was more conservative and Christian

than he could have wished. He skilfully got rid of the honest people

around him, and, once started, he never stopped again. From that fatal

period, he was no longer his own master: he was the ready tool of the

Revolution. It is surprising that the Bonapartes are not satisfied with

reigning over France; they think they have a right to all Europe—a

right to substitute the sovereignty of the people and elective

governments for all the hereditary monarchies. The mission they claim

secures the complicity of all the malcontents. The rulers assuredly

take note of all this danger. They understand that their enemy in

France is not France itself, but the Revolution.

The German Empire rekindles the fears that Louis XIV. inspired and

Napoleon made us realize. Owing to a remnant of feudalism, it is

founded on a much more solid basis than the French Empire was. When

it attains its utmost limit, there will really be only one power in

Europe. Even now, no one would think of denying its preponderance.

The balance of power can only be preserved by the alliance of the

secondary powers—France, Russia, Austria, and England. No one disputes

the superiority of Prussia. In order to attain it, it would have been

sufficient to be preserved during the half-century just elapsed from

the revolutions that have so lowered France and Austria. Prussian

statesmen labored energetically to unite Germany. By directing the

mental training in the universities, the secret societies, the press,

and the diplomacy, they have shown a system and energy that in France

would have enabled statesmen of another stamp to bewilder and crush the

genius of France, and bring our nation down to the dust. The Napoleonic

Empire was one vast treason. It only allured France in order to deliver

it up to foreigners. By giving her the choice between universal rule

and annihilation, he placed her in an absurd position, and subjected

her to certain ruin for the greater glory of Napoleon. It may here be

remarked that no man ever made a more lavish use than Napoleon of the

word “glory,” which the pagans so constantly had on their lips. It was

comprehensible to people that lived to serve masters who, having all

that could gratify pride and power in this world, aspired to glory

as the supreme recompense. It was under similar circumstances that

Napoleon and his nephew sought and obtained glory. Their names are

imperishable. They are connected with catastrophes human memory will

forever retain. They refused to reign peaceably by fulfilling their

duties as sovereigns. Rejecting a divine authority, and recognizing

no higher power, they made use of the people as the instrument of

their passions. One had a passion for conquering Europe, the other

for revolutionizing it. And France had to promote these designs, be

drained of men under the First Empire, and be revolutionized under

the Second, in order that the revolutionary contagion might be spread

throughout Europe. War, coming to the aid of this work, led to the

third invasion—the crowning achievement of the Third Empire.

The sole prejudice the French manifest in favor of the empire is that

it maintained the honor of our army, and restored order. This is only

true with respect to the Revolution. For the Revolution was absolute

disorder. And the aim of the empire was not to substitute order for

revolution, but to organize the Revolution by making it possible to

the vulgar mind. It proved, therefore, wholly incompetent to the work

of reorganizing society. Napoleon succeeded republican anarchy, and

would have left us in it at his downfall, had it not been for the

House of Bourbon, which saved us from foreigners and revolution. The

nephew likewise succeeded his mother, the republic, whose death he

hastened. And everybody knows that his natural death at the Tuileries

would have been followed by a triumphant republican rising at Paris. He

made every preparation for that. The republic of the 4th of September,

1870, was established almost as a matter of course, without violence,

without noise. The _régente_ had orders not to oppose anything. General

Montauban declared to all who would listen to him that he should

only offer moral resistance to the expected demonstration of the

4th of September. In fact, after Wissembourg, there was no imperial

government. That government, then, was anarchical in essence and

administrative by accident. It only rose momentarily above anarchy,

and speedily sank into it again. It dreaded nothing more than a peace

that would strengthen institutions, create new influences, and diminish

Cæsar’s personality. Louis Napoleon was perpetually remodelling the

different institutions, and without any apparent object. It was in

this way he did away even with the traditions of the First Empire, and

subjected the army to so many ridiculous experiences.

It doubtless seems singular—to accuse the uncle and the nephew of

anarchy, when their putting down anarchy was precisely their title

to govern France. But anarchy is not the only feature of the empire:

there was despotism besides; and with these original principles there

was an ingredient of political order which we do not deny. When this

side of things became apparent, the people threw themselves into the

emperor’s arms, and hailed him as the saviour of the country. When all

was lost, they took hold of the first thing that presented itself. In

our modern France, the empire and the Napoleons are the only memories

capable of fixing every eye and directing every vote at a given moment.

The salvage obtained, half the work remains to be accomplished. In the

latter part of its task, the empire always fails. Its principles hinder

it; they only favor order under conditions which prevent its solidity.

Why this special hatred kept up by the Bonapartes against the House of

Bourbon? The Bonapartes have nothing against the Bourbons; our kings

had long lost their power when the Bonapartes seized it. There is no

personal difference between them and the Bourbons. We must look beyond

to find the connection between the cause and effect. The Bourbons and

the Bonapartes are above all that is individual and personal. They

represent two opposite causes. By the intrigues of Louis Napoleon, the

offshoots of the House of Bourbon have disappeared from the thrones of

southern Europe. They are a living protestation against revolutions.

The Bourbons have in vain allied themselves with the revolutionary

party, and ruined their own cause; they never succeeded in gaining the

good-will of their adversaries, so effectually have their principles,

which they cannot divest themselves of, protected the monarchical

cause against themselves! The House of Bourbon, in its downfall at

Naples and Madrid, was elevated by its fall. The dethroned Neapolitan

king has shown himself more Christian, more kingly, than before he

fell. The Spanish monarchy, by the mouth of Don Carlos, has expressed

sentiments truly worthy of a king, and contrasts with the attitude of

the elective and liberal king who has just left. The House of Bourbon

has been purified by the crucible of revolutions, because, in spite of

its failings and misfortunes, it represents the principle of right.

The Bonapartes remain true to themselves. They do not vary in their

_rôle_ or in their pretensions, and remain attached to principles

irreconcilable with the peace of France and all Europe. The recall of

the Bourbons is an European necessity. It will be more easily effected

when the wall of prejudice, which has barred the way, is wholly broken

down. This European war had been foreseen from the beginning of the

empire. Louis Napoleon, in throwing the responsibility of it on France,

acknowledged that he yielded to the fatality of his position. What

could be a more decisive proof, and what other could be wished, that

the empire is war? No one in France desired war. Nothing was ready. The

liberal party curtailed every year the budget of the army. Prussia gave

us no excuse for aggression; all the _chancelleries_ advised peace. It

was then that, a prey to the evil genius of his family, to obsessions

that deprived him of sense and foresight, Louis Napoleon made a sudden

attack on Germany, without looking to see if he was followed, or how he

was followed.

Our fault was in not being ready, say the Bonapartists. That is an

illusion. At no price could the empire have been ready. The military

organization, weakened by perpetual changes, the corruption and lack

of discipline diffused among the soldiers and under-officers by means

of the public journals and secret societies, the limited resources

available under a system which affected a kind of communism in the

civil order, and constantly encroached on future supplies, rendered

reform impossible. Everything set aside the thought of attempting

it. The budget paid 400,000 men, and our army did not really exceed

200,000! A reform in France on the Prussian model would have required

several years and the overthrow of all our modern institutions.

Can we imagine, with the other expenditures of our budget, eight

hundred millions more for the army? Prussia has been half a century

in achieving its present organization. Germany has its gradation of

ranks and classes. A numerous nobility forms the basis of its military

institutions, and furnishes, in time of war as well as peace, the

natural leaders of the whole nation. And we Frenchmen—we are still

under the elective system, which is that of children at their sports.

Leaders who are improvised remain necessarily without authority, unless

they have been prepared for their _rôle_ by their previous life. Our

military organization corresponds to our social organization: and it is

the empire, a military _régime_, but also a Saint-Simonian _régime_,

that has co-operated actively in the military dissolution of France. It

was by being mixed with Saint-Simonism that it returned to the extreme

notions of 1789 and 1793. This socialism that was to sustain the empire

against the clergy, the conservative party, and the republicans, did it

weigh one ounce in his favor? At the first reverse, all the socialism

in authority disappeared. And Louis Napoleon has had no adversaries

more implacable than all these socialists whom he fed, and who are

making up for their former servility by their present abuse.

We must not weary of meditating on these words: France fights for an

idea. This idea, under various names, is the Revolution, socialism, and

the principles of 1789. Louis Philippe, that emperor on a small scale,

and that “best of republics,” pursued the same crooked way. He classed

his wars and foreign intrigues under the mild term of “liberalism.”

He propagated in his way, by the assistance of the Assemblies, the

principles of the Revolution. He gradually but persistently violated

the treaties of 1815, which had put an end to twenty-five years of

social war in Europe. It was in violation of these treaties that he

ascended the throne. He interfered in Belgium in the name of the

Revolution; he aided greatly in the downfall of the Bourbons of Spain;

he occupied Ancona, in spite of the Holy See, and indicated a course

to Gregory XVI. that was identical with the terms of Louis Napoleon’s

letter to Edgar Ney. Finally, less Catholic than M. Guizot, he

applauded the ruin of the Sonderbund, and refused Prince von Metternich

the support of France in protecting the interests of the smaller

cantons, our friends and ancient allies. By his inaction, he favored

the revolutionary cause when he did not serve it with his forces.

The revolutionary triumph at Berne soon extended to Paris, and Louis

Philippe had to withdraw more speedily than he came. He propagated

revolutionism in Europe during the whole course of his reign, with less

display than Louis Napoleon, but with as much perversity. Certainly,

neither Prussia, nor Austria, nor Russia were deceived as to the

cause and tendency of the Revolution of 1830. They protested in vain.

England alone took sides with Louis Philippe: thence the subserviency

of our policy to that of England. Louis Philippe made the most of that

ally of the Revolution: through party spirit, he sacrificed even the

interest and honor of France. We recognize there the soldier of 1789,

the former usher of the Jacobin club. And Louis Napoleon, for the same

cause, humiliated himself more profoundly. He put his ministers, his

assemblies, his diplomacy, our commerce, and our industries at the

feet of England. And he certainly was not ignorant that England would

never send him a shilling or a man. But he knew that England protected

revolution on the Continent. He bound her to the revolutionary cause

by the Crimean war and the commercial treaty. England powerfully

seconded it in Italy and Spain. It was Bonapartism that English policy

has developed even while thinking it was making use of it. Coming

events will tell whether England has not, by violating her traditions,

hastened a decline already evident and even alarming.

It is possible that, by rejecting the pretended English alliance,

which was never anything but a lure, France would have been forced to

closer relations with the Continent, and to conform to the European

law of nations, which would have saved Europe from great calamities.

The sovereigns, then, have some interest in withdrawing France from

English complicity. The Restoration alone understood the practice of

French policy, and alone maintained a firm attitude with respect to

England. Its whole policy, interior as well as exterior, was national

and uninfluenced by England. The conquest of Algiers was the most

brilliant result of that policy. The Restoration made successful wars,

and wars Europe had no reason to complain of; for they were carried on

with the consent of the powers, and to re-establish the law of nations

settled by the treaties of 1815. Such was the character of the war

with Spain in 1823. Peace reigned then among all the great powers of

the Continent, and it was solely to the House of Bourbon it was owing;

that house overthrown, a spirit of revolt broke out on all sides, and

made thrones totter. What profit did France derive from it? Condemning

herself by her institutions to perpetual war, France pronounced her own

sentence of death. She conquered under Napoleon only by the ability of

her leader, when she found herself contending with one or two nations.

She successively defeated each of her enemies. At length her armies

were made up of recruits from every country in Europe; she incorporated

the vanquished through the same policy as ancient Rome. It was an army

composed of soldiers from all parts of Europe that Napoleon led into

Russia. The disaster of 1812 freed Germany. Then, for the first time,

a serious coalition was arranged, and Napoleon was defeated by the

combined forces in 1813, 1814, and 1815. Louis Napoleon attacked Russia

and Austria separately. He isolated Prussia from the great powers, but

his policy of nationality brought on German unity. And it was the whole

of Germany that confronted him when he merely wished to confront the

King of Prussia. The King of Prussia, had he been defeated, would have

appealed to the Emperor of Austria and the czar, who would not have

failed him. Our revolutionary tendencies will always draw a coalition

upon us. The late events have weakened the revolutionary party in

Europe to such a degree that the support it offered us, and on which

we relied, will be of no more avail. Europe, surprised by the outburst

of 1789, yielded to our arms for twenty years. She then united, and,

imitating the imperial military policy, carried it to a degree of

perfection that left us behind. What remains for France and all Europe

but to agree in re-establishing peace by conformity of political

principles? And in 1873, as in 1815, this peace depends solely on the

recall of the House of Bourbon to France. It is to this work that

Europe is invited if she does not wish to perpetuate a revolution

which, after ruining France, will not leave one of the great powers

standing.

The French Revolution has till now been the object of public attention.

Princes and people have bestirred themselves for a century to oppose

or sustain it. The inability of the principles of 1789 to establish

anything, and the invasion of 1870, have opened the eyes of France, and

better disposed it to make terms with Europe henceforth. But beside the

French Revolution, now growing powerless, rises a political element

that suddenly overawes and disturbs European equilibrium. A policy

of defence and preservation ought to be directed against the Empire

of Germany, not to destroy it, but to guarantee the safety of other

governments by a general alliance and a new law of nations. France

will never declare war against Europe again. Louis Napoleon is the

last to make such a challenge. Personally, there was nothing warlike

in him; but he represented a system that tends to war. To him this war

was an amusement, a distraction. To divert himself by a general war,

in order to escape for a moment from national affairs that perplexed

him! The diversion was powerful; as well blow out one’s brains to

drive away _ennui_. The mass of the French people did not participate

in the madness of the Bonaparte system: they are victims as well as

Europe. Only we have come to that phase of the system which is more

particularly humiliating to France. The three great allied powers of

the North have nothing more to fear from France. But this alliance of

the North is no longer on terms of equality. We say great powers! There

is now but one great power—Germany. And she necessarily threatens

Austria and Russia by her military strength and by her expansive power,

through her hardy and laborious race, that is filling the United

States with swarms of colonizers, extending to the neighboring Sclave

countries in Russia, and putting forth its shoots even on French soil.

German preponderance will pursue its course. It is not universal

rule, but a preponderance that will tend to it, unless a union of the

secondary powers oppose it with a strong, resisting force. Germany

herself will not be wanting in prudence. Her reign will last its time;

it is sure of only a short triumph. In twenty-five years, Russia, in

consequence of the progress of science and industry, will be able to

subjugate Germany. Germany will then have need of France.

By a law of Providence, nations that rise from an uncertain beginning

seem to attain their height suddenly, and almost as speedily begin to

decline. We Frenchmen have had our day of power and glory in the middle

ages. The age of Louis XIV. was our era of intellectual superiority and

political preponderance. We have come down from that pinnacle; there is

no denying it. Germany, by its material strength, is rising far above

the point we attained. England, France, Russia, and Austria no longer

have any influence, by their diplomacy and alliances, over the hundreds

of petty princes and peoples that constituted the German Confederation.

They are shut out of Germany. Any pretension to interference would

make them a laughing-stock. All these powers, Russia excepted, have

pursued a foolish policy, and are receiving the recompense due to

their shrewdness. Inheritor of Richelieu, the French Revolution so

disturbed Germany as to overthrow all its princes. The German nation

has survived, and by the concentration of its unity has acquired

a power of aggression and conquest it was incapable of under its

former organization. The Revolution of 1789 resulted in the immediate

elevation of England, which from the third rank rose almost to the

first—a rank she would still have, had she not replaced the policy

of Pitt and Burke by the policy of Lord Palmerston and his followers.

Louis Napoleon created the Empire of Germany, but England applauded his

course. All her statesmen have rejoiced in the humiliation of France

that has resulted from it. Those debaters and merchants have advocated

the establishment of an immense military empire in the heart of Europe,

without perceiving that peaceful and industrious England would thereby

lose its influence. She is destined to decline still further. Her

influence on the Continent depended on the old balance of power, and

preponderated through her alliance with Austria. In 1859, she betrayed

Austria, and shamefully disavowed the treaties of 1815. Austria turned

to Russia, or to Prussia, or to both at once.

The old kingdoms, the historic nations, are breaking in pieces. In

reality, it is the Prussian Empire that has been founded, rather than

the German Empire restored. Germany retains enough of Catholic life

to give her a tone of moral and intellectual grandeur that render her

superior to Russia and the United States. There is nothing to disturb

her but the future, and a future not far distant, if the people of

Southern Europe continue to abandon themselves to revolutionary

principles. We are far from believing that France can never rise

again. She rose after 1815: the same causes produce the same effects.

What concerns Europe is that France will never resume her _rôle_ of

agitator. Bonapartism is still powerful. It prevails through the habits

and necessities which concentrate and direct the whole political,

moral, and mental activity of France. This storm over, the name of

Napoleon will again disturb the public mind, and unite the suffrage.

The republic of 1870 is dragging along in the old beaten track of

imperialism. It has merely set up the men of 1848 or 1830—old,

worn-out functionaries, whose incapacity has increased rather than

diminished. It is time for a reaction against childish prejudices. The

motto of the liberal school is: Revolution and Progress! It is well

to know that a revolution is, etymologically speaking, a turn back.

Our liberals cling to the days of 1789. In a few years, they will be a

century behindhand. France rapidly rose from her helplessness of 1815

to the Spanish war of 1823, and the conquest of Algiers. Then a fatal

revolution arrested its progress, and it fell back to a state bordering

on that of ‘89. Louis Philippe kept us in subjection eighteen years.

He was overthrown by the socialism which he restrained, but which

with a bound returned to the theories of ‘93 in the name of progress!

These sudden relapses disorganize and destroy the social machine.

The Restoration alone was successful, because it was the regular

government. The House of Bourbon is able to give interior peace to

France. It is not the government of a party, for it does not derive its

title from the popular vote. It appeals to the conscience and reason

like a natural law and a national necessity. It has no other ambition

but to make France once more a Christian kingdom by ensuring the

general peace of Europe on the basis of a new public law. What great

power will dare refuse her its aid, when so strongly interested in the

same cause?

ENGLISH DOMESTIC FESTIVITIES.

BY AN ENGLISH CATHOLIC.

MEDIÆVAL England was the home of merriment and the scene of all manner

of family festivals and athletic rejoicings. Heir to the old Norse

traditions of Yule-tide, she preserved the spirit of innocent and manly

sport better perhaps than those less hardy and more polished lands of

the Mediterranean whose pleasures were mostly such as could be enjoyed

from the vantage-point of a balcony, and the soft resting-place of a

gilded ottoman. In England, the national pleasures are pleasures of

action as well as of sight; and, even in those specially destined to

commemorate the glories of an ancient feudal family, the members of

the family do not recline in luxurious ease, patronizingly looking on

at the feasts provided to do them honor, but mingle with the people,

share in their games, and compete for prizes with the rest. This it

is that distinguishes English festivities from any other, and stamps

them with an individuality which in the sequel has no little political

significance. The sister countries share in this attribute of hearty

good-fellowship among classes, and indeed what is here said of England

may be said interchangeably of Scotland and Ireland.

Still, things are not done in our day in precisely the same lavish

and baronial way that was common in Tudor times, and a revival of

this generous style of entertainment, though not infrequent, cannot

be called other than a rarity. This certainly enhances the interest

attaching to one of these social relics of the past; and the great

pageant two years ago at S. Paul’s Cathedral, London, in thanksgiving

for the recovery of the heir to the throne, was perhaps the most

brilliant and successful modern attempt to revive the glories of

England’s “golden age”; but yet, in some measure, more individuality

attaches to country _fêtes_ than even to such a national event as the

“Thanksgiving Procession.”

Then, too, they are so little known beyond the rural neighborhood

in which they occur that to us across the ocean they come as fresh

revelations of the inner structure—social, political, and domestic—of

the great mother country, whose language is now that of the greater

half of the civilized world. Such a festival is also rendered still

more interesting in our eyes when it takes place in a Catholic family,

under Catholic auspices, and is pervaded with the broad spirit

of Catholic generosity. The best days of “merrie” were those of

“Catholic” England, and the national character, now universally known

as the British—_i.e._, moroseness and gloom of disposition—is wholly

a graft of the unhappy Lutheran Rebellion. Unquestionably, the most

English domestic festival, the most characteristic, and the aptest to

exhibit Englishmen of all ranks and stations in their best aspect, is

a “Coming of Age.” This is celebrated on the twenty-first anniversary

of the birth of the heir to a large property, and is essentially an

outgrowth of the institution of primogeniture.

In the instance of which we speak, the festival took place in a

Catholic house, on the estate of the largest land-owner of one of the

midland counties of England. There was a large family gathering bidden

from all parts of the country; relatives of all denominations met in

perfect peace and friendship round the board of the Catholic head

of their house; there were clergymen and government clerks, married

sisters with large families, old aunts in sufficiently quaint costume,

young lawyers, parliamentary men, soldiers and sailors, some with

years of service behind them, some with their spurs yet to win; in

fact, each generation, from that of “powder and patches” down to that

of the nursery of to-day, was impartially and favorably represented.

The house, a large, roomy Tudor building, was still too small to

accommodate all the guests, and the lodges and even the inns of the

neighborhood, had to be put into requisition. When we drove through

the park on Tuesday evening, 10th of October, 18—, the first thing

that struck us was seeing moving lights in front of the house; and,

our carriage being suddenly stopped, we found that the lights were

carried by E—— and the servants to prevent our being shipwrecked upon

tent-ropes and poles! By that dim light, we discerned the outline of

the immense tent run out from the end window of the drawing-room; and,

as we looked at the preparations, the work really seemed as if carried

on by fairies, so quickly and perfectly was it accomplished. The place

was looking lovely; some of the beautiful trees were just touched with

the first tints of scarlet and gold, others still fresh and green. At

the east end of the Terrace Garden is a very handsome stone balustrade,

between the flower-garden and the straight walk leading to the old

Hall (a ruined house, once the family mansion, and now standing in the

grounds as a picturesque ornament, and also a convenient place for

school entertainments, servants’ dances, etc.) “To any prosaic mind,”

said a friend of ours, “there is always great amusement in watching

work of any kind; and the object for which all was going on gave me

such a real interest in it that I do not think any one entered more

fully than I did into even the minutest details of preparation.” Lord

G——, the owner of the house, and the father of the young recipient

of these patriarchal honors, gave Captain W—— _carte blanche_ about

many little things, and was so kindly pleased with every endeavor: all

the people worked with _such_ eagerness and good-will. Old Philip (a

garrulous old carpenter who knows the family history far better than

the family itself!) and Captain W—— made fast friends in no time.

The entrance tent became in a few days very pretty—lined with scarlet

and white, the floor covered with red, marble tables at the sides; and

at one end on a table was placed Lord G——’s bust, and a pier-glass

behind it, the two corners of the tent at each side being filled with

plants of variegated foliage. Just opposite the entrance was hung the

large picture of the _fête_ at Fort Henry when Lord G—— came of age

(thirty or more years ago); and very quaint indeed are the costumes and

most charming the “bonnets” of the “period”; but we were assured by

Philip they were all perfect likenesses! There were light chandeliers

suspended from the roof, which had a fine effect even in daytime, and

sofas were placed round the walls, so that one only felt what a pity

it would be when such a pretty entrance hall would be demolished! At

one end was the entrance, and the passage to the front door, all filled

with flowers. Much fun went on whilst all these things were being

placed, and some even said the preparations would be the best part of

all.

The hero of the festivities himself arrived a day or two after us.

Being in the army, as are most young men of good prospects in England,

he had hitherto been away with his regiment, and only obtained leave

of absence for this occasion. He seemed delightfully happy, but most

naturally, not excitedly; and throughout the whole no one could be more

unaffected or unspoilt by being the one object of all these rejoicings.

Where many a young man might have shown himself over-elated, he was

exactly himself, happy and cheerful, but quiet, calm, and always

self-possessed. When all the preparations were finished, nothing

could be more beautiful. It is not too much to say that they were

princely, yet all was in perfect taste and keeping—nothing of vain

show and ostentation, thoroughly refined, and so truly represented by

the word which to our mind conveys the highest praise, _gentlemanly_;

above all, everything was arranged for the happiness and rejoicing of

others, of high and low, of rich and poor, and nothing overlooked which

could gratify the feelings of participants. On each of the different

approaches to the house, the banners, placed at different distances

on each side of the drives, had a beautiful effect, as well as the

larger flags on the house, on the old Hall, on the church-tower; and

these brilliant colors were set off by the more varied and almost

equally rich tints of the trees. On Monday (the 16th October), the

festivities began in earnest. The first act was our all going directly

after breakfast up to the old Hall to see the gigantic cask of

21-years-old ale opened, and, as in duty bound, to taste the ale to

Charlie’s health. The universal custom in England of brewing a large

quantity of the very best ale the year an heir is born, and keeping it

untouched until the day he comes of age, when the cask is broached and

distributed in prudently moderate quantities to the guests and tenants,

is of very ancient origin, and is most religiously adhered to. Another

custom is that of planting an oak-tree near the house the year of the

heir’s birth, to commemorate the event, and the sapling is always

called after its human foster-brother. This tapping the ale was like

reading a page out of some memoir of former times, and reminded us of

the stories of Sir Walter Scott.

The cavernous cellar in which stand the mysterious casks, the ivy-grown

ruin overhead, the brawny men opening the family treasures, and serving

as rustic cup-bearers to the guests, all made a thorough old-time

picture. Some of the party, after this ceremony was over, left us to go

to the first village feast, the prototype—a description of which will

equally fit all the others. There are seven villages on the estates,

and each felt itself entitled to a separate local entertainment.

Ridlington, which supplies the family with one of its many titles, was

the first to experience its lord’s hospitality.

The feast consisted of an abundant supply of meat, ale, and cakes

for men, women, and children alike, with games on the village green,

races for simple prizes, such as articles of useful clothing, etc. The

greased pole formed the chief attraction for the men and boys, and of

course was productive of the greatest merriment, through the harmless

accidents to which it inevitably exposes the candidates for the honors

of successful climbing. During the repast, speeches were freely made

and healths proposed, every one much alike, but all interesting,

through the hearty reciprocity of feeling evinced between landlord

and tenant. Returning home, the host and his daughters prepared to

receive their unexpected guests, the greater number of whom were to

assemble that evening. Our “prosaic-minded” friend here interposed a

characteristic comment, in these words: “When the influx of guests

took place about six o’clock that same evening, you may conceive the

feelings of the ‘family aunt’ descending the stairs before dinner,

as if one of the pictures had stepped out of its frame to mix in

such a crowd of strangers, for such are almost all to me!” As the

drawing-rooms were dismantled in preparation for the ball, there was

only the oak corridor to sit in, and it must be confessed it required

some tact to find seats; whilst, of course, all the men crowded

together, English fashion, under the staircase! Capt. W—— acquired

the name of “master of the ceremonies,” as he and E—— (one of our

young hostesses) drew up the order of march to dinner, and he was

deputed to tell every one who to take—rather puzzling in an assemblage

scarcely one of whom he had ever seen before. The “weighty” matter of

English precedence in such a company is more important than any one

would suppose; and we cannot wonder that such social punctiliousness

should raise a smile among people of simpler though not less generous

habits.

The dinner was a most elaborate affair; indeed, in England, it is

always the crowning portion of any entertainment, and the test of a

genuine social success. The table looked beautiful with the massive

silver plate: the épergne representing a herd of stags (the white

stag is Lord G——’s crest) feeding under a spreading oak; the vases

of classical shape, formerly wine-coolers, but now, more congenially

to modern refinement, filled with ferns or plants of colored foliage,

contrasting with the frosted silver; flowers and fruit in utopian

abundance, and every vase or dish raised on a stand of crimson

velvet, in artistic relief against the delicate white damask of the

table-cloth—and this, of course, every day the same. Among the guests

we may pause a moment to mention a lady of whom a stranger to her

gave this characteristic description: saying that she was nicely but

quietly dressed, had large, soft eyes, an intelligent expression, and

a thoughtful look. She was certainly the most interesting and the

cleverest person of the company, if the inward history of a mind is to

count more than its outward covering. Suffice it to say that a few of

those present knew how to appreciate her, especially a clergyman of

the neighborhood noted for his historical researches and antiquarian

learning—the Rev. G. H. Hill. Among those whom social reticence does

not forbid us to distinguish by name was also an architect of rare

merit, under whose supervision part of the building had been erected—a

man whose mind is thoroughly artistic, and whose name, already the

property of the public, we need therefore not hesitate to give—Mr.

C. Buckler. His testimony, characteristic as it must be, will not

be inappropriate in this sketch; of the whole festival he could say

with truth, as he did in a charming letter to his patron and host,

that it was thoroughly mediæval in spirit. This is high praise in

the mouth of an Englishman and an artist; for our national pride is

inseparably woven with feudal and ancestral feelings, an admiration for

the open-handed generosity and lavish display of baronial times—for

everything, in a word, that made England a fit nurse for Shakespeare,

and an ideal for Washington Irving.

If our readers are not weary of pen-portraits, here is one—that of the

daughter of the lady we have just spoken of, which our dear old friend,

the “often-quoted,” thus incisively draws: “She is a pretty little

thing, with a very white skin, delicate wild-rose color, and very

bright and large eyes, and as much as possible keeping close to her

mother’s side, but evidently fond of dancing, and enjoying everything

with perfect freshness.” We are pleased to notice here that this type

of the English girl is not so defunct as some pessimists would have us

believe, and that, despite paint and fastness, and the clumsy imitation

of Parisian vice, there is yet in store for the future a generation

of homeloving wives and mothers. Of another of the near relations of

the host, our friend says: “It suffices to mention Lady L——’s name

to express all that is bright, and kind, and good; her presence was

a charm, but she was obliged to go away after two days, and it was a

blank not to see her.”

This woman, whose social charm is so irresistible, is none the less a

generous and devoted attendant on a husband whose mind had given way,

and whose health was more than precarious; it was his comfort, indeed,

which was the cause of her short stay in the house of rejoicing.

The great charm of this thoroughly pleasant gathering was that there

were no “grand people,” no “fashionable people,” no “fast people”; that

all were natural and real, and everybody seemed pleased and happy. But

our “prosaic” friend actually was not satisfied, and complained gently

of the disappointment, among so many young people, of not being able to

idealize any incipient romance; for, she queried, “would it not have

thrown a charm of poetry over the whole thing?”

No, truly, although the thought is touching and pretty; for, after all,

the fairest ideal of love could not live in a crowd, and the love we

read of in Elizabethan records was more courtly than deep, more gallant

than true. Love is an angel, not a Cupid.

One evening, there was a ball for the county families, many of whose

houses were filled with their own circle of friends, all of whom were

included in the invitations. The rooms looked gay and brilliant;

toilets were resplendent, and the family pictures, with which the walls

were literally covered, gazed down on an assemblage almost as bright as

their own. In the hall was a white stuffed stag, with hoofs and antlers

gilt, representing in life-size the family crest. The next morning,

breakfast _began_ at the usual hour (ten), but few appeared; but, by

two o’clock, they gradually stole down, when tea and coffee had given

place to luncheon. Wednesday evening, there was the servants’ ball.

Every one went into the large tent, which made a splendid ball-room.

The dancing was rather amusing to watch, for it was not the _forte_

of the assemblage; but they all looked very happy, and the dignity of

their manners to each other was quite edifying! Still, we thought it a

great shame to criticise. Thursday, there was the feast for other and

nearer villages, Exton, Barrow, and Cottesmore, with games before the

people sat down. And it was a goodly sight when all the tables were

peopled; all the men at dinner, and all the women and children at tea.

Lord G——’s health was drunk first. It was the first occasion on which

he had to speak, and it utterly overcame him; for he alluded to the

former time when they had all been thus assembled to welcome him to

E—— on his accession to the title. But the warmth and heartiness with

which his few words were received must surely have pleased him. Then

they drank his son’s health, to which toast the young man responded

modestly and well. Later on in the evening, there were beautiful

fireworks, which lit up the whole place most gorgeously.

Fireworks are not a specialty with Englishmen, but on this occasion

they really went off to the credit of all concerned. The host has had

long experience in such things in Italy, where the merest village can

shame London itself on this head. The clusters of Chinese lanterns

among the trees bordering the drives, the Bengal lights shooting up in

fitful illuminations across the broken front of the church tower and

the old Hall, the steadier lamps along the lines of the house itself,

and the reflection of all in the many little lakes within the grounds,

made the display peculiarly attractive. Every one enjoyed it to the

uttermost.

Friday, the 20th of October, the heir’s birthday, was _the_ day, _par

excellence_. And here we are reminded that we are among those who

have returned to the faith of old England, and have brought back to

the original giver of the great free institutions of the country—the

Catholic Church—all the gifts of intellect, education, culture,

and learning drawn from her alienated universities and the polished

influence of her errant sons. A solemn High Mass, with appropriate

ecclesiastical music, was the first interest that gathered the guests

together. Many not of our faith were there, joining reverently,

and as far as they could, in the beautiful service; the domestic

chapel, almost in size a church, looked very fair in the pale morning

light that streamed through its pointed windows; the shadows of the

beech-leaves, turning to brown and gold, were thrown fitfully across

the Lady Chapel, against whose outside walls the great tree almost

leans; bars of dusky golden light lay on the stone floor of the

memorial chapel, where the foundress sleeps; and, as the white-robed

choristers and acolytes moved softly to and fro in the deep choir,

the beautiful contrast seemed to force itself upon one’s imagination

between them and the worshippers in the nave, clad in dark, quiet

draperies, and massed together in shadowy corners—typifying so

delicately the restful life of the future, and the toiling watch

still to be kept in the present. From this, the most congenial and

appropriate scene we had yet witnessed, we turned regretfully to

the new pleasures of the day. The first event was very momentous,

and was marked by great state, being no less than the presentation

of a silver inkstand to the young hero of the _fête_, Lord C——,

from the servants. All the household was drawn up at one end of the

entrance-tent. Poor good Mrs. H——, the housekeeper, whom nearly

twenty years’ service had made a mother to the host’s children, was

quite unable to restrain her tears, while behind the large round table,

with the inkstand on it, stood J——, the butler, _pale_ with the

responsibility of his coming speech. Lord C—— stood opposite, with

the family and guests behind him. This was the most touching scene of

all, but none the less the most formidable ceremony. The presentation

was very creditably made, and as gracefully acknowledged, to the equal

satisfaction of all parties; and, among the birthday gifts, none was

so valued by the recipient. He had grown up among these old friends;

the few who had not known him as a boy had heard the tales of his

childhood, and experienced the kindness of his manner. All felt as if

he belonged to them, and as though his interests were theirs. This

feeling, too, is one of the relics of the past fast disappearing from

the heartless fabric of modern society; and it is pleasant to see

traces of it yet left here and there in the ancient baronial households

of England.

The concluding festivity was on a gigantic scale, and proved the

most characteristic of any. This was the grand ball and supper to

the tenants, which furnished the local newspapers with materials for

rapturous descriptions and complimentary “leaders” for at least a

week afterwards. The entrance tent was lined with the officers of

the yeomanry in full uniform (scarlet), to the number of eighteen or

twenty; the band of their regiment was also in attendance, and the

land-steward, to whose management much had been entrusted, introduced

each party of the tenants as they arrived. Nearly five hundred of these

characteristic guests were soon assembled, Lord G——, his daughters,

and two sons dancing in turn with all the most prominent of them. The

ball opened with a country-dance; not the formal quadrille, but the

hearty, old-fashioned performance, in which the elderly and heavy

are as comfortably at home as the young and the supple. The ball,

however, brilliant as it was, was but secondary to the supper, which

was the crowning-point of the week’s doings—the occasion, long looked

forward to, of pleasant and witty speeches, of hearty good-will, and

of manifestations of real and substantial friendship. To borrow the

words of a weekly of the neighborhood, the Lincolnshire _Chronicle_:

“At one o’clock, supper was served in the marquee, which, tastefully

decorated, brilliantly lighted, and filled with the gaily attired

company, presented a scene which will not soon be forgotten by those

who had the pleasure of witnessing it. The yeomanry band played ‘The

Roast Beef of Old England’ as the party glided into the tent, and, when

all had taken their places, grace was said. With the exception of a

buck roasted whole and sent to table with gilt antlers, the whole of

the viands were cold, the _pièce de résistance_ being a splendid baron

of beef. The birthday cake occupied a prominent position at a centre

table, and among other novelties was a fine peacock in full plumage.

Just before the toast of the evening was given, the beautiful present

of plate purchased by the tenantry was carried in and placed in front

of the young Lord C——, on the principal table.” “When all were

seated,” says another local paper, “the _coup d’œil_, from the entrance

of the tent, was very striking; the gay uniforms of the yeomanry, and

the dresses of the ladies, combined with the colored lining of the

tent, the numerous flags and banners, and the innumerable chandeliers

filled with wax candles, presenting a very brilliant effect. The Earl

of G—— and his distinguished visitors were seated at a long raised

table facing the guests of the evening, and immediately in front of

him were two other raised tables, upon one of which was a baron of

beef weighing between 30 and 40 stone, and a whole roasted buck. There

were also 21 joints of roast beef, 15 of pressed beef, 17 galantines

of veal, 24 game pies, 14 large hams, 28 tongues, 15 turkeys, 8 boars’

heads, 15 rounds of beef, 10 legs and 14 shoulders of mutton, 72 roast

fowls, 54 pheasants, 62 partridges, 20 plum-puddings, etc. etc., making

a total of 1,000 dishes.”

The speeches being the great characteristic incident of the feast,

we will quote some parts of them, showing in their simple energy

how close the ties of friendship still are between the owner and

the tiller of the soil. Some of the speakers were farmers, most of

them prosperous and pushing men. We take our quotations from the

Lincolnshire _Chronicle_: “Mr. Berridge proposed the health of the

Earl of G—— as a nobleman, a neighbor, and a friend.... The noble

earl had inherited from his ancestors that military blood which always

ran through the veins of the N——ls [the family name of Lord G——].

If they looked round these halls, they would see the portrait of many

an old warrior.... He understood Lord C—— now belonged to the army,

and he would express a wish that that young nobleman might one day be

commander-in-chief of England (cheers). Speaking of the family, he was

reminded of an anecdote. A friend of his was taking a drive through

the lanes in the neighborhood of this house, when he came in view of

the mansion, and said to an old laborer he met on the road: ‘Who lives

here, my man?’ ‘Lord G——,’ was the reply. ‘Is it an old family?’ was

the next inquiry. ‘They came here, sir, before the Flood,’ was the

response (laughter and cheers).”

This _naïveté_ of the old man reminds one of the proud boast of some

old French family, that they had an ark of their own at the time of the

Flood, and were quite independent of Noe and his ship of refuge!

Lord G——, in his earnest reply, gracefully alluded in the following

words to the long tenure of land by the farmers’ ancestors: “There can

be nothing more gratifying than the existence of cordial good feeling

between the occupiers of land and their landlords; and there can be

no better evidence of this happy state of things than to find, upon

reference to records of the past, numbers of families living upon the

same estate for generations—for a longer time, perhaps, than the

owners of the estate themselves (hear, hear). I believe there are many

people here whose ancestors have been for centuries upon this property;

and one can only hope that the same families, from father to son, may

continue here for centuries hereafter, and that what has happened

in years past will be repeated in years to come, so that, by your

descendants and the descendants of my son a long time hence, the same

mutual good feeling may be evinced and similar occurrences be witnessed

as these we celebrate this evening.”

Lord D——, an early friend of the host, proposed the health of the

young recipient of the day’s honors. His speech, quite the best of all,

is worthy of notice. After a very apt and graceful beginning, he said:

“I am speaking to tenant-farmers and breeders of stock, and you know

that, when you look upon a young animal, you always inquire after his

sire—what he came from (laughter and cheers); and you judge, from what

has been, what will be (renewed cheering). But you know what the N——s

are—what their stock is (great cheering). They have lived in this

country among you and before your eyes for generations. You know they

are a family who love to live among their own. They prefer spending

their money among their own people, and sharing their interests, to

going abroad, as so many others do, and spending their money away.

Unfortunately, it is not uncommon, in speaking of a man, to say how

few vices he has, and not how many virtues; and many a time I have

heard it said, when there were no virtues to speak of, ‘Well, he is a

good-natured fellow.’” He then warmly eulogized his young friend, whom

he had known “ever since he could crawl,” and ended by wishing that he

might be a worthy “chip off the old block.” Then, with well-deserved

praise, he spoke thus of the father:

“For I will say this of the father, whom I have known most intimately

for the last twenty years: that he is one of whom it may be truly said,

in the full meaning of the word, he is a ‘just man’ (hear, hear), and I

hope his son will walk in his footsteps. May all health and happiness

accompany him through life, and, when his time is up, and he is called

away from this world, may he leave a memory behind him as of one who

lived blessing and blessed, and may he be handed down to posterity as

one who did his duty to God and man!”

Mr. Wortley—another principal tenant, and the orator of his

neighborhood, a man whose kind heart is father to his innocent pride of

speech—then stood forward on behalf of the committee who had managed

the subscriptions for the birthday gift, and spoke as follows:

“My Lord C——: I have now the great pleasure and the distinguished

honor to ask your acceptance of this plate, which is contributed by

tenants and friends of the Earl of G—— on the occasion of your coming

of age, as a substantial evidence from us of the cordial manner in

which we share the general joy of this day, and of the great respect we

entertain towards your noble father and the family of the N——s.... It

is given to you, my lord, just stepping, as it were, on the threshold

of active and responsible life, with the earnest wish that you may

be largely blest with those talents for which so many of your family

have been celebrated, and may, like them, enjoy the high blessing of

a disposition to use them, as they have used theirs, for the greater

benefit and advantage of their fellow-creatures.” Then making his

favorite quotation, one largely used on these occasions as strikingly

appropriate, he repeated sonorously the well-known lines:

“Kind words are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood.”

“And still,” he went on, “we, the living, have what past generations

could point to—the bright coronet of old N——l blood to boast of, and

their natural crest of real and crowning charity to be thankful for

(cheers).”

The presentation plate was a beautiful silver épergne, also convertible

into candelabra, thirty-nine inches high, and a pair of flower-stands

with finely modelled figures of a stag and a doe standing beneath an

oak. According to the universal custom in country neighborhoods,

these costly articles were not procured from London, but from some

local silversmith of good standing; for in England everything like

centralization is instinctively avoided. How much the prosperity of

every part of the kingdom is thereby increased may be seen at a glance.

Mr. Wortley concluded with these words: “It is not presented with the

power of words, but it comes with the far stronger power of hearts

within and without this gorgeous assemblage—warm, devoted, and glowing

hearts—hearts joining with yours, my Lord C——, in wishing that you

may long remain the heir to the title and estate; while we join most

sincerely with each other in the fervent hope and humble prayer that

through life, in whatever clime or condition, God’s blessing may be

your unfailing portion (cheers).”

Lord C—— made a modest and graceful acknowledgment in a few

well-chosen words, telling his guests “what a value he should always

set on the testimonial as a remembrance of the happy hours he and they

had been permitted to enjoy together” and begging them “to take what

he had said for what it was worth.” “I do not say this by way of any

excuse for what I am certain must be my shortcomings, but I say it lest

you should think I am expressing myself in any way too feebly, or with

too little warmth of feeling.”

Mr. Thompson (another tenant) proposed the brother and sisters of Lord

C——, and the younger branches of the family. He said facetiously

enough: “Experience has probably taught all of us that it is rather a

misfortune that there should be an only child in a family, and that

there is very apt to be in this case a spoiled urchin on one side, and

not at all unlikely two silly parents on the other.” Of course, this

produced laughter, and the speaker went on in the same strain, till he

remarked finally that he sincerely hoped “not only that there would

always be an heir to the N——l family, but younger branches also.”

Lord C——’s younger brother answered quite as well as he had been

addressed: “I was not prepared to speak to you on the present occasion.

I was flattering myself I should get through the whole of these

proceedings without having to pass through this ordeal.... As younger

branches, we grow out further and further from the parent stem, until

we are at length lost among the other trees of the forest, while the

other and older branch continues to tower upwards.”

A speaker, whom we cannot resist designating by a synonyme which is

no longer a disguise, “Lothair,” and who shared these festivities,

proposed “the ladies” in a humorous speech, beyond which we must

make no further quotations. “Somebody,” he remarked, “in speaking of

these festivities, has said that this entertainment had some peculiar

features distinguishing it from other entertainments of its kind;

as, for instance, it is now half-past three in the morning, instead

of about five or six in the afternoon (laughter). It has also this

peculiar feature, ... that it is not confined to a lugubrious class

of men in black, talking nonsense about the army, navy, militia, and

volunteers (renewed laughter). Here we have a few toasts brought in as

an interlude in the middle of an entertainment of which it may be said,

‘It is not good for man to be alone,’ whatever Mr. Spurgeon may have

observed to the contrary.”

The speaker has since been the subject of an ovation fully as

demonstrative as that in which he took a secondary part last October,

and we may hope that, in years to come, Cardiff may rival Rutland in

the mediæval character of its princely entertainments.

The birthday cake was home-made, and a _chef-d’œuvre_ of the family

housekeeper. Its weight was 120 lbs., and its structure four tiers

of confectionery, displaying medallions of the arms and crest of the

family; the silk banner (besides many smaller flags) surmounting it

bearing the name and date of birth of Lord C——. Never, indeed, could

there have been more gratifying feelings manifested, and never could a

series of the kindest hospitalities have passed off with more perfect

satisfaction. Throughout the whole week there was nothing but good

feeling, every one vying with each other to do the utmost to make all

succeed. Not a _contretemps_ occurred—all as Lord G—— could have

wished, and so well deserves it should be. There were most regretful

faces the next day, when, after breakfast, the time of parting came;

all, we believe, heartily wishing it could begin again.

This sketch, which to us has all the personal attraction of a family

record, may perhaps not be uninteresting to some descendants of those

old English families, who are as worthily represented on this side of

the Atlantic as they are in the mother country.

The poetry of the olden times has not yet quite departed from the

feudal soil of England; and, in these meetings of true friendship

between two of the most powerful classes of the country, we may read a

promise of a common cause being made by their united influence against

the sickening aggression of insensate communism, and the spread of

licentious ideas. In this all good men and true, whether of Old or New

England, are heartily agreed. But what strikes us even more is the

beautiful picture here displayed of the revived spirit of the olden

faith, quickening the pulses, guiding the lives, and hallowing the

pleasures of a new generation of Englishmen. Here are the senators,

the lawgivers, the soldiers of the future, assembled under the

auspices of the old church, putting into generous practice her ideas

of ample hospitality and unquestioning charity; here are England’s

best men bowing like happy children to the customs and the influence

of the faith brought to them by Augustine and Wilfrid; here is the

church represented by the best blood and the most chivalrous class of

England’s sons, who take their place and raise their voice to-day in

society, in the courts, and in the senate, with a fearlessness and a

freedom which a hundred years ago would have cost them their heads!

The Catholic Church stands now in a proud and high position, a social

conqueror on the same soil which she conquered once already by the

splendor of her learning, and the resources of her material energy.

The lands her monks reclaimed from barrenness, the universities her

friars adorned with their matchless genius, after having been torn

from her by violence, are virtually holding out their arms to her

again, and the Gothic chapels that crown the abbey demesnes of new

and wealthy converts are but the practical translation of that better

wealth poured back into her bosom by the converts of the schools and

universities. In England, more than in any other land, the Christian

may exclaim in triumph: _Christus regnat, Christus imperat_, and, for

the encouragement of the future, may confidently point to the records

of the past, and say with Constantine: _In hoc signo vinces._

MORE ABOUT DARWINISM.[170]

_The Expressions of the Emotions in Man and Animals_ is the title of

the latest work written by Charles Darwin. This author has already

gained a pretty widespread name by his two volumes on the _Descent of

Man_, and on _The Origin of Species_. In all these, he advocates the

theory of only one parent and progenitor, common both to man and to the

animal.

Man is the offspring of the brute. The only distinction between them

is that of a more perfect development. Man is a monkey perfectly

developed. This developing process is no other than habit transmitted,

imitation, and practice.

This theory is supposed in the volume before us—_The Expressions_,

etc. It is, indeed, taken for granted, and Mr. Darwin merely seeks

confirmatory proofs in this work. How he does so we shall see.

The reasoning of the entire volume may be summed up in the following

syllogism: The expressions of the emotions in man and animals are, for

the most part, similar, nay, alike. Now, this could not be so, did man

not descend from the animal; therefore, man is the offspring of the

brute.

Of course, he will have to admit some accidental differences in the

expressions of each. But these he easily gets over by saying that in

man those external expressions of the emotions are already perfected,

matured, and developed, while in animals they are as yet budding,

developing, and perfecting.

The principle of evolution would seem to account for all differences.

The animal, by evolving its faculties in a long series of years, rises

gradually to a higher species, and finally, having walked on all

fours, comes to the conclusion it would be better and more sensible to

use only two feet. Having looked downward for a long time, it begins

to think it would be more honorable and decent to assume an upright

posture. And then, grunting and howling are by no means as becoming as

speaking French, or Italian, or Chinese; hence, Mr. Orang comes to the

conclusion that he has been silent long enough, and that it is time

that he, too, should have his say about matters.

We do not say that this is all expressed in so many words in the volume

before us. Oh! no; Mr. Darwin is too adroit to do that. Like the devil,

he sometimes assumes the garment of light, and puts on an appearance of

virtue. His words are characterized by a tone of modesty and humility

and even diffidence which is not common to that class of writers. He

does not directly affirm anything; but he asks questions that contain

a negative answer. He insinuates. He does not tell us man is a monkey,

but he affirms that man expresses his feelings in the same manner as

do these animals. Hence how explain this similarity, if they be not

brothers?

We call attention to this fact. It alone can render his work dangerous

to youthful or unguarded minds. We think there is little to fear that

its frivolous arguments will excite anything but laughter and ridicule

among men of solid erudition.

Unfortunately, the ideas embodied in this book are the creed of many

enlightened persons, even, of this “progressive” age. This alone

accounts for the favor and widespread circulation Darwin’s writings

have acquired. Protestantism has done its work only too well. Casting

off all authority in matters of faith, it has paved the way to all

errors, and its theory has merely been developed by our modern

materialists.

We are not disposed to deny the great labor and varied research

employed in the work before us; but, we must say, seldom has it been

our lot to witness such shallowness of argument, such loose connection

between premises and conclusions. It will astonish the intelligent

reader that so earnest a student as Mr. Darwin evidently is, could make

use of logic in a manner discreditable to any tyro.

But we must not wonder at this. The drunkard sees things turning

topsy-turvy, when in reality they stand still. One who wears green

spectacles will behold objects in a green or pale color. We are apt

to judge things according to preconceived ideas or a certain state

of mind. So Mr. Darwin: his great hobby is to make man a monkey, and

_vice versa_. Hence, he takes slight resemblances between the two

as certain proof of his theory. Thus, he says: “With mankind, some

expressions, such as the bristling of the hair under the influence of

extreme terror, can hardly be understood except on the belief that man

once existed in a much lower and animal-like condition. The community

of certain expressions in distinct though allied species, as in the

movements of the same facial muscles during laughter by man and by

various monkeys, is rendered somewhat more intelligible if we believe

in their common progenitor. He who admits on general principles that

the structure and habits of all animals have been gradually evolved,

will look at the whole subject of expressions in a new and interesting

light.”[171]

This language is clear and unmistakable, though its meaning be artfully

disguised. The logic of his conclusions, however, is not equally

satisfactory. Why trace man’s origin to the monkey, because, forsooth,

his hair bristles when angry? Or is it really so necessary to make

man a brute because the same facial muscles move during laughter?

We had always thought that these accidental resemblances were more

than sufficiently explained by the simple fact that man, besides his

immortal soul, is possessed of a body also, which, being material,

is subject in many respects to the laws of other animals. We say, in

fact, man is a rational animal. He is composed of matter and spirit.

As regards his body, he is subject to the same laws as those which

regulate animals.

Mr. Darwin has in his conclusions what is not contained in his

premises, and hence he falls into a grave error in regard to the

first principles of logic and sound reasoning. It is quite logical

and perfectly true to say man has some exterior or bodily motions and

expressions similar to those of other animals, and therefore that his

bodily organs have some relation and similarity with those of the

lower animals; nay, we may even infer the same essence to be common

to the bodily organs of both. Thus much strict logic will allow. Thus

much sound philosophy has always admitted. But then, we may ask, How

far does this resemblance extend? Does it merely exist in the bodily

organs, or does it perhaps show itself in all external actions,

even those of the intellect and the will? Does it extend to all the

essential elements in both, or is it merely accidental, relating simply

to minor actions? The answer cannot be doubtful even to the most

superficial observer. We ask, therefore, Is this resemblance of an

essential, or rather an accidental, character? We can only admit that

the latter is the case. There is, it is true, a manifold similarity;

but after all, even where this is most striking, is there not a vast

discrepancy? With the lower animal, all is routine—machine-like,

habitual, ever the same under similar circumstances, nor can it combine

means with the end. In man, these same external actions are regulated

by the will, and can be omitted or done at pleasure.

Now, will Mr. Darwin say this is merely a trifle—that this, too,

can be acquired by the brute after a long experience and a lapse

of years? Reason and sound philosophy teach that the sensations of

brutes are essentially distinct from, and in nowise contain, reason or

intelligence. How, then, could reason be the product of evolution? How,

then, can that be evolved which does not at all exist?

We repeat it: Darwin’s conclusion is similar to this: “A dog is a cat,

because, forsooth, both sleep.” He finds in man and brutes some partial

similarities in mere external actions, and straightway he concludes

that they are both of the same essence and parentage. As well might he

say burning lamps are emanations from the sun, because they, too, give

light.

Instinct is almost entirely left out of account, and all expressions

and external actions are attributed solely to habit and exercise

repeated.[172] We by no means doubt that habit and exercise have a

great deal to do with external actions. But can they all be accounted

for in such a manner? When we ask, How do children, from the very first

day of their birth, make use of their hands and feet, and employ their

mouths in the proper way for imbibing nourishment? Mr. Darwin may

answer: “This habit, too, was transmitted from parent to offspring, and

indicates a long series of generations” (p. 39).

But we cannot very well see how this answer will satisfy even the

most credulous reader. Habits may be to a certain extent transmitted

by parents to their children; but generally it is, in an imperfect

state, the “tendency” or inclination, rather than the act, that is

transmitted. An intemperate parent may transmit to his offspring a

“tendency” to that vice; but we have not yet heard of a born drunkard.

Moreover, is this principle applicable in a general manner even in

regard to merely accidental habits? Experience tells us quite the

contrary.

Weak-minded parents often give birth to most gifted children. On the

contrary, many most cultivated and intelligent parents have children

who are dull and slow of understanding.

But even granting that habits may be transmitted from parent to

offspring, we ask, What is the nature of such habits? Are they

essential elements of nature, or merely minor and trifling motions?

Mr. Darwin’s own example on the point will confirm our assertion that

they are of the latter sort: “A gentleman of considerable position was

found by his wife to have the curious trick, when he lay fast asleep

on his back in bed, of raising his right arm slowly in front of his

face up to his forehead, and then dropping it with a jerk, so that the

wrist fell heavily on the bridge of his nose. The trick did not occur

every night, but occasionally, and was independent of any ascertained

cause. Sometimes it was repeated incessantly for an hour or more. The

gentleman’s nose was prominent, and its bridge often became sore from

the blows which it received” (p. 34). His son, too, inherited this

trick. The only difference, however, consisted in the son’s nose not

being quite so prominent, and therefore less exposed to the tricky and

mysterious blows.

Now, what does a fact of this sort prove? Simply that slight, bodily

actions, such as the one alleged, can be transmitted.

“Language,” he tells us, “has been invented by man in a slow and

tedious process, completed by innumerable steps half consciously made”

(p. 60). It is somewhat amusing to listen to his description of this

process of inventing language. “The sexes,” he says, “of many animals

call for each other during the breeding season, etc. This, indeed,

seems to have been the primordial use and means of development of

voice” (p. 84).

As an example, he alleges the cow calling for her calf, the ewes

bleating for their lambs (p. 85). This theory is at least amusing, if

not clear and convincing. It only adds another specimen of Mr. Darwin’s

loose logic. His argument can be thus presented: There is a resemblance

between the sound of a cow calling for her calf and the voice of man;

therefore, the latter is derived from the former, being merely its

development—they are both identical in germ. The one is perfected

by the principle of evolution, which has the wonderful capacity of

transforming all sorts of things.

This is truly making light of that noble gift bestowed upon man by

his Creator—language. But, ingenious as Mr. Darwin strives to be in

assigning the origin of language, he overlooks two little points.

Language he confounds, first, with mere inarticulate sounds. Secondly,

he forgets that there may be a distinction between the sound or voice

as a sign of an idea or of a mere sensation. To confound the two would

be like comparing the tones of a piano, as produced by the hands of an

artist, to the same sounds brought forth by some monkey trying his paws

on the instrument.

We do not know whether Mr. Darwin has much of a musical ear. If he has,

even in a very slight degree, we think he would soon find a very great

and specific distinction between the production of the musician and the

jargon of the monkey. He would tell us, in the one case, the sounds are

expressive of the musical combination and ideas of the artist, while,

in the other, they are mere unmeaning sounds. So it is with language.

Words express ideas. We can use them as we choose, nay, even wilfully

change or disguise their true meaning. What similarity exists, then,

between language and the sounds of animals? If any, it is in the sound.

Does this justify the conclusion that they are both identical in germ;

that the one is a development of the other? As well might we say the

whistling of the wind among the leaves of trees, and the howling of the

storm, are identical with the voice of man. All these sounds of nature

are no less sounds than those of man and the brute; but will any man of

sound mind identify them?

Still, Mr. Darwin goes on with an air of perfect self-complacency:

“From this fact, and from the analogy of other animals, I have been

led to infer that the progenitors of man probably uttered musical tones

before they had acquired the power of articulate speech” (p. 87).

Of course, our progenitors here are none other than monkeys. It is

quite apparent that Darwin’s notion of language is extremely inadequate

and confused. He must allow us to refresh his memory a little on the

subject. A word is an external sign whereby an internal thought or

idea is made known to others, just as smoke is a sign of fire. Still,

words are not expressive of ideas by any natural aptitude. In fact

words are naturally so little adapted to express any particular concept

of the mind that they may be distorted from their meaning. They are

conventional signs: and except so far as they were given to our first

parents by God, they have been adopted and used by positive authority,

custom, or agreement to serve as a medium of thought.

Herein lies one of the specific differences of human speech from the

sound of animals. These give forth sounds _naturally_ adapted to

express some feeling. Moreover, their utterances are not chosen by

themselves, but dictated by nature. They cannot change them; while

man selects, varies, and changes his words at will. Hence, language

is defined: “The articulate voice of man, having signification by the

agreement of men.” Words are parts of a sentence, which is defined: “An

assemblage of words intended to mean something.”

We here waive the question whether language was invented by man at all.

Our doctrine is that it was not invented, but was communicated directly

by God to our first parents, Adam and Eve. But this is of no importance

at present; for, whether invented by man, or directly communicated by

God, Mr. Darwin’s theory is equally untenable.

We sum up the differences of sound or language in man and in animals as

follows:

1. In man, language is the expression of thought and judgment, while

the sounds of animals are merely spontaneous and natural utterances.

2. Language in man is the product of reasoning; it presupposes a

perception of the relation of the subject and the predicate. For

instance, when I say, Man is immortal, I must perceive the relation

of the attribute immortality to man. Now, the sound of the animal is

merely expressive of some solitary feeling.

3. Man directs his words, while the brute’s sound is ever the same.

Another instance of Darwin’s logic is found in tracing the origin

of the expression of sulkiness in man, especially in children. This

feeling, he says, is expressed by a protrusion of the lips, or, as

it is called, “making a snout.” Now, he continues, “young orangs and

chimpanzees protrude their lips to an extraordinary degree, when they

are discontented, somewhat angry, or sulky” (p. 234).

But, lo! what is his conclusion? Therefore, he infers, this habit of

man was a primordial habit in his “semi-human progenitors,” who are, of

course, no less than the aforesaid honorable monkeys. Let us hear his

words: “If, then, our semi-human progenitors [_i.e._ Messrs. Orang and

Chimpanzee] protruded their lips when sulky or a little angered in the

same manner as do the existing anthropoid apes, it is not an anomalous

though a curious fact that our children should exhibit, when similarly

affected, a trace of the same expression” (p. 234). Mr. Darwin is

cunning. He wishes tacitly to infer that man comes from the animal,

because both can make “snouts.” Of course, even he must concede that

the monkey can make a better or at least a longer “snout” than man.

And hence the principles of evolution in this case at least would

imply retrogression, not progress. His mode of reasoning is strange

indeed. When he finds an expression in man, he searches whether there

is anything like it among the monkeys or other animals; and, when he

has discovered even a slight trace, he triumphantly exclaims, Behold

the progenitors of man! He does not yet call them genitors; they are

not the immediate parents, but simply grandfathers and grandmothers.

Nor are these progenitors quite human; they are as yet semi-human,

being about half-way between the monkey phase and that of man. Speaking

of man, he says: “The lips are sometimes protruded during rage in a

manner the meaning of which I do not understand, unless it depends on

our descent from some ape-like animal” (p. 243). Mr. Darwin manifests a

strange partiality for the ape-like animals.

But it is no wonder he cannot understand the plainest facts, which

every Catholic child can tell him. He sets aside all revealed truths.

He knows nothing about the simple but sublime narrative in the first

chapter of Genesis. He ignores the creative act bringing forth, not

one kind, but “the living creature in its kind, cattle, and creeping

things, and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.”[173] To him,

this is of no meaning. True, the Scripture records the solemn creation

of man as entirely distinct from that of animals. “Let us make man,”

God said, “to our image, and likeness; and let him have dominion over

the fishes of the sea, and the fowls of the air,” etc. “And God created

man to his own image: to the image of God he created him, male and

female he created them.”[174] True, Darwin will say, according to the

Scripture, “God breathed into his [man’s] face the breath of life, and

man became a living soul.”[175]

But what care I for the Scriptures, when my own private and infallible

reason leads me to think that God did not directly breathe into man an

intelligent soul—made after God’s own image and likeness—but rather

that man received it from the animal? Such is, indeed, the result of

the revolt of reason against God. Like Satan, who was cast from heaven

in a moment, when desirous of elevating his throne to a level with that

of God, so man falls and degrades himself when he becomes too proud to

listen to God’s Word, making reason the supreme and sole criterion of

truth and certitude.

Mr. Darwin seems to admit a Creator of the universe, but holds that

only one, or at most four, species were created. Now, we must not

forget, as he certainly does, that the Creator was an infinitely

intelligent being, and therefore had some object in view in creation.

Every intelligent being must act for some end. We call him a fool

who knows not what he is doing, and therefore is foolish. Hence, in

creation, God destined each creature for some end, to accomplish a

certain task. The Creator must, however, give to each creature the

necessary means to attain its end. It would be unintelligible that God

should destine me to walk, without giving me feet; or create me to earn

my livelihood by the labor of my hands, without giving me hands to work

with.

Now, this principle, so universally exhibited in nature, will easily

and satisfactorily explain all expressions in animals as well as in

man, without obliging us to have recourse to the monkey theory so

fondly adhered to by Darwin.

We come now to another proof adduced by Darwin to establish his beloved

ape-descending theory. It is taken from the state of an insane person

(p. 245). We will allow him to speak for himself: “Its symptoms are the

reappearance of primitive instincts, a faint echo from a far distant

past, testifying to a kinship which man has almost outgrown” (p. 245).

These are the words of Dr. Maudsley, cited and approved by him. The

state of insanity in man is compared to the normal state of the animal.

Again, he asks, “Why should a human being, deprived of his reason, ever

become so brutal in character as some do, unless he has the brutal

nature within him?” (p. 246).

A more silly or childish mode of reasoning could scarcely be thought

of. As well might he say the sun returns to its primitive state when in

an eclipse, or an engine is working properly when the boilers explode

and spread death and consternation all around.

We say of the idiot, He has lost his mind. Not that it really is

entirely extinct: it is merely out of working order. Its clearness

is darkened by some disorder. The idiot is in a state repugnant to

his natural condition. How, then, infer from such a condition a

former kinship? A machine or clock out of order will, when left to

itself, work indeed; not, however, returning to its normal state, but

destroying itself. So it is with the idiot. It was, therefore, perhaps

rather superfluous for Mr. Darwin to spend so much time and labor, and

give his readers so much trouble, for the sake of finding out in how

many ways idiots resemble his dear monkeys, chimpanzees, and orangs.

We wonder why the case of Nabuchodonosor did not occur to him. It

would have so well illustrated his theory. For he, without becoming

permanently an idiot, was seized with an irresistible propensity to

return, as Mr. Darwin would say, to his own brethren, and renew his old

friendships and acquaintances. And so well was that gentleman pleased

with his company that he remained in it not less than seven years,

until it pleased God to restore him to his more intelligent and polite

brothers.

We would suggest to Mr. Darwin a similar experiment. He ought to be

sociable, and from time to time imitate Nabuchodonosor: let his hair

and beard grow until they become long feathers; his ears, too, could be

extended somewhat, and the nails of his hands and feet might very well

become claws; he ought also to eat grass for a while. Thus he would be

fulfilling a duty to his rustic brethren, and he could at the same time

enlighten them a little on bipedal civilization, especially as they

will one day get to be men themselves, and therefore should try to do

honor to their future relatives.

Darwin may tenderly call monkeys “our nearest allies” (p. 253), or

say: “The playful sneer or ferocious snarl in man reveals his animal

descent” (p. 253); or again: “We may readily believe, from our affinity

to the anthropomorphous apes, that our male semi-human progenitors

possessed great canine teeth” (p. 253)—he may say all this, and still,

we fear, he would not like to have himself introduced at the court of

London as the brother of the long-tailed and widely known orang-outang.

And why? Because his whole moral nature would revolt at such an

indignity, and thus furnish the strongest proof, perhaps, that all his

talk about ape-affinity and descent is nonsense. Human nature rebels at

such a degradation. It protests instinctively against such an alliance.

It is unconscious of such a relationship.

Now, how is it, otherwise, that our nature is so tender with regard

to all kindred? How is it that brothers and sisters and relatives

love each other so much and without effort; that in all men there is

a feeling of affinity toward their fellows? How, we ask, does our

nature, otherwise so tenderly inclined to all relatives, even the most

distant, forget in this one instance alone a relationship at once the

most sacred and tender—that of a child to its parent? For we, says Mr.

Darwin, are the grandchildren at least of the animal.

All the materialistic cavils and speculations of so-called philosophers

will suffer shipwreck on this rock—the moral feeling of the dignity

and specific difference of man. But we will explain the symptoms of

lunacy to Darwin in a direct manner.

We grant that man has the brutish “nature within him.” We do not

concede, however, that he has only the brutish nature and no other. Man

has a soul as well as a body. As regards the nature of the body, we

cheerfully grant all that Mr. Darwin could desire. It is of the same

substance as that of his dear orang. It has, moreover, the same violent

passions and downward tendencies; nay, it can—as experience teaches

in fact it has—outdo the brute in violent bursts of passion. It is,

moreover, regulated by the same laws of climate, food, life, etc.

But this is all we concede. It has not the same origin, being directly

created by God in its natural state. Much less do we admit that man is

endowed with no higher nature, entirely and specifically distinct from

his body. He has a soul that thinks—a soul that is entirely spiritual

and intelligent, not merely sensible.

We therefore answer that the state of idiots shows, indeed, that

man has the brutish nature within him, but by no means that he has

no other nature. Only a little logic would have shown Darwin that

his conclusions embody far more than his premises will allow. It

seems plain enough that this simple truth is the key to the fullest

explanations of human nature itself, and its similarities with the

nature of mere animals. Man was defined by the ancients as “a rational

animal.” S. Thomas and the scholastics took up and perpetuated this

definition. Man is an animal, because he has a body like all animals,

and a soul which is created to be the form of that body. Man is,

moreover, a rational being, because, unlike all the other animals,

he has a soul which has a separate existence of its own, is created

immediately by God, and is essentially spiritual.

This distinction, if only borne in mind by our monkey theorists,

would have aided them not a little, we opine, in their brain-cracking

researches; nor would they have found so many mysteries where

everything is plain and intelligible.

We now proceed to another principle advanced in the book before us.

Darwin says: “That the chief expressive actions exhibited by man and

by the lower animals are innate or inherited—that is, have not been

learnt by the individual—is now admitted by every one” (p. 351).

He must allow us to say that such a proposition is, in our estimation,

not admitted by every one. With the exception of the author and a few

monkeyists, we know of no one who ever advocated any such principle.

It is indeed conceded that a “tendency” to most of our expressive

actions may be innate or inherited; but, as to the actions and

expressions themselves, it is commonly taught by all the schools that

they are performed by instinct and reason, and perfected by imitation

and experience. What Mr. Darwin means when he calls expressions innate

and inherited is not the former—the tendency—but the action itself

as transmitted from the father to the son. He illustrates his meaning

by an example, not quite suitable for our pages, which may be found by

the curious on p. 44 of his work. If anything, this example shows that

dogs, and wolves, and jackals are guided by no reason, and do not apply

the proper means to attain an end. But does it follow that man, too,

has inherited his external movements from such progenitors as monkeys?

Does not man direct even all his external actions by reason? It is

true, he may be led away by passion; but that is an exception, and only

proves the rule.

But we go further. The Catholic Church teaches that the human race is

descended from one common pair—Adam and Eve. From them the whole human

race was propagated. Darwin, too, teaches the unity of mankind. But his

is quite a different unity. Not only do all men descend from a common

human parent, according to him, but both animals and men have a common

parent; so that originally there existed one animal, from which all the

rest, men included, derive their origin.

Now, we should naturally expect that so grave an inference would be

based upon a no less weighty proof. But herein we are sadly mistaken.

His whole argument rests upon a resemblance of some external actions

common to mankind: “I have endeavored to show in considerable detail

that all the chief expressions in man are the same throughout the

world. This fact is interesting, as it affords a new argument in favor

of the several races being descended from a single parent stock, which

must have been almost completely human in structure, and to a large

extent in mind, before the period at which races diverged from each

other” (p. 361).

This argument may do very well to confirm the doctrine of the church;

but we do not see how it will establish the ape theory, any more than

it would to infer that the sun and moon are alike because they both

shine. It is really amusing to hear our author so innocently say:

“We may confidently believe that laughter, as a sign of pleasure or

enjoyment, was practised by our progenitors long before they deserved

to be called human” (p. 362).

From all this it is at least evident that our poor progenitors had to

undergo a long novitiate to become invested with the habits proper to

man. Theirs, indeed, must have been a tedious process before attaining

human activity. One thing, however, he forgets to tell us. It is the

period when such a change of the species occurred. Theory may sound

very well; but we know of no fact of the kind. How is it that, as long

as the world can remember, no monkey ever became a man, or a tree a

pig? We cannot exactly agree with Darwin, therefore, when he calls the

“anthropomorphous apes our nearest allies and our early progenitors”

(p. 363). We are quite aware of the answer he gives to this objection

in his book, on _The Origin of Species_. But it may well be compared

to the method of those romance writers who take good care to place the

scene of the heroic exploits of their heroes in far distant lands as

yet unknown and unexplored. Thus they may write volume after volume,

without any danger of being convicted of telling stories and building

castles in the air. So Darwin. In his _Origin of Species_, he pretends

that the change from one species to another is so long and gradual that

it may comprise even millions of years. As a conjecture, this may pass;

but as an argument in support of a most elaborate system, we fail to

see its efficacy.

We will now pass to another argument. Speaking of frowning as shading

the eyes, he says: “It seems probable that this shading action would

not have become habitual until man had assumed a completely upright

position; for monkeys do not frown when exposed to a glaring light”

(p. 363). This phrase can be made plainer when paraphrased as follows:

It is a theory, established by me beyond any doubt, that man is the

offspring of the monkey. Now, the monkey does not frown or shade his

eyes, even when exposed to the most glaring light of the sun. Hence,

it follows that frowning is an action peculiarly adapted only to an

upright position. And hence, too, no wonder that the orang did not make

use of it as long as he was walking on all fours and bent downwards.

Hence, we must infer that frowning became a habit, then, only when the

ape, thinking that he had walked long enough on all fours, and that he

might, without any particular inconvenience to himself, dispense with

two feet, stood upright, and became a man. This is the meaning of his

words. On the same principle the following conjecture is based: “Our

early progenitors, when indignant, would not hold their heads erect

until they had acquired the ordinary carriage and upright attitude of

man” (p. 363). Its sense is: As our first parents were brutes, and as

we find that in no instance they held their heads erect when angry or

indignant, it follows, of course, that this action was acquired only

after they made use of their hind feet to walk, and when the fore paws

became hands.

Blushing is considered by Darwin an expression that requires attention

to one’s personal defects. Now, as it has not been observed in any

monkey or other animal, he of course infers that it became habitual

only when, having emerged from the monkey phase of existence, we became

semi-human.

“But it does not seem possible”—these are his words—“that any animal,

until its mental powers had been developed to an equal or nearly equal

degree with those of man, would have closely considered and been

sensitive about its own personal appearance” (p. 364).

Thus far we perfectly agree with him. Blushing is an act predicable

only of an intelligent being. Hence, it is quite logical to say

that animals could not possess it, unless almost as perfect as man.

But we by no means so readily coincide with his conclusion, namely:

“Therefore, we may conclude that blushing originated at a very late

period in the long line of our descent” (p. 364).

If this were true, it would likewise follow that man ought to become

more prone to blushing as he advances in years. This, however, it

will be confessed, is not the case. Quite the reverse frequently

happens. Youth and innocence blush, while age and vice grow daily more

barefaced and unblushing. Now, if blushing were a mere habit acquired

and developed by physical evolution, how does it come to pass that

full-grown men who are given to immorality lose that blush which rose

to their cheeks when young and innocent? Daily experience only too well

tells the tale how the maiden blush becomes dimmer and fades entirely

when the career of sin and shame has been once entered upon. Where,

then, is the philosophy of Darwin’s principle?

It is quite true, he tells us, that “we cannot cause a blush by any

physical means. It is the mind which must be affected” (p. 310); “that

the causes of blushing are shyness, shame, and modesty; the essential

element in all being self-attention” (p. 326). Again, he continues:

“Many reasons can be assigned [as causes of blushing] for believing

that originally self-attention directed to personal appearance in

relation to the opinion of others was the exciting cause. Moral causes

are only secondary; the same effect being subsequently produced through

the force of association by self-attention in relation to moral

conduct” (p. 326).

This shows that, with Darwin, morality is a mere matter of etiquette.

“But modesty,” he continues, “frequently relates to acts of indelicacy;

and indelicacy is an affair of etiquette, as we clearly see with

the nations that go altogether or nearly naked. He who is modest,

and blushes easily at acts of this nature, does so because they are

breaches of a firmly and wisely established etiquette” (p. 335).