PART I.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

A

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

OF

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. XV.

APRIL, 1872, TO SEPTEMBER, 1872.

NEW YORK:

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

9 Warren Street.

1872.

CONTENTS.

Acoustics and Ventilation, 118.

Affirmations, 77, 225.

Aix-la-Chapelle, 795.

Ambrosia, 803.

Art and Religion, 356.

Art, Faith the Life of, 518.

Bad Beginning for a Saint, A, 675.

Belgium, Religious Processions in, 546.

Bolanden’s The Progressionists, 433, 618, 766.

Bryant’s Translation of the Iliad, 381.

Caresses of Providence, 270.

Catholic Congress in Mayence, The Twenty-first, 45.

Catholic Church in the United States, 577, 749.

Chaumonot, F. (A Bad Beginning for a Saint), 675.

Charity, Official, 407.

Church, The, 814.

“ and the Press, The, 413.

“ The Symbolism of the, 605.

“Chips,” Max Müller’s, 530.

Cicero, A Speech of, 182.

Craven’s (Mrs.) Fleurange, 60, 226, 342, 473, 591, 734.

Donkey, Jans von Steufle’s, 92.

Duties of the Rich in Christian Society, The, 37, 145, 289, 510.

Easter Eve, 42.

Education, The Necessity of Philosophy as a Basis of Higher,

632, 815.

English Literature, Taine’s, 1.

Essay on Epigrams, An, 467.

Etheridge, Miss, 501.

Faith the Life of Art, 518.

Fête-Day at Lyons, A, 362.

Gothic Revival in England, History of the, 443.

Greatness, True, 539.

Handkerchief, The, 849.

History of the Gothic Revival in England, 443.

House of Yorke, The, 18, 150, 295.

How I Learned Latin, 844.

Iliad, Bryant’s Translation of the, 381.

India, Protestant Missions in, 690.

Intellectual Centres, 721.

Jans von Steufle’s Donkey, 92.

Jewish Convert, A Reminiscence of Vienna, 211.

Lamartine, The Mother of, 167.

Last Days before the Siege, The, 457, 666.

Letters of His Holiness Pius IX. on the “Union of Christian

Women,” 563.

Little Love, 554.

Lyons, A Fête-Day at, 362.

Max Müller’s “Chips,” 530.

Miracles, Newman on, 133.

Miss Etheridge, 501.

Mission of the Barbarians, The Roman Empire and the, 102, 654.

Misty Mountain, On the, 705, 823.

Mother of Lamartine, The, 167.

Music, On, 733.

Newman on Miracles, 133.

Odd Stories, 124.

Official Charity, 407.

On Music, 733.

On the Misty Mountain, 705, 823.

Orléans and its Clergy, 833.

Paris before the War, A Salon in, 187, 323.

Philosophy as a Basis of Higher Education, The Necessity of,

632, 815.

Philosophy, Review of Dr. Stöckl’s, 329.

Press, The Church and the, 413.

Progressionists, The, 433, 618, 766.

Protestant Missions in India, 690.

Providence, Caresses of, 270.

Quarter of an Hour in the Old Roman Forum during a Speech of

Cicero’s, 182.

Religion, Art and, 356.

Religious Processions in Belgium, 546.

Reminiscence of Vienna, A, 211.

Review of Mr. Bryant’s Iliad, 576.

Rich, Duties of the, in Christian Society, 37, 145, 289, 510.

Rights of Women, How the Church Understands and Upholds

the, 78, 255, 366, 487.

Roman Empire, The, and the Mission of the Barbarians, 102, 654.

St. James’s Mission at Vancouver, Decision against the, 715.

Salon in Paris before the War, A, 187, 323.

Siege, Last Days before the, 457, 666.

Spain: What it was, and what it is, 397.

Spaniards at Home, The, 783.

Stöckl’s Philosophy, Review of, 329.

Stories, Odd, 124.

Summer in the Tyrol, A, 646.

Symbolism of the Church, The, 605.

Taine’s English Literature, 1.

Tennyson: Artist and Moralist, 241.

True Greatness, 539.

Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence, The, 45.

Tyrol, A Summer in the, 646.

“Union of Christian Women,” Letters of His Holiness Pius IX.

on the, 563.

United States, The Catholic Church in the, 577, 749.

Use and Abuse of the Stage, 836.

Vancouver, Decision against the St. James’ Mission at, 715.

Ventilation, Acoustics and, 118.

Women, How the Church Understands and Upholds the Rights

of, 78, 255, 366, 487.

Yorke, The House of, 18, 150, 295.

POETRY.

After Reading Mr. Tupper’s Proverbial Philosophy, 466.

Anniversary of Baptism, 149.

Blessed Virgin, Fragments of Early English Poems on the, 319.

Books, Old, 729.

Clerke at Oxenforde, 674.

Dante’s Purgatorio, Canto III., 730.

De Vere’s The Last Days of Oisin the Bard, 76.

“ Legends of Oisin the Bard, 208, 320.

Devota, 269.

Faber’s The Papacy, 748.

Fragments of Early English Poetry, 590.

“ “ on the Blessed Virgin, 319.

Oxenforde, The Clerke of, 674.

Papacy, The, 748.

Passion, The, 91.

Passion, Fragments of Early English Poems on the, 17.

Pledges, The Three, 127.

Proverbial Philosophy, After Reading Mr. Tupper’s, 466.

Purgatorio, Dante’s, Canto III., 730.

Super Omnes Speciosa, 166.

To Wordsworth, 538.

Troubadours of Provence, On the, 294.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Allibone’s A Critical Dictionary of English Literature, 564.

Anderdon’s Christian Æsop, 719.

Announcements, 144, 288, 432, 576.

Arias’ Virtues of Mary, Mother of God, 568.

Augustine, St. Aurelius, Works of, 423.

Aunt Fanny’s Present, 432.

Baker’s Dozen, A, 859.

Betrothed, The, 425.

Bolanden’s Old God, 856.

Book of Psalms, 137.

Books and Pamphlets Received, 144.

Burke’s The Men and Women of the Reformation, 285.

Burke’s Lectures and Sermons, 852.

By the Seaside, 859.

Catholic Review, The, 860.

Christian Counsels, 859.

“ Free Schools, 432.

Clare’s (Sister Mary Frances) Hornehurst Rectory, 857.

Coleridge’s Life and Letters of St. Francis Xavier, 423.

Conscience’s The Merchant of Antwerp, 720.

Craven’s (Mrs.) A Sister’s Story, 287.

Curtius’ The History of Greece, 139.

De Croyft’s (Mrs.) Little Jakey, 432.

Dorward’s Wild Flowers of Wisconsin, 287.

Dubois’ Zeal in the Work of the Ministry, 137.

Erckmann-Chatrian’s The Plebiscite, 858.

Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, etc., 574.

Extracts from the Fathers, etc., 569.

Fashion, 140.

Fiske’s The Offertorium, 574.

Fitton’s Memoirs of the Establishment of the Church in

N. E., 857.

Formby’s Parables of Our Lord, 286.

“ School Songs, 286.

“ The Devotion of the Seven Dolors, 286.

“ “ School Keepsake, 286.

“ “ Seven Sacraments, 286.

Fox’s Fashion, 140.

French Eggs in an English Basket, 425.

Fullerton’s (Lady) Constance Sherwood, 422.

Gardner’s Latin School Series, 575.

Gagarin’s The Russian Clergy, 719.

Gleeson’s History of the Church in California, 428.

Gould’s Legends of the Patriarchs and Prophets, 432.

Gould’s Lives of the Saints, 576.

Green’s Indulgences, Absolutions, Tax Tables, etc., 720.

Half-hour Recreations in Popular Science, 431.

Half-hours with Modern Scientists, 431.

Hare’s Walks in Rome, 432.

Harpain, Marie Eustelle, Life of, 285.

Hart’s A Manual of English Literature, 427.

Haskins’ Six Weeks Abroad, 571.

Hengstenberg’s Kingdom of God under the Old Testament, 429.

House of Yorke, The, 420.

Humphrey’s Divine Teacher, 855.

Lamon’s Life of Abraham Lincoln, 718.

Little Pierre, the Pedlar of Alsace, 284.

Liquefaction of the Blood of St. Januarius, 136.

Longfellow’s The Divine Tragedy, 427.

McQuaid’s (Bp.) Christian Free Schools, 432.

Maggie’s Rosary, 425.

Maguire’s Pontificate of Pius IX., 856.

Maistre’s A Journey Around My Room, 138.

Manning’s Sermons on Ecclesiastical Subjects, 142.

Manzoni’s The Betrothed, 425.

Martin’s Going Home, 858.

May’s (Sophie) Little Prudy’s Flyaway Series, 144.

Memoir of Roger B. Taney, 853.

Merrick’s Lectures on the Church, 430.

Monnin’s Life of the Curé d’Ars, 719.

Mulloy’s Passion Play, 427.

Mumford’s A Remembrance for the Living to Pray for the

Dead, 144.

Mystical City of God (Abridged), 720.

Newman’s Discussions and Arguments on Various Subjects, 421.

Newman’s Historical Sketches, 855.

Oakeley’s The Order and Ceremonial of the Mass, 856.

Paine’s Physiology of the Soul, etc., 430.

Pellico’s Duties of Young Men, 575.

Phædrus, Justin, and Nepos, 575.

Proctor’s Half-Hour Recreations in Popular Science, 431.

Proctor’s Strange Discoveries Respecting the Aurora, 431.

Public School Education, 860.

Rawes’ Great Truths in Little Words, 856.

Reports on Observations of the Total Solar Eclipse, 431.

Roscoe, Huggins, and Lockyer’s Spectrum Analysis, 431.

St. Teresa, The Book of the Foundations of, 142.

St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and Labors, 568.

Saunders’ Salad for the Solitary and the Social, 143.

Sedgwick’s Relation and Duty of the Lawyer to the State, 430.

Sermons by Fathers of the Society of Jesus, 425.

Sir Humphrey’s Trial, 860.

Smiddy’s An Address on the Druids, Churches, and Round Towers

of Ireland, 143.

Spectrum Analysis, 431.

Souvestre’s French Eggs, 425.

Taine’s Notes on England, 719.

Tondini’s The Pope of Rome, 427.

Travels in Arabia, 432.

Tyler’s Life of Roger B. Taney, 853.

Una and Her Paupers; or, Memorials of Agnes E. Jones, 569.

Vaughan’s St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and Labors, 568.

Veith’s Via Crucis; or, The Way of the Cross, 426.

Vetromile’s Travels in Europe and the East, 857.

Virtues and Defects of a Young Girl, 571.

Warner’s Saunterings, 719.

Welsh’s Women Helpers in the Church, 572.

Wiseman’s Witch of Rosenburg, 720.

Women Helpers in the Church, 572.

Woodland Cottage, etc., 432.

* * * * *

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XV., No. 85.--APRIL, 1872.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev.

I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at

Washington, D. C.

TAINES ENGLISH LITERATURE.[1]

In so far as we may judge from the notices in periodicals and

newspapers, this work appears to have been received, both in

England and the United States, not only with general favor, but

with enthusiastic admiration.

A history of English literature based on a system new to the great

body of English readers, and written with freshness, _verve_, and

certain attractive peculiarities of style, could not fail to fix

their attention and engage their interest from the beginning to

the end of its two bulky octavo volumes. The author of the work in

question is so well known in the world of letters by his essays on

the philosophy of art that he needs no introduction to our readers.

M. Taine starts out with the assumption that the literature of any

given country is the exponent of its mental life, or, as he states

it (p. 20), “I am about to write the history of a literature,

and to seek in it for the psychology of a people.” In France and

Germany, we are told, history has been revolutionized by the study

of their literatures.

“It was perceived,” says M. Taine, “that a work of literature is

not a mere play of imagination, a solitary caprice of a heated

brain, but a transcript of contemporary manners, a type of a

certain kind of mind. It was concluded that one might retrace,

from the monuments of literature, the style of man’s feelings

and thoughts for centuries back. The attempt was made, and it

succeeded.”

Unquestionably the style of man’s feelings may be traced in

literature for centuries back. That is M. Taine’s first approach.

But between the successful insight into this or that writer’s

opinions and modes of thought and the opinions and modes of

thought of a nation, the void is so enormous--unless, indeed, we

dangerously reason from particulars to generals--as to require to

fill it more subjective literary productions than any country has

ever yet produced.

From this system it would follow that if a nation has no

literature it can have no history. If it have--as is too often

the case--no literature but that of a despotism or of a dominant

minority, it follows that you cannot discern a single idea nor hear

a single pulsation of the heart of a great people. But granting

the literature to exist, although we are told that a work “is not

a mere play of the imagination,” we nevertheless know full well

that some of the most brilliant portions of every literature are

precisely what that phrase describes. Beyond that, we also know

that all writers are not only not sincere, but too often unfaithful

because too often venal, and cannot therefore be relied upon.

In certain writings enumerated by him, M. Taine says: “The reader

will see all the wealth that may be drawn from a literary work:

_when the work is rich, and one knows how to interpret it_, we

find there the psychology of a soul, frequently of an age, now and

then of a race.” Partially true. And M. Taine might have instanced

the _Confessions_ of St. Augustine, but he does not. We may indeed

find what he indicates under certain conditions, for, as he very

correctly adds, “their utility grows with their perfection.”

Unfortunately, such works occur in literature at the rarest

intervals.

It cannot be questioned that M. Taine’s theory contains a germ

of truth. But, in fact, so far as it is true it is a very old

story. What is true in his theory is not new, and what is new is

questionable. Since history has risen to be something more and

something better than a mere roll of warriors and a correct list

of kings and queens--which latter class of good people are fast

disappearing, never again, we trust, to return--since the historian

has been elevated from the rank of a mere annalist to be the

interpreter to his own age of not only the acts and sufferings,

but the mind and the heart of dead generations, he has become avid

of the most trifling details concerning their transitory passage

here on earth. He desires to discover and relate how they lived,

slept, and ate--how they talked, toiled, and travelled--what they

said, what they thought--what, in a word, was their social and

psychological life. To obtain the knowledge he seeks, all sources

are equally valuable--written manuscripts that speak as well as

stone ruins that are dumb.

Such knowledge as this the new school of German historians,

having first exhausted all literary material, have sought to

gather from the most remote and even repulsive sources; and from

philological analysis, from works of art, from monuments, old

roads, half-corroded coins, almost obliterated inscriptions, broken

pottery, partially effaced frescoes, and from the very fragments of

mere kitchen utensils, they have created afresh and revealed to us,

in all its details, the daily and familiar life of ancient Rome,

and poured a flood of light upon the living man of the that day.

And yet, before the results of their archæological and ethnological

labors were given to the world, we thought we knew our Roman

well and familiarly. For what literature, unless it be that of

Greece, presents so rich and so complete a portrait gallery of all

the types of its people as the literature of Rome? From Virgil,

who gives us the ploughman and vinedresser, and Cæsar, through

whose pages marches the Roman soldier, to Livy, Sallust, Tacitus,

Juvenal, and Horace, we have a score of writers in whose pages all

the virtues and vices, the grandeur and the shame, the nobility

and the grovelling sensuality, of Rome are spread before us in

language so attractive and so grand as to promise to outlast many

modern masterpieces.

M. Taine sneers at “Latin literature as worth nothing at the

outset,” being “borrowed and imitative.” To this we reply, _Adhuc

sub judice_, etc., and, bad or not, it tells the story of the Roman

people, and very nearly reveals to us the ancient Roman as he

walked on earth.

We have no such faithful picture of the English people in English

literature.

We fear that M. Taine mistakes a part for the whole.

Unquestionably, literature has its uses, and high ones, for the

elucidation of many a problem and the illumination of many a page

of history; but, if we set out to find the history of a nation

in its literature, outside of history proper and the new aids

to historical research we have referred to, we merely adopt a

deceptive guide that can lead us only to disappointment. For these

grand theories, so symmetrical and so plausible, when presented

by their generally eloquent framers, stand, when put into actual

service, very little wear and tear. Accordingly, we find that there

happens to M. Taine precisely what happens to every man who starts

out to construct a work strictly according to a given system.

And what thus happens is a serious matter. This it is. Facts are

treated as of secondary importance. They are put upon their best

behavior. They must show themselves up to a certain standard, or

they are counted as worthless. If they are so wrong-headed as to

come in conflict with the author’s theory--the old story--why, so

much the worse for the facts, and our theorist ruthlessly tramples

upon and walks over them straight to his objective point, which is,

necessarily, his foregone conclusion.

It would detain us too long to present an analysis of M. Taine’s

introduction, from which alone it would not be difficult to

demonstrate the insufficiency of his theory. It contains passages

which, in the stately march of his eloquent phrase, seem to sound

as though they announced newly discovered truths of startling

import, but which, translated into familiar language, turn out to

be but little more than the text-book enunciation of some familiar

principle. Thus:

“When you have observed and noted in man one, two, three, then

a multitude of sensations, does this suffice, or does your

knowledge appear complete? Is a book of observation a psychology?

It is no psychology, and here as elsewhere the search for causes

must come after the collection of facts. No matter if the facts

be physical or moral, they all have their causes; there is a

cause for ambition, for courage, for truth, as there is for

digestion, for muscular movement, for animal heat. Vice and

virtue are products, like vitriol and sugar, and every complex

phenomenon has its springs from other more simple phenomena on

which it hangs.”

M. Taine, it is evident, cannot be charged with sparing his readers

either the enunciation or the elucidation of first principles.

The author commences by disposing of the Anglo-Saxons, their

literature, and six centuries of their annals, in a short chapter

of twenty-three pages, which, so far as our observation has

extended, has been passed over both by English and American

criticism almost without remark. Some reviewers account for its

conciseness by saying that Anglo-Saxon literature has but little

interest for the general reader, except as a question of philology.

As of general application, the remark is not widely incorrect, but

it is signally out of place with reference to M. Taine’s work, for

he announces as part of his task that of “developing the recondite

mechanism whereby the Saxon barbarian has been transformed into the

Englishman of to-day.”

Now, fairly to understand the Englishman of to-day, we must, by M.

Taine’s own announcement, have the Saxon original placed before

us; for, he says, “the modern Englishman existed entire in this

Saxon” (p. 31). The Saxon must be produced to our sight, and we

must have him evolved strictly on M. Taine’s principles, viz., _as

the psychological product of his literature_. If this is done, he

will fulfil his engagement of “developing the recondite mechanism,”

etc., or, in other words, of presenting us a full exposition of

Anglo-Saxon literature.

We feel bound to say that none of these promises are kept, and

none of these results are reached, by M. Taine; nay, more, that he

not only totally fails in presenting a fair or even intelligible

abstract of Anglo-Saxon literature, but that he appears to be

wanting in the necessary information which might enable him to do

it. We think it less derogatory to him to say that his knowledge of

the subject is defective than to make the necessarily alternative

charge.

We find, however, some excuse for M. Taine’s limited acquirements

in Anglo-Saxon literature in the fact that he appears to have

relied to a great extent on Warton and on Sharon Turner. Dr.

Warton’s well-known history of English poetry is unquestionably

a work of great merit and utility, in so far as it treats of

English poetry from the period of Chaucer down, but as authority

on any matter connected with Anglo-Saxon literature, it is next

to worthless. Warton knew very little about it. Sharon Turner as

authority on Anglo-Saxon history, and Sharon Turner as authority

on Anglo-Saxon literature, are two very different persons. The

knowledge of Anglo-Saxon literature has made great strides since

his day. For his history he was not dependent on Anglo-Saxon

documents. Latin material was abundant.

It must be borne in mind that, although the English tongue is so

directly derived from it, Anglo-Saxon is, nevertheless, a dead

language, and when, in the sixteenth century, its study was to

some extent revived, it had not only been dead four hundred years,

but buried and forgotten. That revival occurred at a time when

religious controversy ran high in England, the motive prompting it

being to discover testimony among Anglo-Saxon ecclesiastical MSS.

as to the existence of an English Catholic Church separate from

and independent of Papal authority. Thus far the search has not

been attended with any marked success. In the seventeenth century,

Anglo-Saxon was studied for the light it threw on the early history

and legislation of England. Since the commencement of the present

century, the study has been pursued with greater success than

ever for objects purely literary and philological. Indeed, it may

be said that, until within some forty years, the cultivation of

Anglo-Saxon was confined to a very small circle of scholars.

The most remarkable monuments of its literature are of

comparatively recent publication, and there happened at the outset

to the study of Anglo-Saxon precisely what happened to the study of

Sanskrit. It was that many scholars, aware of its literary wealth,

and, possibly, in possession of copies of some of its productions,

were without adequate means of pursuing or even of commencing their

studies on account of the want of dictionaries and grammars. It

was for this reason that Frederick Schlegel, before writing his

great work on _The Language and Wisdom of the Indians_, was obliged

to leave Germany and go to England, in order to avail himself of

the resources of the British Museum; and when we consider the

difficulties under which Dr. Lingard made his Anglo-Saxon studies,

and wrote his _Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church_, of which

work M. Taine does not appear to have heard, we are more than ever

surprised at the ability displayed by the great English historian.

When we undertake to trace the gradual development of the

Anglo-Saxon of Anno 500 into the Englishman of 1800, the first

phase is immeasurably the most interesting and the most important,

for in that phase he was at once civilized and christianized.

Take away the introduction and development of Christianity from

Anglo-Saxon history, and you have left nothing but a list of kings

and two or three battles. Now, M. Taine’s exposition of how,

when, and through what agencies civilization and Christianity

were brought into England may be descriptively characterized as

“how not to do it.” His great effort in his introductory chapter

is to eliminate Christianity from Anglo-Saxon history, and to

give us, as it were, the play of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet

omitted--an effort so systematic and persistent as to make us

almost regret our volunteered plea for his excuse on the ground

of want of familiarity with his subject. Here is his device to

escape the necessity of relating the all essential story of the

conversion to Christianity: “A race so constituted was predisposed

to Christianity by its gloom, its aversion to sensual and reckless

living, its inclination for the serious and sublime.” M. Taine has

just described (pp. 41-43) the leading characteristics of the

_pagan_ Anglo-Saxon mind as manifested in its poetry--“a race so

constituted”--and cites in support of his exposition two passages

translated from what he asserts to be pagan Anglo-Saxon poetry.

The first, _Battle of Finsborough_, we know was found on the cover

of a MS. book of homilies, written by some monk, although it may,

perhaps, be of pagan origin. The second, and more important one,

_The Battle of Brunanburh_, containing the line, “The sun on high,

the great star, God’s brilliant candle, the noble creature”[2] (p.

43), is Christian and monkish beyond all peradventure, for it forms

a portion of the _Saxon Chronicle_, begun as late as the days of

Alfred. The battle was fought in the year 939!

We continue: “Its aversion to sensual and reckless living.” This

is simply astounding when we remember that M. Taine has just been

telling us, through twenty pages, of their “ravenous stomachs

filled with meat and cheese, heated by strong drinks,” “prone to

brutal drunkenness,” becoming “more gluttonous, carving their hogs,

filling themselves with flesh; swallowing all the strong, coarse

drinks which they could procure,” etc.

And then follows the far more surprising psychological result:

“These utter barbarians embrace Christianity straightway, _through

sheer force of mood and clime_” (p. 44).

Now, M. Taine knows--as we all know--that these pagan Anglo-Saxons

were brutal and sensual to the last degree. In personal indulgence,

they were what he describes and more. They were pirates, robbers,

and murderers.

The rewards promised them by their gods after death were that they

should have nothing to do but eat and drink. Even the paganism

of their Scandinavian and Teutonic forefathers, a mixture of

massacre and sensuality, was corrupted by them, and the emblems

of their bloody and obscene gods were naked swords and hammers,

with which they broke the heads of their victims. The immortality

promised them in their Walhalla was a long continuance of new

days of slaughter, and nights of debauch spent in drinking from

their enemies’ skulls. Such was the race found by M. Taine so

constituted as to be “predisposed to Christianity by its gloom,

its aversion to sensual and reckless living”; such the people who

“through sheer force of mood and clime” laid aside their cruelty,

brutality, carnage, and sensuality, gave up feasting for fasting,

proud independence for obedience, indulgence for self-denial! Truly

remarkable effects of atmosphere. The climate of England must have

greatly changed since the year 597.

In the course of a debate which once arose in the British House of

Commons on the subject of negro emancipation, it was urged against

the measure that you could not civilize the negro; he belonged to

an inferior race which offered human sacrifices and sold their

own children into slavery. Whereupon, a member promptly replied

that was just what our ancestors in England did--they offered

human sacrifices and sold their children into slavery. This will

naturally recall to the reader’s mind the touching incident which

led to the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, the fair-haired and

blue-eyed children offered for sale, and their redemption by the

great Gregory, who said they were not only Angles, but angels.

From that moment the mission to England was resolved upon. We all

know the story. Gregory’s departure, his capture by the citizens

of Rome and forcible return, his elevation to the pontifical

throne, the departure of St. Augustine and his forty companions,

their trials, sufferings, and danger of death on the route,

their arrival in England, their labors, the gradual and peaceful

conversion of the people, their successful efforts in bringing the

Saviour, his Gospel, and his church to benighted heathens, and

their civilization and social amelioration of the Anglo-Saxons. To

the immortal glory of these men be it said that neither violence

nor persecution was resorted to by them, their disciples, or their

protectors for the triumph of civilization and religion. It is one

of the grandest Christian victories on record. Of all this, here is

M. Taine’s record:

“Roman missionaries bearing a silver cross with a picture of

Christ came in procession, chanting a litany. Presently the high

priest of the Northumbrians declared, in presence of the nobles,

that the old gods were powerless, and confessed that formerly ‘he

knew nothing of that which he adored;’ and he among the first,

lance in hand, assisted to demolish their temple. At his side a

chief rose in the assembly, and said:

“You remember, O king, what sometimes happens in winter when

you are at supper with your earls and thanes, while the good

fire burns within, and it rains and the wind howls without. A

sparrow enters at one door, and flies out quickly at the other.

During that rapid passage and pleasant moment it disappears,

and from winter returns to winter again. Such seems to me to be

the life of man, and his career but a brief moment between that

which goes before and that which follows after, and of which we

know nothing. If, then, the new doctrine can teach us something

certain, it deserves to be followed.”[3]

The Protestant historian, Sharon Turner, says of the conversion of

the Anglo-Saxons: “It was accomplished in a manner worthy of the

benevolence and purity [of the Christian religion]. Genuine piety

seems to have led the first missionaries to our shores. Their zeal,

their perseverance, and the excellence of the system they diffused

made their labors successful.” He gives a detailed narrative of the

action of Gregory the Great, of the devotion and self-sacrifice

of St. Augustine and his companions, of their long and perilous

journey, their landing in England, and, in describing their

procession on the Isle of Thanet, writes: “With a silver cross and

a picture of Christ, they advanced singing the litany.” M. Taine,

with a stroke of the pen, copies this line almost word for word,

and makes it do duty for a full and detailed account of the labors

of St. Augustine and his forty companions for two score years!

What period of time the word _presently_ represents to M. Taine

we do not know. It may be an hour, or a day, or a month, but the

incident which he refers to as occurring “presently” took place

about forty years after the “procession.”

And now it is sought to belittle or decry the victory of the

Christian missionaries in two ways: 1st. It was the most natural

thing in the world for the brutal, bloody, slave-dealing, drunken

barbarian to embrace the new religion, because his paganism so

strongly resembled Christianity. 2d. But after conversion they

remained, after all, substantially, barbarous pagans as before, and

their songs remind M. Taine of “the songs of the servants of Odin,

tonsured and clad in the garments of monks.” “The Christian hymns

embody the pagan” (p. 46).

To demonstrate this, and to show that the songs of these converted

Saxons are “but a concrete of exclamations,” have “no development,”

and are nothing but paganism after all, M. Taine gives five prose

lines of imperfect translation from a poem by Cædmon. Here is a

correct rendering of the opening of the poem in the original metre.

Let the reader judge of the amount of pagan inspiration it contains:

“Now must we glorify

The guardian of heaven’s kingdom,

The Maker’s might,

And his mind’s thought,

The work of the worshipped father,

When of his wonders, each one,

The ever-living Lord

Ordered the origin,

He erst created

For earth’s children

Heaven as a high roof,

The holy Creator:

Then on this mid-world

Did man’s great guardian,

The ever-living Lord,

Afterward prepare

For men a mansion,

The Master Almighty.”[4]

M. Taine continues:

“One of them” [those servants of Odin, take notice], “Adhelm,

stood on a bridge leading to the town where he lived, and

repeated warlike and profane odes alternately with religious

poetry, in order to attract and instruct the men of his time. He

could do it without changing his key. In one of them, a funeral

song, Death speaks. It was one of the last Saxon compositions,

containing a terrible Christianity, which seems at the same time

to have sprung from the blackest depths of the _Edda_.”

M. Taine has here given rein to his imagination, and made terrible

work with Saxon chronology and other matters. For Adhelm read

Aldhelm, in Saxon _Ealdhelm_, so King Alfred spelt it. The name

signifies _Old Helmet_; Aldhelm was of princely extraction.

“Warlike and profane odes” does not correctly translate “_carmen

triviale_.” Aldhelm was a learned priest, a Greek, Latin, and

Hebrew scholar, with a profound knowledge of the Holy Scriptures.

His present reputation rests on his Latin works. His contemporary

reputation was founded on his Anglo-Saxon productions. He composed

canticles and ballads in his native tongue, and, remarking the

haste of many of the Anglo-Saxon peasants to leave church as soon

as the Sunday Mass was over, in order to avoid the sermon, he would

lie in wait for them at the bridge or wayside, and, singing to

them as a bard, attract their attention, and in the fascination

of a musical verse teach them the truths of religion they would

not wait to hear from the pulpit. It was not for the pleasure of

singing that Aldhelm thus labored: it was to save souls. Without

the slightest authority, M. Taine puts in his mouth this beautiful

Anglo-Saxon fragment:

“Death speaks to man: ’For thee was a house built ere thou

wast born; for thee was a mould shapen ere thou camest of thy

mother. Its height is not determined, nor its depth measured,

nor is it closed up (however long it may be) until I bring thee

where thou shalt remain, until I shall measure thee and the sod

of earth. Thy house is not highly built, it is unhigh and low;

when thou art in it the heelways are low, the sideways low. The

roof is built full nigh thy breast; so thou shalt dwell in earth

full cold, dim, and dark. Doorless is that house, and dark it is

within; there thou art fast prisoner, and Death holds the key.

Loathly is that earth-house, and grim to dwell in; there thou

shalt dwell, and worms shall share thee. Thus thou art laid, and

leavest thy friends; thou hast no friend that will come to thee,

who will ever inquire how that house liketh thee, who shall ever

open the door for thee, and seek thee, for soon thou becomest

loathly and hateful to look upon.’”

The composition is not by Aldhelm, who, probably, never heard of

it. All of Aldhelm’s Anglo-Saxon MSS. perished when the magnificent

monastery at Malmesbury was sacked under Henry VIII. The Protestant

historian, Maitland, thus tells the story: “The precious MSS.

of his [Aldhelm’s] library were long employed to fill up broken

windows in the neighboring houses, or to light the bakers’ fires.”

All that we know of _The Grave_ is that it was found written in

the margin of a volume of Anglo-Saxon homilies, preserved in the

Bodleian Library. It is of a period following Aldhelm’s era, and

is in the dialect of East Anglia, while Aldhelm was of Wessex.

But M. Taine himself demonstrates that it could not be Aldhelm’s.

At page 50, he tells us Aldhelm died in 709, having previously

stated (p. 46) that the fragment “was one of the last Anglo-Saxon

compositions.” But among the finest Anglo-Saxon poetical

compositions are the celebrated _Ormulum_, and various poems by

Layamon, which were written about the year 1225. _The Grave_,

moreover, so far from containing “a terrible Christianity,” has

so essentially the tone and spirit of many well-known Catholic

meditations on death, that it might have been written in a Spanish

monastery or taken from a book of Christian devotions.

Of course, “the poor monks” can do nothing creditable in M.

Taine’s eyes, and he comes to sad grief in undertaking to go, by

specification, beyond the common counts of the ordinary declaration

dictated by bigotry. At page 53, vol. i., he thus refers in

contemptuous terms to the monks who compiled the _Saxon Chronicle_:

“They spun out awkwardly and heavily dry chronicles, a sort

of historical almanacs. You might think them peasants, who,

returning from their toil, came and scribbled with chalk on a

smoky table the date of a year of scarcity, the price of corn,

the changes in the weather, a death.”

And here a word as to this _Chronicle_, which is a national history

generally conceded to have been established by King Alfred, under

the advice of his counsellor Pflegmund, Archbishop of Canterbury,

about 870 A.D. It begins with a brief account of Britain from

Cæsar’s invasion, and becomes very full in its narrative after the

year 853.

The _Chronicle_ shares with Bede’s history the highest place among

authorities for early English history. Seven original copies of it

are still in existence, and, making due allowance for the ravages

of time and the elements, and the destruction by war, demolition

of the monasteries, theft, spoliation, and the wilful mischief of

religious bigotry, the survival of these seven copies would go

far to prove the former existence of several hundreds. The copies

yet extant are all evidently based upon a single original text,

and it is presumed that the _Chronicle_ was continued at all the

monasteries in England, each one forwarding its local annals to

some one special monastery, where a brief summary was compiled

of the whole, copies of which were supplied to all the religious

houses, to be incorporated with the general _Chronicle_, thus

keeping up from year to year the general history of the nation.

M. Taine gives some half-dozen dry-as-dust extracts from the

_Chronicle_ of this nature:

“902. _This year there was the great fight at the Holme, between

the men of Kent and the Danes._”

He adds:

“It is thus the poor monks speak, with monotonous dryness, who

after Alfred’s time gather up and take notes of great visible

events; sparsely scattered we find a few moral reflections, a

passionate emotion, nothing more” (vol. i. p. 53).

But at page 42, M. Taine has given us as belonging to a period

preceding Christianity in England, as a part of “the pagan

current,” an extract from the song on Athelstan’s victory, of which

he speaks in terms of enthusiastic admiration. “If there has ever

been anywhere a deep and serious poetic sentiment, it is here,”

etc. Now, this song, under the date of A.D. 937, _is a part of the

Saxon Chronicle, written by some poor monk “after Alfred’s time_.”

“This year King Athelstane, the Lord of Earls,

Ring-giver to the warriors, Edmund too

His brother, won in fight with edge of swords

Lifelong renown at Brunanburh. The sons

Of Edward clave with the forged steel the wall

Of linden shields. The spirit of their sires

Made them defenders of the land, its wealth,

Its homes, in many a fight with many a foe.”[5]

“It is thus the monks speak with monotonous dryness”! And so

speak they often in their _Chronicle_. The death of Byrhtnoth

referred to by M. Taine in note 2, p. 36, is also from the _Saxon

Chronicle_, and Mr. Morley specifies numerous other poetical

passages in it. Nevertheless, we find that M. Taine is not at

all embarrassed by his somewhat uncertain and limited command of

Anglo-Saxon literature. On the contrary, he qualifies as _amusing_

(p. 30) a discussion on a point of Anglo-Saxon history by two such

distinguished scholars as Dr. Lingard and Sharon Turner! These

historians “amuse” M. Taine!

“What is your first remark,” asks Mr. Taine, “in turning over

the great, stiff leaves of a folio, the yellow sheets of a

manuscript? This, you say, was not created alone. It is but a

mould, like a fossil shell, an imprint, like one of those shapes

embossed in stone by an animal which lived and perished. Under

the stone there was an animal, and behind the document there

was a man. Why do you study the shell, except to represent to

yourself the animal? So do you study the document only in order

to know the man” (Introduction, p. 1).

In this we almost agree with our author. It is well to study

shells, and well to study men in the shells of leaves, sheets,

manuscripts, or other literary exuviæ they may have left. Our

objection to M. Taine is that he has piles and heaps of such

shells, which he resolutely refuses to study, behind which he

persistently refuses to look. The trouble with him lies here.

Behind every shell is a monk, a priest, or a bishop, whose piety

and whose virtues are not subjects of agreeable contemplation to

a writer who announces his belief that religion is a mere human

invention; that man makes a religion as he paints a portrait or

constructs a steam-engine. Thus M. Taine states it: “Let us take

first the three chief works of human intelligence--religion, art,

philosophy” (p. 15).

Accordingly, of the great minds of Anglo-Saxon England during

whole centuries we see nothing in M. Taine’s pages. They are

carefully kept out of sight. One of the most majestic figures in

all literary history, that of the Venerable Bede, is absent from

his chapters, being referred to only twice by name, once as “Bede,

their old poet”! The learned Aldhelm is made a mere gleeman on the

highway. Roger Bacon’s name is not mentioned--the name of the man

who was a prodigy of learning, and who announced the principles

of the inductive system nearly four hundred years before Lord

Verulam appropriated the glory of its discovery.[6] Augustine,

Paulinus, Wilfred, Cuthbert, and scores of others are not referred

to. These men and their companions were at once monks, preachers,

schoolmasters, book-makers, scribes, authors, physicians,

architects, builders, surveyors, and farmers. _Laborare est orare_,

Labor is prayer, was their device. Barren moors, repulsive marshes,

fever-bearing fens, and wasted tracts they cultivated, and made

glad fields of gloomy swamps.

The sandy plains and barren heaths of Northumbria, and the marshes

of East Anglia and Mercia, the monks transformed by intelligent

labor and enduring toil from uninhabited deserts into rich fields

yielding abundant harvests. Around these isolated monasteries

soon sprang up, as around so many centres of life, schools,

workshops, and settlements. The wilderness blossomed. And the monks

wrote Christianity and civilization on the hearts of the people

and on the soil of England. Not to mention the grand literary

monuments dedicated to the record of their pious labors by Count

Montalembert in his _Monks of the West_, all these victories for

humanity are clearly discernible to scores of modern Protestant

writers, who have borne eloquent testimony to the noble devotion

and glorious services of these holy men, whose real merits have

been too long obscured by the historical conspiracy against truth.

They have looked behind shells and manuscripts, and found something

to reward their search.

Thus Carlyle finds a man behind the old MS. of Jocelin of Brakelond:

“A personable man of seven-and-forty, stout made, stands erect

as a pillar; with bushy eyebrows, the face of him beaming into

you in a really strange way: the name of him Samson: a man worth

looking at.... He was wont to preach to the people in the English

tongue, though according to the dialect of Norfolk, where he

had been brought up. There preached he: a man worth going to

hear.... Abbot Samson built many useful, many pious edifices;

human dwellings, churches, steeples, barns;--all fallen now and

vanished, but useful while they stood. He built and endowed ‘the

Hospital of Babwell’; built ‘fit houses for the St. Edmunsbury

schools.’ ... And yet these grim old walls are not a dilettantism

and dubiety; they are an earnest fact. It was a most real and

serious purpose they were built for? Yes, another world it was,

when these black ruins, white in their new mortar and fresh

chiselling, first saw the sun as walls, long ago. _Gauge not,

with thy dilettante compasses, with that placid dilettante

simper, the Heaven’s-Watchtower of our Fathers, the fallen God’s

Houses, the Golgotha of true Souls departed”!_

With the advantage of eleven hundred years of accumulated knowledge

in his favor, the cultivated M. Taine can well afford to sneer at

“a kind of literature” with which he credits these monks. The “kind

of literature” they most affected, and in which they unceasingly

labored, was the kind known as “the Scriptures.” Of a verity,

strange occupation for “sons of Odin,” for the most meagre summary

of Anglo-Saxon, monastic labor in this field is a magnificent

memorial of their imperishable glory.

In default of types and power-presses, volumes of the Scriptures

were multiplied by copying, and every talent and gift of man was

enlisted to preserve, beautify, and bring them within the reach

and comprehension of the great body of the people. Its light was

not hidden in the obscurity of an unfamiliar tongue. In the fourth

century, on the banks of the Danube, Ulphilas had translated the

entire Scriptures into the then barbarous Mœso-Gothic. In England,

Cædmon had sung the Scripture story of God’s power and mercy, and

put into verse all of Genesis and Exodus, with other portions of

the Old Testament, besides the life and passion of our Lord and

the Acts of the Apostles. The Venerable Bede had translated St.

John’s Gospel, and written numerous expositions of the Old and New

Testaments. Aldhelm had translated the Psalms. The entire four

Gospels have come down to us in the Anglo-Saxon of King Alfred’s

day. Ælfric translated the whole of the Pentateuch and the Book of

Job. The Normans in England had various translations besides their

metrical romance, and a verse translation of the Bible. In 1327,

William of Shoreham translated the Psalter into English. A few

years later, Richard Rolle translated the Psalms and part of the

Book of Job into the dialect of Northumberland. The four Gospels

issued in 1571 by Parker, with a dedication to Queen Elizabeth by

Foxe, the martyrologist, _are copied from two Anglo-Saxon versions

of the tenth and eleventh centuries_. From the original copy, _Tha

Halgan Godspel on Englisc_, they appear to have been divided and

arranged for reading aloud to the people. Many of these, it will

be noticed, are versions adorned and heightened by literary labor

and poetic inspiration. Plain prose Bible translations existed

in large numbers, which, as being more exposed, were the first

to perish from the effects of time, the elements, and the wilful

destruction of bigotry. The metrical versions were generally better

bound and better cared for in special libraries, and in the hands

of the wealthy. And yet of these how few copies survive! And who

shall tell us of scores of hundreds more of which we have never

heard? An immense body of Anglo-Saxon Scriptural literature has

perished and left no trace.

But M. Taine, it may be objected, was surely under no obligation

to write the history of your Anglo-Saxon monks! Certainly not. But

he was under some sort of obligation not to represent the product

of Christianity, viz., the Anglo-Saxon man, as the product of pure

paganism. That he has done so, we have shown from the remarkable

manner in which he has spoken of the products of Anglo-Saxon

literature, and we have not taken into account the full and

rich material at command, written in the Latin language by the

Anglo-Saxons.

When we get further on in M. Taine’s work, we find in his fifth

chapter, book the second, a yet more flagrant violation of his

promise to show us the Englishman as the psychological product of

his literature, and to “develop the recondite mechanism whereby

the Saxon barbarian has been transformed into the Englishman

of to-day.” Does he present to us the nature of the English

Reformation as evolved from the writings of Englishmen of the

sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? Not at all. It would not

be pleasant to show that, as politics was the leverage of the

Reformation in Germany, plunder was the leverage in England, and he

candidly admits, in phrase of studied delicacy (p. 362), that “the

Reformation entered England by a side door.”

And so he travels all the way to Germany, and gives us, instead of

English opinion and English mind, the echoes of Martin Luther’s

“bellowing in bad Latin,”[7] and passages from his beery, boozy

_Table-Talk_, bolstered up with extracts from a modern history of

England by the late Mr. Froude. No study of shells and animals and

manuscripts here. No elaborate development of recondite mechanism!

But we have scarcely space left for a few remarks we desire to make

concerning

THE SHAKESPEARE OF M. TAINE.

And, at the outset, we do not agree with those critics who ascribe

M. Taine’s utterly fantastic and distorted appreciation of

Shakespeare to the general incapacity of the Gallic mind to grasp

the great dramatist. We find something more than this. We discover

a labored effort at depreciation, negatively, positively, and

by comparison. Of Shakespeare the man, the careful student must

admit that we know very little--almost nothing, indeed. Hence the

sharpened avidity of his biographers to seize upon every floating

piece of gossip, every stray tradition concerning him, whereof to

make history. With aid of such loose and unreliable material, M.

Taine makes of Shakespeare a man of licentious morals and loose

habits.

Our author’s æsthetic starting-point renders simply impossible for

him any fair appreciation of the great English poet. Corneille and

Racine are his models in tragedy--Molière in comedy. To them and to

their productions he subordinates Shakespeare at every step. Listen!

“If [a poet] is a logician, a moralist, an orator, as, for

instance, one of the French great tragic poets (Racine), he will

only represent noble manners; he will avoid low characters; he

will have a horror of valets and the plebs; he will observe

the greatest decorum in respect of the strongest outbreaks of

passion; he will reject as scandalous every low or indecent word;

he will give us reason, loftiness, good taste throughout; he will

suppress the familiarity, childishness,” etc.... “_Shakespeare

does just the contrary, because his genius is the exact

opposite_” (vol. i. p. 311).

At page 326, we are told: “If, in fact, Shakespeare comes across

a heroic character worthy of Corneille, a Roman, such as the

mother of Coriolanus, he will explain by passion[8] what Corneille

would have explained by heroism.” “_Reason_,” M. Taine further

informs us, “_tells us that our manners should be measured_; this

is why the manners which Shakespeare paints are not so.” Again,

“Shakespeare paints us as we are; his heroes bow, ask people for

news, speak of rain and fine weather,” etc. (p. 312). As M. Taine

finds that Shakespeare’s heroes bow, we should like to know his

opinion of the exordium of the grand rhetorical effort which

Corneille puts in the mouth of the master of the world, Cæsar

Augustus:

“_Prends un siège, Cinna._”[9]

It cannot in reason be expected that the man who admires the

stiff and frigid artificiality of French tragedy should reach any

clear perception of Shakespeare. Nor can we expect the appreciator

of Shakespeare to find any superiority in Corneille and Racine.

A distinguished German scholar (Grimm) admirably expresses the

general German and English estimate of these French poets in a

letter he addressed to Michelet: “Must I tell you the opinion

commonly expressed among us here in Germany? With the greatest

possible amount of good-will, I have again and again opened Racine,

Corneille, and Boileau, and I fully appreciate their superior

talents; but I cannot read them for any length of time [_mais je ne

puis en soutenir la lecture_], so strong upon me is the impression

that a portion of the most profound sentiments awakened by poetry

are a sealed book for these authors.”

A French writer so able and so thoroughly skilled as M. Taine, is

at home in _persiflage_, and throughout his work he freely indulges

in it at the expense of “those excellent English.” From the moment

the Norman sets his foot in England, he is the Englishman’s

superior. With the Norman came in education and intelligence. These

poor Anglo-Saxons appear to have been their inferiors. Wherever

opportunity occurs, English models suffer in comparison with French

throughout the work, which closes with an extravagant rhapsody on

Alfred de Musset, and this line: “I prefer Alfred de Musset to

Tennyson.”

Many scholars of high acquirements, admirers of Shakespeare, having

exhausted with praise the catalogue of Shakespeare’s serious and

solid qualities, find that his pre-eminent superiority lies in wit

and humor--the wit bright and sparkling, the humor kindly and

genial, more akin to wisdom than to wit, and, indeed, in itself a

particular form of wisdom, so that it might almost be said that

his fools give us more wisdom than the philosophers of ordinary

dramatists. M. Taine is of a diametrically opposite opinion.

Here it is: “The mechanical imagination produces Shakespeare’s

fool-characters: a quick, venturesome, dazzling, unquiet

imagination produces his men of wit.”

Would you know what is true wit? You may learn from page 320, vol.

i.:

“Of wit, there are many kinds. One, altogether French, which

is but reason, a foe to paradox, scorner of folly, a sort of

incisive common sense, having no occupation but to render

truth amusing and evident, the most effective weapon with an

intelligent and vain people: such was the wit of Voltaire and the

drawing-rooms.”

The conclusion is thus forced upon us that this is by no means the

wit of Shakespeare. M. Taine falls into a mistake common to many

persons who understand Shakespeare but imperfectly. It is that

of attributing to him a certain style: “Let us, then, look for

the man, and in his style. The style explains the work.” Ordinary

writers have a style easily recognizable after slight study, but

Shakespeare has fifty styles, certainly at least one for every

character of marked individualism. This is not M. Taine’s view, for

he says: “Shakespeare’s style is a compound of furious expressions.

No man has submitted words to such a contortion. Mingled contrasts,

raving exaggerations, apostrophes, exclamations, the whole fury of

the ode, inversion of ideas, accumulation of images, the horrible

and the divine jumbled into the same line; it seems, to my fancy,

as though he never writes a word without shouting it” (p. 308).

If there is one peculiarity or merit of Shakespeare which,

more than another, has received the general assent of critics

and scholars, it is his eminently objective power. It is looked

upon as a striking proof of the great dramatist’s deep, clear

insight into the depths of the human heart, that he never thrusts

his individuality into his conception of characters. He never

mistakes the operations of his own mind for those of others, and

never confounds his personality with that of any of his dramatic

personages. Every page of Milton’s writings, it is said, exhibits a

full-length portrait of the author. Byron’s heroes, Lara, Conrad,

Manfred, and the rest, might interchange reflections and speeches,

and not seriously interfere with each other’s identity, and the

sentimental rubbish and trashy sophistry poured out from the mouths

of any of Bulwer’s men and women might answer for all of them. But

nothing that Romeo says could by possibility enter the mind of

Hamlet, and King Lear has not a line which would be fitting in the

mouth of Othello.

But M. Taine is not of this way of thinking. His theory is

diametrically opposed to this, and he finds Shakespeare eminently

subjective. He is always Shakespeare. “These characters are all

of the same family. _Good or bad, gross or delicate, refined or

awkward, Shakespeare gives them all the same kind of spirit which

is his own_” (p. 317). Hamlet is Shakespeare, the melancholy

Jaques[10] is Shakespeare, Othello is Shakespeare, and--Falstaff is

Shakespeare!

No, we do not exaggerate. Here are M. Taine’s words: “Hamlet,

it will be said, is half-mad; this explains his vehemence of

expression. The truth is that Hamlet here is Shakespeare” (p.

308). “Hamlet is Shakespeare, and, at the close of this gallery of

portraits, which have all some features of his own, Shakespeare has

painted himself in the most striking of all” (p. 340).

Things equal to the same are equal to each other. Lara being George

Gordon Noel Byron, and Conrad also being the same George, we see at

once why there exists a striking resemblance between them; but when

we are told that Hamlet and Falstaff, morally as far apart as the

poles, are yet painted from the same model, we find that too much

is asked of our credulity. Of Falstaff M. Taine says: “This big,

pot-bellied fellow, a coward, a jester, a brawler, a drunkard, a

lewd rascal, a pot-house poet, is one of Shakespeare’s favorites.

The reason is that his manners are those of pure nature, and

_Shakespeare’s mind is congenial with his own_” (p. 323). Wherein

this “drunkard and lewd rascal” resembles Prince Hamlet, and

wherein Shakespeare resembles either or both of them, is beyond the

range of any Anglo-Saxon or Teutonic mind to comprehend. Perhaps M.

Taine may be able to explain it. His book totally fails to do so.

No one can read this long chapter of fifty-five octavo pages on

Shakespeare without being struck by the skill with which the author

avoids mention of or reference to the dramatist’s most admirable

passages, and also by his elaborate and painstaking exposition of

the defects of Shakespeare’s inferior characters. Of the beauties

of Romeo and Juliet--the Queen Mab description alone excepted--we

hear nothing, but are regaled with two pages concerning “the most

complete of all these characters--the nurse,” and a long and severe

commentary on her “never-ending gossip’s babble.”[11] The same

remark may be made of Hamlet, a play of which M. Taine evidently

has no comprehension, if Coleridge, Hazlitt, Lamb, Ulrici, Tieck,

Goethe, and Schlegel at all understand it. Concerning Othello,

many paragraphs are frittered away in small criticism on the

characters of Iago and Cassio. Of the grand features of Othello

the reader obtains no glimpse, while a scandalous industry is

exercised in bringing out from under the cover of obscure texts

shocking pruriencies that are not perceived by the average reader

of Shakespeare.

We may be told that tastes differ, that what through tradition or

habit, perhaps, to us appear beauties, do not so strike a foreigner.

Let us test this by the criticism of another foreigner--not a

German, but a Frenchman--and we will find him selecting, as

prominent beauties on the first hearing of the play, the very

passages which also strike us on long and familiar acquaintance.

In the winter of 1829-30, a French version of Othello was

represented in a Parisian theatre, and that theatre--shades of

Corneille and Racine--the Théâtre Français! Mademoiselle Mars was

the Desdemona. The piece was a decided success, and in the _Revue

Française_ for January, 1830, there appeared an admirably written

article which was at once a _compte-rendu_ of the representation

and a criticism of the tragedy. It was from the pen of the Duc de

Broglie, and commanded universal attention. His description of the

desperate struggles of the two cliques--the Classical and the

Romantic--who were, of course, present in force, his account of the

effect of the piece upon the general audience, his analysis of the

motives of French admiration or blame of Shakespeare, are all most

interesting. But what we specially have to do with is his criticism

on the play and the dramatist. Here it is:

“The effect of Othello’s narration was irresistible. This portion

of the play is translated into all languages--its beauty is

perfectly entrancing, its originality is unequalled. Even La

Harpe could not refuse it the tribute of his admiration. But

perhaps the scene which precedes and that which follows are even

still more adapted to exhibit Shakespeare in all his greatness.

How wonderful a painter of human nature was this man! How true is

it that he has received from on high something of that creative

power which, by breathing on a little dust, can transform it into

a creature of life and immortality!”

Even as the Christian Anglo-Saxon was doomed to suffer at M.

Taine’s hands the outrage of attributed paganism, so also was

Shakespeare ignominiously foreordained (from the thirty-sixth page

of his first volume) to be a maniac Berserkir. And all because the

author has his little theory to carry out. Do you find it wonderful

that under such treatment the facts should suffer? Alas! other and

more important things must also suffer if such a work as this is

to receive the sanction of recognized critical authority, and be

placed in the hands of the rising generation.

To do M. Taine justice, he does not for a moment lose sight of

his Berserkir, and keeps him, in the soul of Shakespeare, well up

to his work. And so, Shakespeare’s Coriolanus is “an athlete of

war, with a voice like a trumpet; whose eyes by contradiction are

filled with a rush of blood and anger, proud and terrible in mood,

a lion’s soul in the body of a steer” (vol. i. p. 329).

For M. Taine, the grand trial act in the Merchant of Venice is

“the horrible scene in which Shylock brandished his butcher’s

knife before Antonio’s bare breast,” and King Lear is “the supreme

effort of pure imagination, a disease of reason which reason

could never have conceived.” But reason has so decidedly done the

contrary that an experienced physician of long practice in an

insane asylum (in the United States) has written an essay[12] to

show that Shakespeare’s physiological and psychological knowledge

and acquirements, as displayed in his tragedies, were in advance

of those of his age by fully two centuries, and, he adds, that the

wonderful skill and sagacity manifested by the great dramatist in

seizing upon the premonitory signs of insanity (as in King Lear),

which are usually overlooked by all, even the patient’s most

intimate friends and the members of his family, and weaving them

into the character of his hero as a necessary element, without

which it would be incomplete, like those of inferior artists, is a

matter of wonder to all modern psychologists.

To the Voltairian school of literature in the last century, the

plays of Shakespeare were “_ces monstrueuses farces que l’on

appelle des tragedies_,” and Hamlet, in particular, in Voltaire’s

judgment, “_seems the work of a drunken savage_.” When you have

read M. Taine on Shakespeare, first let the coruscations of his

verbal pyrotechnics subside, await the end of his epileptic

contortions of style, then scratch off a thin varnish of polite

concession, and you will find under it a Voltairian: although

not, we hope, brutal and cynical as was the great original in

his denunciation of those Frenchmen who were willing to claim

some talent for Shakespeare. Voltaire called them _faquins_,

_impudents_, _imbéciles_, _monstres_, etc. Such people were, he

said, a source of _calamity and horror_, and France did not contain

a sufficient number of pillories to punish _such a crime_. (“Letter

of Voltaire to Count d’Argental,” July 19, 1776.)

One of the most interesting books to be found in the English

language is Carlyle’s _French Revolution_. But it is interesting

only on condition that the reader is already familiar with

the history of that period. And we pay M. Taine’s work a high

compliment in saying that, in like manner, his _History of

English Literature_ will be found an interesting work to those

whose opinions on art and literature are formed, whose religious

principles are fixed, and whose judgments are sufficiently mature

to be in no danger of being affected by the artificial, erroneous,

and false views of man and his responsibilities, with which the

book abounds.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _History of English Literature._ By H. A. Taine. Translated by

H. Van Laun. With a Preface prepared expressly for this Translation

by the author. New York: Holt & Williams. 1871.

[2] Literal translation of the original falls thus into English

rhythm:

“The field streamed with warriors’ blood,

When rose at morning tide the glorious star,

The sun, God’s shining candle, until sank

The noble creature to its setting.”

[3] We have here substituted for M. Taine’s translation one that we

consider better, and we add the following poetical paraphrase of

the passage by Wordsworth:

“Man’s life is like a sparrow, mighty king.

That, while at banquet with your chiefs you sit,

Housed near a blazing fire, is seen to flit,

Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering,

Here did it enter, there, on hasty wing,

Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold:

But whence it came we know not, nor behold

Whither it goes. Even such, that transient thing,

The human soul, not utterly unknown,

While in the body lodged, the warm abode;

But from what world she came, what woe or weal

On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown.”

[4] M. Taine mildly states Milton’s obligations to Cædmon in

saying, “One would think he must have had some knowledge of Cædmon

from the translation of Junius.” It would be easy to show that some

of Milton’s finest descriptions of the fallen angels are taken from

Cædmon. Sir F. Palgrave says that there are in Cædmon passages so

like the _Paradise Lost_ that some of Milton’s lines read like an

almost literal translation.

[5] Version by Mr. Henry Morley.

[6] “Within Roger Bacon’s mind,” says Dr. Whewell, “was at the

same time the Encyclopædia and the Novum Organum of the thirteenth

century.”

[7] Expression of the historian Hallam.

[8] In his introductory chapter (vol. i. p. 36), M. Taine describes

the Berserkirs as fighting pagan maniacs. He coolly makes up his

mind that Shakespeare is a lineal descendant of a Berserkir! “With

what sadness, madness, waste, such a disposition breaks its bonds,

_we shall see in Shakespeare and Byron_”! And yet stupid English

biographers and historians are puzzling their brains and burning

midnight oil over the question of Shakespeare’s grandfather!

[9] “Take a seat, Cinna.”

[10] “A transparent mask, behind which we perceive the face of

the poet” (p. 346). Then follows a comparison between Molière and

Shakespeare, altogether to the disadvantage of the latter.

[11] We know of but one English author (of a Diary) with whose

appreciation of this tragedy M. Taine would be likely to be

pleased. It is that of the distinguished Mr. Samuel Pepys, who,

having seen Romeo and Juliet acted in March, 1672, pronounces the

play “to be the worst he had ever heard.” “A Midsummer Night’s

Dream” is also, in the opinion of Pepys aforesaid, “the most

insipid, ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.”

[12] Published in a small volume. We regret we cannot recall the

title of the work and the author’s name.

FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POEMS ON THE PASSION.

Warton, in his _History of English Poetry_, has published a few

fragments of poems on the Passion, which he ascribes to the reigns

of Henry III. and Edward I. There is a harmony in the versification

of the following that one scarcely looks for at so early a date:

“Jhesu for thi muckle might

Thou gif us of thi grace,

That we may day and night

Thinken of thi face:

In myn herte it doth me gode

Whan y thinke on Jhesu blod,

That ran down bi ys side;

Fro ys herte dou to ys fot,

For us he spradde ys hertis blod,

His wondes wer so wyde.”

* * * * *

“Ever and aye he haveth us in thought,

He will not lose that he so dearly bought.”

One fragment more, which is taken from a sort of dialogue between

our Lord on the Cross and the devout soul:

“Behold mi side,

Mi woundes spred so wide,

Restless I ride,

Lok on me, and put fro ye pride:

Dear man, mi love,

For mi love sinne no more.”

“Jhesu Christe, mi lemman swete,

That for me deyedis on rood tree

With al myn herte I the biseke

For thi woundes two and thre:

That so fast in mi herte

Thi love rooted might be,

As was the spere in thi side

When thou suffredst deth for me.”

--_Christian Schools and Scholars._

THE HOUSE OF YORKE.

CHAPTER XXV.

BOADICEA’S WATCH.

It was rather late when Mr. Yorke came down Sunday morning. The

storm was yet violent, and he did not mean to go out; and besides,

he had been tormented all night with disagreeable dreams. When he

appeared in the breakfast-room, Patrick had been to the village,

and had seen Father Rasle. The priest was resolutely keeping his

fast, and even hearing confessions.

The occurrence of the night before had stirred up the sluggish

faith and piety of those few Catholics who had not meant to attend

to their religious duties, and they crowded about their pastor at

the last moment.

It would, perhaps, be just as well not to describe the manner in

which Mr. Yorke received the news they had to tell him, for his

anger was scarcely greater toward the mob than toward his own

family. He would eat no breakfast, would scarcely stop to change

his slippers for boots, but started off to see Father Rasle.

“I shall bring the priest home with me; or, if he will not come,

shall stay with him, and defend him with my life from any further

outrage,” he said as he went out the door, addressing no one in

particular.

“We expect him to return with you, Charles,” his wife said; but he

paid no attention to her.

“Coddled like a great booby!” he muttered to himself as he strode

down the avenue. “Amy should have more respect for me, or, at

least, more regard for my reputation. It is a wonder she does not

dress me in petticoats, and set me spinning.”

“Never mind, mamma!” Clara said, kissing her mother, and leading

her into the house. “This storm will cool papa off nicely. He will

come home penitent, you may be sure. I only hope that you will hold

off a little, and not forgive him too readily.”

Mrs. Yorke wiped away the tears which had started at her husband’s

unusual severity.

“Never think to comfort your mother, my dear, by speaking

disrespectfully of your father,” she said, but, while chiding,

returned her daughter’s caress. “And do not think that I could

remember one moment any hasty word or act of his when I knew that

he was sorry for it. I do not at all wonder that your father is

annoyed at not having been called: I quite expected it.”

“Mother, I give you up,” Clara exclaimed. “Where Mr. Charles Yorke

is concerned, you have not a sign of--may I say spunk? That is what

I mean.”

“No, you may not,” replied Mrs. Yorke with decision. And so the

conversation dropped.

Patrick drove Edith to the church. When they entered, they found

the people all gathered; and in a few minutes Mass began. The scene

was touching. The congregation, prostrate before the altar, wept

silently; the choir, attempting to sing, faltered, and stopped in

the first hymn; and the priest, in turning toward his people,

could not trust himself to look at them, but closed his eyes or

glanced over their heads. Tears rolled down the faces of the

communicants when they knelt at the altar; and at the benediction

many wept aloud.

It was a Low Mass, and when it was over the priest addressed them.

He talked only a little while, but in those few words they found

both comfort and courage. They were not to mourn, but rather to

rejoice that he had been found worthy to suffer ignominy for

Christ’s sake. He translated and gave them for their motto these

words of St. Bernard: “_Pudeat sub spinato capite membrum fieri

delicatum_.” They should not seek persecution, indeed, but when

God sent it upon them they should accept it joyfully. For pain was

the only real treasure of earth, and real happiness was unknown,

save in anticipation, outside heaven. They belonged to the church

militant; and as their great Captain had marched in the van, with

shoulders bleeding from the lash, and forehead bleeding from the

thorn, they should blush to walk delicately and at ease in his

ensanguined footsteps. He implored them to pray constantly, and

keep themselves from sin, and, since they might for some time be

deprived of the sacraments, to take more than ordinary pains to

preserve the sacramental grace which they had just received. There

were a few words of farewell, uttered with difficulty, then he

ceased speaking.

When Father Rasle went out with Mr. Yorke, the weeping congregation

gathered about him, falling on their knees, some of them catching

at his robe as he passed by. He was obliged to tear himself away.

The storm was now over, and the sun burst forth brilliantly as

they stepped into the air. A carriage was in waiting, and, when he

had seated himself in it, with Mr. Yorke and Edith, Father Rasle

leaned out, looked once more with suffused eyes at his mourning

people, and raised his hand in benediction. Then the door closed

upon him, and they were alone.

A second carriage followed this containing four men, well armed,

and several other men, armed also, took the shorter road, through

East Street and the woods, to Mr. Yorke’s house. Whatever they

might suffer, these men did not mean that any further violence

should be offered to their priest or to the man who protected him.

As the carriage drove up the avenue, Mrs. Yorke and her two

daughters came down the steps to receive their guest. Both Mrs.

Yorke and Clara, who were speechless with emotion, gave a silent

welcome; but Melicent, much to her own satisfaction, was able to

pronounce an eloquent little oration. In the entry Betsey stood

stiffly, the two young Pattens in perspective. Thinking, probably,

that one of her abrupt courtesies was not enough for the occasion,

this good creature made a succession of them as long as the priest

was visible, young Sally bobbing in unison. Paul, duly instructed

by his mother, waited till the proper moment, then bowed from the

waist, till he made a pretty accurate right-angle of himself.

All that day, besides the regular guard, the Irish were coming and

going about the house, and when toward night they retired to their

homes, the guard was doubled.

Sally Patten came over in the evening and offered her services.

Joe could take care of the young ones, and her desire was to stay

all night and keep watch at the Yorkes’. It was in vain for them

to say that she was not needed. With every sort of compliment, and

every demonstration of respect, she persisted in staying. Betsey,

she said, had slept none the night before, and would be needed

about the house the next day, and they might all rest better if

there were a vigilant watcher in-doors as well as out. Men were

slow and stupid sometimes, but there was no danger of her letting

slumber steal over her eyelids.

“Well, it is true, my head does feel like a soggy batter-pudding,”

Betsey owned, beginning to waver. “I had a jumping toothache all

Friday night, and last night I never slept one wink.”

“Besides,” continued Boadicea, growing heroic, “when the two eldest

of my offspring are in the jaws of destruction, my place is beside

them.”

It was impossible to resist such an argument, and she was permitted

to have her way.

“I was going to leave the door unlocked, so that the men could come

in and get their luncheon,” Betsey said. “But as you are here,

perhaps you will carry it out to them.”

A dignified bow was the only reply. Mrs. Patten considered so

trivial a subject as luncheon irrelevant to these thrilling

circumstances. The question in her mind at this moment was what

weapon she should use in the event of an attack. Her taste was

for the mediæval, and she would have welcomed with enthusiasm the

sight of a battle-axe or a halberd; but since these were not to

be had, she inclined toward a long iron shovel that stood in the

chimney-corner, reaching nearly to the mantelpiece. This would give

a telling blow, and would, moreover, allow of a fine swing of the

arms in its wielding.

“Now, here are two coffee-pots full,” Betsey said. “This is done, I

think, and will do to begin with. You might put water to the other

so as to have it ready about twelve o’clock. I believe in having

something to eat and drink, no matter what happens. About all that

keeps me from joining the Catholic Church is their fasting. I

couldn’t praise God on an empty stomach; I should be all the time

thinking how hungry I was. If it warn’t for that, I do believe,

the folks here act so like the old boy, I’d turn Catholic just for

spite, if nothing else. Give ’em as many of them pumpkin-pies as

they want to eat. Give ’em all there is in the closet, if they want

it.”

Sally listened, superior, and merely bowed in reply.

Betsey set out a private lunch, and poured a cup of coffee. “Now,

you take this, Mrs. Patten,” she said, “and make yourself as

comfortable as you can. It will help you to keep awake.”

Boadicea hesitated, then, with a smile of lofty disdain, swallowed

the coffee. Why should she attempt the vain task of making that

unheroic soul comprehend the emotions which agitated her own

spirit? Pumpkin pies and coffee help to keep her awake! Well, she

swallowed them, but merely to escape the multiplying of trivial and

inconsequent words.

At length the happy moment came when all in the house had gone to

bed, and she was left alone.

And now indeed her soul swelled within her, and visions of possible

heroic adventure rose before her mind’s eye. She put out the lamp,

and pushed the logs of the fire so closely together that only a

dull-red glow escaped. She set the doors all open, and walked

stealthily from room to room, gazing from window after window,

stopping now and then to listen, with her head aside and her arms

extended. There was a smoldering knot of wood in both the parlor

and sitting-room fireplaces, and the faint light from them and from

the kitchen threw gigantic fantastic shadows of her on the walls

and ceiling as she moved about.

Clara, feeling restless, came softly down once, and, seeing this

strange figure, stole quickly back to bed again, and lay there

trembling with fear all night.

But Boadicea kept her watch in glorious unconsciousness of

realities. The place had undergone a change to her mind during

those lonely hours. It was no longer a common, wooden country

house, but a castle, with walls of stone, and battlements,

barbacan, and drawbridge. Mrs. Yorke was a fair ladie sleeping in

her bower (not even in thought would Sally have spelt lady with a

_y_), Mr. Yorke was a battle-worn warrior, Father Rasle the family

chaplain and my lady’s confessor. Without, the retainers watched,

and an insidious foe lurked in the darkness, ready for bold attack

or treacherous entry through a chink in the wall. Even now some

vile caitiff might have obtained entrance, and be lurking behind

yonder arras.

At that thought, Sally seized the kitchen shovel, and crept

stealthily toward the parlor window, a grotesque shadow

accompanying her, leaping across the ceiling in one breathless

bound. She paused, and stared at the heavy drapery that seemed to

outline a human form, and the shadow paused. She crept a step or

two nearer, and the shadow dropped down and confronted her. She

grasped the weapon firmly in her right hand, and, stretching the

left, with one vigorous twitch pulled down Mrs. Yorke’s damask

curtain.

For a moment Sally felt rather foolish. She put the curtain up as

best she could, and then went to give the garrison their midnight

lunch.

“And what is it ails the old lady?” asked one of the men of a

companion. “Is it dumb that she is?” For this great, gaunt creature

had given them their refreshments in utter silence and with many a

tragical gesture.

She bent suddenly toward the speaker, raised her hand in warning,

and whispered sharply, “Be vigilant!”

“What does she mean at all?” exclaimed the man in alarm, as Sally

stalked away, very much bent forward, and looking to right and left

at every step, as one sees people do on the stage sometimes. His

impression was that something awful had taken place in the house.

In short, it was a glorious night for this poor addled soul--a

night which would grow more and more in her imagination, till,

after the passage of years, her most sincere description of it

would never be recognized by one of the real actors.

Daylight came at length without there having been the slightest

disturbance. Betsey came down to relieve guard, and Sally, weary

but enthusiastic still, went home to electrify Joe with the recital

of her adventures.

Clara, coming down before the rest of the family, was astonished to

find the kitchen shovel reclining on one of the parlor chairs, and

a crimson curtain put up with the yellow lining inside the room.

Father Rasle appeared in a few minutes, and took an affectionate

leave of the men who had spent the night in guarding his rest; and,

as soon as breakfast was over, he and Mr. Yorke started for Bragon.

Edith saw him go without any poignant regret for her own part,

for she was to remain in Seaton but a few weeks longer. But her

heart ached for the poor people who were so soon to be left utterly

friendless. The burden of the pain had fallen, where it always

falls, on the poor. A group of them stood at the gate when the

travellers went through, and others met them in North Street, and

all gazed after the carriage, with breaking hearts, as long as it

was in sight. When might they hope to see a priest again? When

again would the Mass-bell summon them to bow before the uplifted

Host, and the communion cloth be spread for their heavenly banquet?

They cared little for the mocking smile and word, but covered their

faces and wept when their pastor disappeared from their gaze.

Patrick went down to the post-office, and came back bringing

a letter for Edith, which had lain in the office since Sunday

morning. The letter was from Mrs. Rowan-Williams, and contained but

a line: “My son is at home, dangerously sick with a fever.”

“The sentiment which attends the sudden revelation that _all is

lost_,” says De Quincey, “silently is gathered up into the heart;

it is too deep for gestures or for words, and no part of it passes

to the outside.”

Nor is the silence more profound when a slight possibility, over

which we have no control, still interposes between the heart and

utter loss.

Edith put the letter into her aunt’s hand. “I must go immediately

to Bragon, to take the cars,” she said quietly. “Will you tell

Patrick to get a carriage? I will be ready in a little while.”

She went up-stairs to put on a travelling-dress, and pack what she

wished to take with her. The selection was calmly and carefully

made. There was no need of haste. In less than an hour everything

was ready, and the carriage at the door.

“I have sent a telegram to your uncle, and he will meet you, and go

on to Boston with you to-night,” her aunt said.

Melicent offered her a cup of coffee, and she put it to her lips,

and tried to drink it; but all the muscles of her mouth and throat

seemed to be fixed, and she could not swallow a drop. She gave back

the cup, without uttering a word.

“I have put some fruit and a small bottle of sherry into this

luncheon-bag for you,” Mrs. Yorke said hastily. “You must try to

take a little on the way. You do not want to lose your strength,

and these will be refreshing.”

No one mentioned Dick Rowan’s name to Edith, or offered a word of

comfort. They even refrained from expressing too much solicitude

and affection, and only kissed her silently when she went out.

“Do nothing but what is necessary,” Mrs. Yorke had said to her

daughters. “There is no greater torture, at such a time, than to

be fretted about trifles. Think of her feelings, not of expressing

your own.”

Neither Betsey nor her assistants were allowed to appear, and

Patrick had orders to speak only when he was spoken to, and not on

any account to mention Mr. Rowan’s name.

“If he dies, it will kill Edith,” Mrs. Yorke said, letting her

tears flow when her niece was out of sight.

Some such thought was in Edith’s own mind during that long drive.

If Dick Rowan should die, her peace and joy would die with him; not

that he was everything to her, but because she could never accept a

happiness which was only to be reached over his grave. Edith loved

Carl Yorke with all her heart, he attracted her irresistibly, and

seemed rather a part of herself than a separate being; yet at

that moment the thought of his death would have been to her more

tolerable than the thought of Dick Rowan’s.

Mrs. Yorke’s telegram was at the priest’s house awaiting her

husband when he arrived, and he went at once to the hotel where his

niece was to meet him. Soon they were on the way.

“The Catholics here are in a state of the wildest excitement,”

he said. “The news arrived before we did, and the Irish want to

go down and burn Seaton to the ground. Father Rasle will have

difficulty in quieting them. The better class of Protestants,

even, cry out against the outrage. They have called an indignation

meeting for to-night, and the Protestant gentlemen are contributing

to buy the priest a watch. His watch and pocket-book were stolen

Saturday night, you know.”

Though Edith said but little in reply, it was not because she had

more important matter in her mind. The number of seats in the car

she counted over with weary persistence, the number of narrow

boards in the side of the car she learned by heart. She knew just

how the lamp swung, and could have described accurately afterward

the face and costume of the boy who sold papers and lemonade

and pop-corn. Not till the weary night was over, and her uncle

said, “Here we are in Boston!” did she awaken from that nightmare

entanglement of littlenesses. Then first she showed some agitation.

“Drive directly to Mrs. Williams’s,” she said, “and, while I sit in

the carriage, go to the door, and ask how he is. If they tell you

that he is better, say it out loud, quickly, but if--if the news is

not good, don’t say one word to me, only take me into the house.”

A telegram had been sent to Mrs. Williams, and Edith was expected.

As Mr. Yorke went up the step, the door opened, and Dick’s mother

stood there.

Edith leaned back in the carriage, and covered her face with her

hands. She had not dared to look at the house, lest some sign of

mourning should meet her glance. “O Mother of Perpetual Succor!”

she exclaimed.

“He is no worse, my dear,” her uncle said at the carriage-door. “I

think you need not fear. Come! Mrs. Williams is waiting for you.”

Edith lifted her hands and eyes, and repeated her aspiration, “O

Mother of Perpetual Succor!” but with what a difference!--not with

anguish and imploring, but with passionate gratitude. Dick would

live, she saw that at once. If the blow had not fallen, then it was

not to fall now.

CHAPTER XXVI.

DICK’S VISION.

When Dick Rowan came home the first time after his mother’s

marriage, both she and her husband had desired him to select a

chamber in their house which should always be his. He chose an

unfurnished one nearly at the top of the house, and, after several

playful skirmishes with his mother, who would fain have adorned it

with velvet and lace, fitted it up to suit himself. It was large,

sunny, and quiet; and there was but little in it besides an Indian

matting, an iron bed, a writing-table, wicker chairs, and white

muslin curtains, that did not even pretend to shut out the light.

There was nothing on the walls but a book-case and a crucifix,

nothing on the mantelpiece but a clock. The young man’s tastes were

simple, almost ascetical, and he protested that he could not draw

free breath in a room smothered in thick upholstery. Sunshine,

fresh air, pure water, and cleanliness--those he must have. Other

things might be dispensed with.

In this chamber Dick lay now, his body a prey to fever, his mind

wandering in wild and tumultuous scenes. He was at sea, in a storm,

and the ship was going down; he was wrecked, and parched with

thirst in a wilderness of waters; he was sailing into a strange

port, and suddenly the shore swarmed with enemies, and he saw huge

cannon-mouths just breaking into flame, and flights of poisoned

arrows just twanging from their bows; he was at Seaton again, a

poor, friendless boy, and his father was reeling home drunk, with a

rabble shouting at his heels. And always, whatever scene his fancy

might conjure up, his ears were deafened by the strong rush of

waves, adding confusion to terror and pain.

One day, when he had been crying out against this torment, a pair

of cool, small hands were clasped tightly about his forehead, and a

voice asked, low and clear, “Doesn’t that make the waves seem less,

Dick?”

He left off speaking, and lay listening intently.

“There are no waves nor storm,” the voice said calmly. “You are

not at sea. You are safe at home. But your head aches so that it

makes you fancy things. What you hear is blood rushing through the

arteries. I am going to put a bandage round your head. That will do

you good.”

Dick turned his head as Edith took her hands away, and followed her

with his eyes while she took a few steps to get what she wanted.

She smiled at him as she stood measuring off the strip of linen,

and making up little rolls of linen to press on the arteries of

the temples; and though her face was thin and white, and her eyes

filled, in spite of her, when she smiled, the image was a cheerful

one in that darkened room. She wore a dress of green cloth, soft

and lustrous, and had a rosebud in her hair. The effect was cool

and sweet. As she moved quietly about, the patient gazed at her,

and his gaze seemed to be wondering and confused, rather than

insane.

She drew the bandage tightly about his head, pressed hard on the

throbbing arteries, and sprinkled cold water on the linen and his

hair. She had observed that he started whenever ice was put to his

head, and therefore kept it cool, and avoided giving a shock.

“You are sick, and I am going to make you well,” she said. “You are

not to think, but to obey. I will do the thinking. Will you trust

me?”

“Yes, Edith,” he answered, after a pause, looking steadfastly at

her, seeming in doubt whether it were a real form he saw, a real

voice he heard.

“This is your room, you see,” she said, laying one hand on his, and

pointing with the other. “That is your book-shelf, there is your

table and your crucifix. You know it all; but sickness and darkness

are so confusing. Now, I’m going to give you one little glimpse of

out-doors, only for a minute, though, because it would hurt your

head to have too much light.”

She went to the window, and drew aside the thick green curtain, and

a golden ray from the setting sun flew in like a bird, and alighted

on the clock. Those sick eyes shrank a little, but brightened. She

returned, and leaned over the pillow, so as to have the same view

through the window with him. “That green hill is Longwood,” she

said; “and there is the flagstaff on the top of Mr. B----’s house,

looking like the mast of a ship. Now I shall drop the curtain, and

you are to go to sleep.”

So, as his feverish fancies rose like mists, her calm denial or

explanation swept them away; or, if the delirium fit was too strong

for that, she held his hand, to assure him of companionship, and

went with him wherever his tyrannical imagination dragged him,

and found help there. When he sank in deeps of ocean, he heard

a voice, as if from heaven, saying, “He who made the waves is

stronger than they. Hold on to God, and he will not let you go.”

If foes threatened him, he heard the reassuring text: “_The Lord

is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the

protector of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?_” If he groped

in desolation, and cried out that every one had deserted him, she

repeated: “_For my father and my mother have left me, but the Lord

hath taken me up_.” “_Expect the Lord, do manfully, and let thy

heart take courage, and wait thou for the Lord._”

She followed him thus from terror to terror, imagining all the

bitterness of them, trying to take that bitterness to herself, till

they began to grow real to her, and she was glad to escape into the

wholesome outer world, and see with her own eyes that the universe

was not a sick-room.

Hester had come up, and she called and took Edith out for a drive

every day; and sometimes she went home to Hester’s house, and

played with the children a while. She found their childish gayety

and carelessness very soothing.

“Carl and I are fitting up the house for the family,” Hester said

one day. “They are all to come up the last of the month. I shall

be so glad! It is delightful to go through the dear old familiar

rooms, and look from the windows, just as I used to. We new-furnish

the parlors only. Mamma wishes to use all the old things she can.”

“I cannot stop to-day,” Edith said; “but I would like to see the

house soon. You know I saw only the outside of it when I was here

before.”

“Carl is going to England before they come up,” Hester said

hesitatingly. “I don’t know why he does not wait for them, but he

has engaged passage for next week. I believe he means to be gone

only a month or two.”

Edith leaned back in the carriage, and made no reply. When she

spoke, after a while, it was to ask to be taken back to Mrs.

Williams’.

From Dick Rowan’s wandering talk, she had learned the history

of his last few weeks. She perceived that Father John and his

household must have known perfectly well what their visitor’s

trouble was, and that they had watched over and sympathized with

him most tenderly. Dick’s pride was not of a kind that would lead

him to dissemble his feelings or conceal them from those of whose

friendship and sympathy he was assured. Why should he conceal what

he was not ashamed of? he would have asked. She learned that he had

spent hours before the altar, that he had fasted and prayed, that

he had gone out in the storm at night, and walked the yard of the

priest’s house, going in only when Father John had peremptorily

commanded him to. These reckless exposures, combined with mental

distress, had caused his illness. Dick had never before been ill

a day, and could not believe that a physical inconvenience and

discomfort, which he despised, would at last overpower him.

One Sunday afternoon, a week after Edith’s arrival, the patient

opened his eyes, and looked about with a languid but conscious

gaze, all the fever and delirium gone, and, also, all the human

dross burned out of him. No person was in sight, and his heavy lids

were dropping again, when his glance was arrested by a pictured

face so perfect, that, to his misty sense, it seemed alive. It

was an exquisite engraving of Rubens’ portrait of St. Ignatius,

not the weak and sentimental copy we most frequently see, but one

full of expression. Large, slow tears, unnoted by him, rolled down

his face. The lips, slightly parted, and tremulous with a divine

sorrow, were more eloquent than any words could be. His finger

pointed to the legend, “_Ad majorem Dei gloriam_,” and one could

see plainly that in his fervent soul there was room for no other

thought. With such a face might St. John have looked, bearing for

ever in his heart the image of the Crucified.

The first glance of Dick Rowan’s eyes was startled, as though he

saw a vision, then his gaze became so intense that, from very

weakness, his lids dropped, and he slept again. In that slumber,

long, deep, and strengthening, the slackened thread of vitality in

him began to knit itself together again.

“All we have to do now is to prevent his getting up too soon,”

the doctor said. “It would be like him to insist on going out

to-morrow.”

The danger over, a breath of spring seemed to blow through the

house. The servants told each other, with smiling faces, that Mr.

Rowan was better. Mrs. Williams waked up to the fact that her

personal appearance had been notably neglected of late, and, after

kissing Edith with joyful effusion, went to put on her hair and a

clean collar. Miss Williams opened her piano, put her foot on the

soft pedal, and played a composition which made her father look

at her wonderingly over his spectacles. Had it not been Sunday,

he would have thought that Ellen was playing a polka. In fact, it

was a polka, and sounded so very much like what it was that Mr.

Williams presently ventured a faint remonstrance.

“Oh! nonsense, papa!” laughed the musician over her shoulder. “It

is a hymn of praise, by Strauss.”

“Strauss?” repeated her father doubtfully. He thought the name

sounded familiar.

“Mendelssohn, I mean,” corrected she, with the greatest hardihood,

and shook a shower of sparkling notes from her finger-ends.

Miss Ellen was one of the progressive damsels of the time.

Mr. Williams looked toward the door, and smiled pleasantly,

seeing Miss Yorke come in, and she returned his greeting with one

as friendly. There was a feeling of kindness between the two.

This gentleman was not very gallant, but, being in his wife’s

confidence, and aware therefore that Edith had been looked on by

her as a culprit, he had taken pains to make her feel at ease

with him. Moreover, in common with a good many other middle-aged,

matter-of-fact men, he had a carefully-concealed vein of

sentimentality in his composition, and was capable of being deeply

interested in a genuine love affair. With a great affectation of

contempt, Mr. Williams would yet devour every word of a romantic

story at which his daughter would most sincerely turn up her nose.

It is indeed on record, in the diary of the first Mrs. Williams,

that her husband sat up late one night, on pretence of posting his

books, and that, after twelve o’clock, she went down-stairs and

found him, as she expressed it, “snivelling over” _The Hungarian

Brothers_. “Which astonished me in so sensible a man as John,” the

lady added.

Edith took a chair by a window and looked out into the street, and

Mr. Williams turned over the book on his knee. It was a volume

of sermons which he was in the habit of pretending to read every

Sunday afternoon. Intellectually, Mr. Williams was sceptical; and

had one propounded to him, one by one, the doctrines he heard

preached every Sunday, and asked him if he believed them, he would

probably have answered, “Well, no, I don’t know as I do exactly”;

but early education by a mother whose religion was earnest if

mistaken, and that necessity for some supernatural element in the

life which is the mark of our divine origin, impelled him to an

observance of what he did not believe, for the want of something

better which he could believe.

When Dick waked again, the first object he saw was his mother’s

face, full of tearful joy. She smiled, quivered, tried to speak,

and could not.

“Poor mother! what a trouble I am to you!” he said, and would have

held his hand out to her, but found himself unable to raise it. He

looked, and saw it thin and transparent, glanced with an expression

of astonished inquiry into his mother’s face, and understood it

all. “I must have been sick a long time, mother,” he said.

She kissed him tenderly. “Yes, my dear boy. But it is all over now,

thank God!”

“Poor mother!” he said again. “I must have worn you out. Have you

taken all the care of me?”

“No! Edith was here,” she answered timidly. “She is a good nurse,

Dick.”

“Edith?” he echoed with surprise; and, after a moment’s thought,

added quietly, “Yes, I recollect seeing her. She helped me a great

deal, I think, dear child!”

“Would you like to see her?” his mother asked. “She has only just

left the room.”

“Not now, mother,” he answered. “She will come presently. I cannot

talk much now.”

He closed his eyes again, and lay in that delicious trance of

convalescence, when simply to breathe is enough for contentment--the

lips slightly parted, the form absolutely at rest, the eyes not so

closed but a faint twilight enters through the lashes--a sweet,

happy mood. When his mother moved softly about, Dick lifted his

lids now and then, but was not disturbed. Sometimes, before closing

them again, his half-seeing eyes dwelt a moment on some object in

the room. After one of these dreamy glances, there entered through

his lashes the vision of a face that seemed to cry aloud to him a

piercing summons.

He started up as if electrified, and stretched his arms out. “Stay!

stay!” he cried, and saw that it was no vision, but a pictured,

saintly face, with tears on the cheeks, and lips from which a

message seemed to have just escaped.

“Dick, what is the matter?” his mother exclaimed in terror.

He sank back on the pillows. “I saw it before, and thought it was a

dream,” he whispered. “I was thinking of it as I lay here.”

“The picture?” his mother asked. “Edith hung it there. I will take

it away if you don’t like it.”

“I do like it,” he answered faintly. “It is a blessed, blessed

vision.” He lay looking at it a while, then slipped his hand

under the pillow and found a little crucifix that he had always

kept there. At the beginning of his illness his mother had taken

it away, but Edith had returned and kept it there, seeing that

he sometimes sought for it. He drew it forth now, pressed it

passionately to his lips, then, holding it in the open palm of

his hand, on the pillow, turned his cheek to it with a gesture of

childlike fondness. “O my Love!” he whispered.

“Shall I tell Edith to come in?” his mother asked, catching the

whisper.

“Not now, not to-night, mother,” he answered softly.

But the next morning he asked to see the whole family, with the

servants, and, when they came, thanked them affectionately for what

they had done for him, taking each one by the hand. When Edith

approached, a slight color flickered in his cheeks, and he looked

at her earnestly. Her changed face seemed to distress him. “Dear

child, I have been killing you!” he said.

At his perfectly unembarrassed and friendly address, Edith’s worst

fear took flight. If Dick had reproached or been cold to her, she

would have defended herself without difficulty; but if he had

shrunk from her, she could scarcely have borne it.

The doctor was quite right in saying that their only difficulty

would be in keeping their patient quiet, for Dick insisted on

sitting up that very day.

“The doctor wishes you to lie still,” his mother said.

“And I wish to get up,” he retorted, smiling, but wilful.

“The Lord wishes you to lie still, Dick,” Edith said.

He became quiet at once. “Do you think so?” he asked.

“Father John will tell you,” she answered, as the door opened to

give admittance to the priest.

Of course Father John confirmed her assertion. “Everything in its

time, young man,” he said cheerfully. “This enforced physical

illness may be to you a time of richest spiritual benefit. You have

now leisure for reading and contemplation which you will not have

when you go out into active life again. You must let Miss Edith

read to you.”

Before leaving his penitent, the priest proposed to give him Holy

Communion the next morning; but Dick hesitatingly objected. “Not

that I do not long for it, father,” he made haste to add; “but I

wish to recollect myself. Like St. Paul, _I desire to be dissolved

and be with Christ_, but I wish to endure that desire a little

longer, till I shall be better prepared to be with him.”

Seeing the priest look at him attentively, he blushed, and added:

“Of course I do not mean to compare myself with St. Paul, sir,” and

was for a moment mortified and disconcerted at what he supposed

Father John would think his presumption.

“There is no reason why you and I may not have precisely the same

feelings that St. Paul had,” the priest said quietly.

Edith found letters in her room from Seaton. Her aunt wrote that

they were busily making the last arrangements for their moving, and

gave her many kind messages from her friends. The house in Seaton

had been leased advantageously, and they hoped that the lessee

might be able to buy it after a while, as he wished to. They were

to bring all their household with them, Betsey, Patrick, and the

young Pattens. The prospect of being left behind had so afflicted

these faithful creatures that she had not the heart to desert them.

Clara wrote a long, gossiping letter. “I must tell you what an

absurd little stale romance is being acted here,” she wrote,

“for mamma is sure to tell you nothing about it. Prepare to be

astonished by the most surprising, the most bewildering, etc. (see

Mme. de Sévigné). Mr. Griffeth has proposed for Melicent, and

Melicent is willing, so she says! Papa and mamma are frantic, and

Mel goes about with a persecuted, inscrutable look which distracts

me. I sometimes think that she is only pretending in order to have

a fuss made over her, but one cannot be sure. You know she always

prided herself on her good sense and judgment, and my experience is

that when such persons do a foolish thing,

‘They are So (ultra) cinian, they shock the Socinians.’

“We highfliers commit follies with a certain grace, and we know

when we reach the step between the sublime and the ridiculous;

but these clumsy sensible people are like dancing elephants, and

have no conception how absurd they are. (Did you ever observe that

people who have no _un_common sense always claim to have a monopoly

of the common sense?)

“It seems that Mel has had no intercourse with the man lately,

except what we have known, but he has been giving her some of those

expressive glances which are so effective when one has practised

them long enough. ‘Oh! those looks which have so little force in

law, but so much in equity!’ Mamma said that she would rather see

a daughter of hers married to Mr. Conway than to Mr. Griffeth,

for Mr. Conway had principle if he was not clever, and Mel made

a pretty good answer. ‘There is always hope,’ she said, ‘that an

irreligious person may be converted, but there is no conversion for

the commonplace.’ Mel thinks Mr. Griffeth remarkably intellectual,

and papa ridiculed the idea. The little man, he said, resembled

Cæsar in one respect, for whereas Cæsar wore the laurel wreath

to cover his bald pate, the minister took refuge in verbiage to

hide his baldness of thought. This having no effect, I gave the

‘most unkindest cut of all.’ I reminded her that he had tried both

you and me first, and we didn’t know how many more. Her reply

was to hand me a copy of Browning’s _Men and Women_, open at

“Misconceptions.” She had marked the words:

“This is the spray the Bird clung to,

Making it blossom with pleasure,

Ere the high tree-top she sprang to,

Fit for her nest and her treasure.”

“But I thought that her smile was something like that of one who is

taking medicine heroically, a sort of quinine-smile.

“There is but one way if we do not wish to have this howling

dervish in the family: we must exhibit, as the doctors say, a

counter-irritant--that is, find Mel another lover. I am convinced

that she will never voluntarily relinquish one romance except in

favor of one more.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

CARL YORKE’S ORBIT.

As Dick Rowan gained strength in those first days of convalescence,

Edith perceived that he had changed toward her. The manifestations

of this change were slight, she was not sure that he was himself

conscious of them, but they were decided. It was not that he

showed any unkindness, or even indifference, but his being seemed

to be--scarcely yet revolving round, but--brooding round a new

centre. He frequently became absorbed in contemplation, from which

he recalled himself with difficulty, though always cheerfully. Not

a tinge of pain marred the peaceful silence of his mood. It was

like that exquisite pause we sometimes see in the weather, when,

after a violent storm, the winds and blackness withdraw, and there

comes an hour of tender, misty silence before the sunshine breaks

forth. His eyes would turn upon her kindly, and, still looking,

forget her, and she saw that something of more importance had

usurped her image.

He was decided and self-reliant, too, in some things, and seemed

rather displeased than grateful for too much solicitude on the part

of others. He put aside entirely the usual sick-room inquiries. “I

am getting well,” he said, “and need not count how often I stumble

in learning to walk again. My miserable body has received attention

enough. Let us forget it, now that we may.”

Edith began to read, in obedience to Father John, but the books

she chose at first did not quite suit the listener. Even the _St.

Theresa_ and _The Following of Christ_, which she found on his

shelves, did not seem to be what he wanted then. She brought some

of her books, but could see that his own meditations were more

agreeable to him.

“I do not like to find fault with a pious writer,” Dick said

uneasily. “They are all good, but I have thought that some of them

sometimes--” He broke off abruptly. “Edith, is there such a word as

_platitudinize_?”

“I do not think that it is in the dictionary,” she replied, smiling.

“It is, then, an omission,” said Dick.

“Try the Gospels,” Father John said, when Edith told him her

difficulty. “Different states of mind require different reading,

just as different states of the body require different food and

medicine. I frequently advise people, whom I find having a distaste

for spiritual reading, to read the Gospels, and refresh their

memory of all the events recorded there by the simply-told story.

I always find that they return with delight and profit to the

meditations of those holy souls whose lives have been spent in the

study of these mysteries. These writers assume that the reader has

freshly in his mind that of which they treat. You cannot meditate

on a subject, nor follow clearly the meditations of another, when

the facts are not familiar to your own mind.”

Edith read the Gospels, therefore, and was astonished at their

effect on Dick. Either his perceptions had been sharpened during

his illness, or some obstructions had been cleared away from the

passage to his heart. This was not to him an old story, worn and

deadened with much telling, and slipping past his hearing without

leaving a trace, but a tragedy newly enacted, none of its edge

gone, every circumstance as sharp as a thorn, tearing in the

telling. While Edith read the story of the Lord as told by the four

great witnesses, and added the outpourings of those fiery Epistles,

the listener’s agitation was so great that she was often compelled

to stop. At the chapters which related to the passion, Dick’s

hands trembled and grew cold, and his head dropped back against

the cushions of his chair. The Epistles of St. Paul stirred him

especially.

“Now, Dick, if you don’t behave I won’t read you another word!”

Edith exclaimed, one day, when he had started out of his chair, and

begun to walk about.

He came back with a stumbling step, and seated himself, wiping the

perspiration from his forehead.

“I believe I shall have to postpone St. Paul till I am able to go

out-doors,” he said breathlessly.

Observing his eyes frequently wander to the St. Ignatius, she

remarked: “He looks as though he were present when our Lord was

crucified, and could not forget the sight.”

“We were all present!” he exclaimed. “How can we forget it?”

Long and intimate as their acquaintance had been, Edith thought now

that she had not known Dick Rowan well. She had praised, defended,

and loved him with sisterly fondness, but always, involuntarily,

almost unconsciously, from a higher plane than his. Now she looked

up to him as her superior. But, in truth, she had know him well,

and done him full justice. The difference now was that the full

current of his nature was turned into a higher channel.

One day Hester sent the carriage to take Edith to see the family

house, which was as complete as it could be before the arrival of

the family. Hester herself was detained at home by company, but she

sent a line: “Carl will be there, and the man who is putting up the

curtains, and the woman who is cleaning the closet in your room. So

you will not be lost, nor want for information.”

Edith had just begun her reading when the note was given to her.

She handed it to Dick to read.

“That settles the question,” he said, holding out his hand for the

book. “While you read to me yesterday, the thought occurred to me

that I could do it for myself, and I meant that this should be your

last reading. Go and take the air, Edith. You have been too much

shut up. This is your last day but one with me as an invalid.”

She looked at him with a startled expression.

“Because,” he answered smilingly to her look, “to-morrow I drive

out, the day after I shall sit down-stairs, and the next day I

shall forget that I have ever been sick.”

He looked thoroughly contented and cheerful. There was no lurking

sadness, nor reluctance to have her go. Dick was too transparent to

hide it if there were. As well might the lake show a smooth surface

while waves were rolling below. His soul had, indeed, always been

more placid than his manner.

Before Edith had left the room, he was turning over the leaves of

the book, a new one to him; and when she stepped into the carriage

at the curbstone, he was so absorbed in reading as not to know that

she was looking up at the window where he sat. The book rested on

the wide arm of his chair, his elbow near it, the hand supporting

his forehead. His hair had been cut off, and thus his full brow and

finely shaped head were clearly displayed. His hands were beginning

to look alive, his cheeks to get back their color. So he leaned and

read, and she drove away.

She was going to meet Carl, and she was glad of it, though at

Seaton she had thought that she must not see him again. The

second thought had shown her how unnecessary and Quixotic this

resolution had been, made in the first shock and confusion caused

by Dick Rowan’s distress, and her own discovery of the depth of

her own affection for Carl. She had since then put aside her own

imagination and that of others, and examined her heart as it was,

not as it might become under circumstances which she no longer

expected to find herself in. She and Carl were nearly related

by marriage, and he had been her teacher, and kind and delicate

friend. She had lived in the same house with him seven years, a

longer time than she had been associated intimately with Dick

Rowan, and her intercourse with him had been such as to call out

all that was most amiable in his character, and that at a time

when her own mind was maturing, and capable of receiving its most

profound impressions. She asked herself what the charm had been in

her intercourse with him, and the answer was immediate: a quick

and thorough sympathy in everything natural. For the supernatural,

so careful had he been not to offend her conscience, and so highly

had he appreciated religion in her, she had felt no sense of

discordance, but only that he lacked a faith which she hoped and

expected he would one day possess. Carl had never intruded his

scepticism on her. What, she asked herself then, had she wished

regarding him? and the answer was no more doubtful; she had wished

to be his most confidential and sympathizing friend, and had shrunk

with pain from the thought of any one coming nearer to his heart

than herself, or as near. Even of these wishes she had been almost

unconscious till others had forced them on her attention. Of Dick

Rowan’s friendships she could never have been jealous, and she

could never have suffered from them. Here she stopped, and set her

Christian will and her maiden reserve as a firm barrier against her

own imagination or the intrusive imaginations of others taking one

step further. She was ready to fling her _Honni soit qui mal y

pense_ in the face of any evil speaker.

“Dick Rowan was a good friend to my childhood,” she said, “and

protected me from all physical danger and insult, and petted me

with childlike fondness; and I have been grateful to him beyond the

point of duty, and to my own hurt. Carl Yorke helped to form my

opening mind, and patiently and carefully strove to endow me with

his own knowledge, and my debt to him is a still higher one. I have

a right, when he is going away, to bid him a friendly good-by, and

I should be ashamed of myself if I were afraid to!”

Carl stood in the door of his old home, and came down the steps,

hat in hand, to assist her. She saw in his face that he felt

doubtful whether his presence might not displease her.

“I am glad to see you, Carl,” she said cordially. “I could not

believe that you meant to go away without bidding me farewell.”

“I would not have gone away without seeing you,” Carl replied

quietly; and they went into the house together. His face had

lighted at her greeting. Evidently he liked its frank kindliness,

and the entire setting aside of all embarrassing recollections. He

had been in the cruel position of a man who, with a high natural

sense of honor, has suffered himself to be betrayed into an act

which he cannot justify, and is ashamed to excuse. Silence was best.

Edith was delighted with the home-like look of everything in the

house, and the good taste displayed in its arrangement.

“I can easily understand,” Carl said, “why you and my mother

wished to have as little new furniture as possible. I think we all

prefer that which has friendly or beautiful associations.”

He lead her to a portrait, conspicuously placed in the sitting-room.

“I hung dear Alice’s picture here,” he said, “because I thought

that her place was in the family-circle.” He sighed. “It is

astonishing how cruelly selfish men can sometimes be, without

knowing it. Poor, dear Alice thought of me, and I thought of

myself. Well, she is safe dead, with no more need of me, and I am

left with an unfailing regret.”

Edith was grieved and touched by his self-reproach, and was about

to say some comforting word, when he turned to her with a smile.

“And I am committing again the same fault which I confess,” he

said. “Edith comes out of a sick-room, weary and depressed, and I

sadden instead of cheering her. Shall we look about the house?”

They went up-stairs, and he showed her the different chambers. “But

we all concluded that you would prefer the one I used to have for

my painting-room,” he said. “It is up another flight of stairs, but

well repays you for the climbing. You are an early bird, and there

you will have the morning sunshine. It is the largest chamber in

the house, and has the best view. How do you like it?”

Edith exclaimed with delight. Nothing could have suited her better.

Through the windows were visible a wide sweep of sky and a pretty

city view. Inside, the room was large, charmingly irregular, with

alcoves and niches, and the partial furnishing was fresh and of

her own colors. Sea-green and white lace made it a home fit for a

mermaid. It was evident that a good deal of care had been used in

preparing the place for her.

“You are so kind!” she said rather tremulously.

He affected not to notice her emotion. “All I have done in this

house has been a labor of love and delight,” he said, and led her

to a picture which bore the mark of his own exquisite brush, the

only picture on the walls. “This is to remember Carl by,” he said.

“It is painted partly from nature, partly from a description of the

scene. It is a glimpse into what was called the Kentucky Barrens.”

An opening in a forest of luxuriant beech, ash, and oak trees

showed a level of rich green, profusely flower-sprinkled. The

morning sky was of a pure blue, with thin flecks of white cloud,

and everything was thickly laden with dew. The fringe of the

picture glittered with light, but all the centre was overshadowed

by a vast slanting canopy of messenger-pigeons, settling toward the

earth. The sunlight on their glossy backs glanced off in brilliant

azure reflections, looking as though a cataract of sapphires was

flowing down the sky. Here and there, a ray of sunshine broke

through the screen of their countless wings, and lit up a flower or

bit of green. An oriole was perched on a twig in the foreground,

and from the hanging nest close by, his mate pushed a pretty head

and throat. Startled by the soft thunder of that winged host, they

gazed out at it from the safe covert of their leafy home.

The two went down-stairs into the sitting-room again. “Now, I want

to tell you all my plans,” Carl said.

They seated themselves, and he began: “I have thought best to

make now the tour which I contemplated years ago. It must be now,

or never, and I am not willing to relinquish it entirely. But I am

not sorry that I was disappointed in going when I first thought

of it, for I was not then prepared to derive the benefit from the

journey which I now hope for. I should have gone then for pleasure

and adventure; now I make a pilgrimage to gather knowledge. I tell

you of this, Edith, but I have concluded not to tell my mother. It

seems cruel, and there has been a struggle in my mind, but I cannot

do otherwise. I well remember how hard it was to win her consent

before, and I believe she was truly glad of our loss of wealth,

since it kept me at home. If I should tell her now, the struggle

would be renewed, and she would be ill. I am afraid, too, that I

might be impatient with her, for I have no more time to throw away.

So I shall let her suppose that I am going to make a short visit in

England, which is true. Once there, she will not be disturbed at

my going over to France for a few weeks. After France, Switzerland

follows of course, Italy is next door, and the East is not far from

Italy. I have always observed that, when a thing is done, my mother

makes up her mind to it with fortitude; but, if it is left to her

to decide on anything painful, she is unable to decide, and the

suspense is terrible to her. My father knows that. When he really

means to do a thing, he is prompt, and makes no talk about it. And,

Edith, I shall not tell my sisters nor father, because it will seem

more unkind if she is the only one who does not know, and it might

compel them to practise evasion. I tell you alone, and I want you

to promise me that, if my mother should begin to suspect, you will

at once tell her all, and do what you can to quiet her.”

“I promise you, Carl,” Edith answered.

“You can also tell Mr. Rowan, if you have occasion to, if you wish

to,” he said, looking at her attentively.

She merely bowed.

“I think that you will approve of my plans,” he went on with

earnestness. “I have found what I believe to be my place and work

in this vortex of the nineteenth century, and I wish to fill that

place and do that work in the best manner I can. I have been

offered a position as _attaché_ at one of our embassies, but I am

not ready for that yet. I am not fit for anything that I wish to

do.”

Warming with his subject, Carl stood up, and leaned on a high

chair-back opposite Edith while he talked. His face became

animated, his manner had a charming cordiality and frankness.

When his time should come for speaking or writing, or taking any

part in the affairs of his country, he wished to be considered

an authority, and to deserve that consideration. To that end,

he must have more knowledge, not of courts, or camps, or books,

though these were worth knowing, but of people as they live in

their own homes, in their own lands, under laws strange to us. He

wanted to know the world’s poor, and the world’s criminals, and the

world’s saints, wherever he could find them. “You have observed,

in drawing faces,” he said, “how one little line will alter the

whole expression. It is the same with arguments. A great, loose,

sophistical generalization may be as completely upset by one sharp

little fact, as Goliath was by David. I want to have a sling full

of those facts. A plain hard truth may be made attractive by a

single beautiful illustration; and I wish to gather illustrations

from the whole world. I hate a sour patriotism, and I would not

think, nor speak, nor write narrowly on any subject.

“I can perceive, Edith, that we have much to learn in this country,

and I wish to be first taught myself, then to do my part in helping

to teach others. We need to learn that the order of society, as

well as of the heavenly bodies, depends on a centripetal, no less

than a centrifugal force. At present we are all flying off on

tangents. We need to learn that there is beauty and dignity in

obedience, as well as in independence. We should see that it is

better for a people to be nobler than their laws, than for laws to

be nobler than the people; and that the living constitution of a

living nation is not found on any parchment, but is the national

conscience brought to a focus. Why, Edith, those very persons who

boast themselves the most on the glorious fathers of our country

are, perhaps, the persons of whom those same fathers, could they

behold them, would be most unutterably ashamed. I do not mean to be

presumptuous, dear; but I see which way my influence should go, and

I mean to do my best to make that influence great, first by leading

an honest life, and next by polishing my weapons to the utmost. I

am talking confusedly. I give you but a rough sketch of my design.

Two years, I think, will be the limit of my stay. I am so well

prepared by my studies that I shall lose no time, and I have every

facility of access to all places I wish to visit. What do you say

to it, Edith?”

“I say God-speed, with all my heart, Carl! Your aims are noble. I

like to see you in earnest.”

“I am in earnest, dear,” he said. “I feel as a new planet might,

that has been turning on its own centre without progress, and is

all at once set spinning off on its orbit.”

In the momentary silence that followed, Edith went to a book-shelf

filled with pamphlets, and looked them over. “O Carl!” she said

brightly, “do you read these?”

They were the numbers of _Brownson’s Review_.

“I have read them more attentively than anything else,” he

answered, “and learned more from them. An American best understands

the American mind. Pure reason is, of course, cosmopolitan; but

reason is seldom so pure but a colored ray of individual or

national character intrudes; and I like to choose my color. I

think,” he said, smiling, “that I have been quoting that _Review_

to you. I leave them for my father to read.”

Edith’s eyes sparkled. “I thank God that you are on this track,

Carl!” she said. “The first I ever read in this _Review_ was an

article on De Maistre, and it solved for me a great difficulty. The

fragments of truth that I had seen in the mythologies of different

nations, and the beautiful Christian sentiments I had found among

the pagans, had been a stumbling-block to me; but, when I read

that, all became plain. You make me very happy, dear Carl!”

“I do not think that I am pious,” he said, after a moment. “My

mind is clear on the subject, but my heart is unmoved. I do not

wonder at that, and I am not sure but I prefer it so; to have

light pour over my mind till my heart melts underneath, rather

than have a mind imperfectly illuminated, and a heart starting up

at intervals in little evanescent flames, which die out again, and

leave ashes. The former is light from heaven, the latter suggests

the lucifer-match to me. As soon as the time shall come, which I

calmly await, when I have a clearer realization of the necessity

of baptism, I shall ask to be baptized. Till then, I wish my

intellectual convictions to be getting acclimated. My sacrifice

must be ready before I invoke upon it fire from heaven.”

“Oh! you remind me of St. John of the Cross,” Edith said. “He says,

‘Reason is but the candlestick to hold the light of faith.’”

“Precisely!” Carl replied. “Behold me, then, illuminated by a

candlestick, instead of a candle, but--aware of that lack. A friend

of mine, a convert, told me lately that he had always regretted

having hurried into the church, and to the sacraments, as he did.

He did not realize anything, but received supernatural favors like

one in a dream. He said that, though he was sincere, and would

have given his life for the faith that was in him, he was, for a

long time, tormented by the habit of doubt. When, at length, that

habit was broken, he used sometimes to long to receive baptism

over again, or wished, at least, that his first communion had been

postponed to the time of peace. A strong movement of the heart

might, perhaps, have saved this trouble; but neither he nor I have

been so favored.”

“And yet,” Edith said thoughtfully, “I should have supposed that

the first conviction of truth would have moved your feelings. When

my mind pointed that way, my heart followed quickly, and pretty

soon took wings, and flew along by itself, and left my thoughts

behind. I am not sure that I have any intellect in religion. I can

think of reasons for everything, if I try, but it does not seem to

me worth while, unless some one outside of the church wishes to

know.”

“That is a woman’s way,” Carl said, pleased with her pretty

earnestness. “A woman goes heart first, or her head and heart go

hand in hand, and her finest mental power is the intellect of noble

passions. A man goes head first, and his highest power is reason.”

The silvery bell of a clock warned them how long their interview

had been. Edith rose. “I must say good-by to you for two years,

then, Carl; but you have taken away the sting of parting. While you

are on the road to truth, I am not afraid of any road for you on

sea or land.”

She gave him her hand. Large, bright tears stood in her eyes.

“Dear Edith, good-by!” he said, and could not utter another word.

They went down the steps together. The carriage-door opened and

closed, there was one last glance, and they lost sight of each

other.

They parted with pain, yet not unwillingly; for duty and honor yet

stood with hands clasped between to separate them. Dick Rowan’s

pale face, as they had seen it that night sinking backward into the

river, could be forgotten by neither.

When we have wronged a person, though it were unconsciously, we

can no longer take the same delight in that pleasure which has

given him pain. The pleasure may be no less dear to us, but the

thought that it is to be reached only through the sufferings of one

who has even a fancied claim on us makes renunciation seem almost

preferable to possession.

THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. III.

SOCIAL DUTIES.

Under this head we include duties toward certain classes or

individuals who are dependent on the rich for their well-being and

happiness. The rich furnish employment to those who live by labor.

By their wealth, their knowledge, their power of various kinds,

they set agoing and direct those great branches of human enterprise

and industry in which the majority of persons in civilized society

are the workmen. The welfare and happiness of the majority depend,

therefore, in a great measure upon the right discharge of their

duties by the minority, in whose hands the direction is placed.

In order that these duties may be rightly discharged according to

Christian principles, the small number who possess the largest

portion of wealth and power must be stimulated and governed by

the motive of true philanthropy, the love of their fellow-men,

Christian charity. Those who are dependent need, on their part,

the spirit of resignation to the will of God, contentment with

their lot, respect and affection toward those who are in a superior

position. Where this mutual charity, springing from Christian

principles, does not exist in great strength, binding all classes

together, sooner or later the rich will despise and oppress the

poor; and the poor will hate the rich, biding their time to revolt

against and destroy them. The rich ought, therefore, to devote all

their thoughts and energies to such an administration of the trust

committed to them as may produce the greatest possible amount of

well-being and happiness among the dependent classes in society,

and earn for themselves the respect, love, and gratitude of all.

We will now leave off generalizing, and descend to some

particulars. Merchants and others in similar positions ought to

take more interest than they do in the welfare and happiness

of their clerks. Those who know something of the hardships,

privations, and moral danger to which this class of young men

are exposed in New York will not dispute the assertion we have

made.[13] It may be extended to the corresponding class of young

women. And we have here the opportunity of citing the example of

a work undertaken by one of our merchants, which illustrates our

thesis much better than pages of explanation. We refer to the great

institution contrived, and now almost completed, by Mr. Stewart,

which may be seen, and is worth being seen by every one, on the

corner of Fourth Avenue and Thirty-third Street. This princely

undertaking is a sample of that benevolent and magnanimous effort

in behalf of a numerous and interesting class of the employees of

the rich which we are aiming to recommend.

The need of looking after the interests of those who are engaged in

the harder and rougher kinds of labor is much more stringent. The

tenements and daily surroundings of the laboring class of people

in great cities, the many squalid discomforts and miseries which

invest their lot in life, have been the frequent theme of those

who, either from real or pretended philanthropy, concern themselves

with social questions. Here again, we may cite the example of

another princely merchant, Mr. Peabody, as an illustration of

what might be undertaken and accomplished, if the whole body of

wealthy men had the same spirit and would make similar efforts.

The condition of the laboring class is too hard. They are too

much neglected. It is not safe to leave them in this condition,

and, more than this, it is not right to do so. Let us specify

some particular instances of the ill-treatment or neglect of

certain classes of workingmen. There are not a few who are most

unreasonably and cruelly overworked both by day and by night,

especially such as fill the most arduous kinds of employments about

railroads. The life of the Southern negro slave was paradisaic,

compared to that of the miserable drudges who work in the stables

of our horse railways. The conductors and drivers of our city cars

and omnibuses are worked to death on a pay so meagre that stealing

has become a kind of recognized necessity of their situation. How

can these men go to church on Sundays, approach the sacraments,

or enjoy an innocent holiday? There is a wonderful amount of

breath and ink expended in our enlightened city upon our religious

rights and liberties. Yet the men who are employed to take care of

the Central Park cannot find even a single half-hour on a Sunday

morning to go to Mass.

Let any one who wishes to appreciate the blessing of living in this

nineteenth century, in this land of light and liberty, and enjoying

the fruits of that advanced civilization which communicates the

greatest amount of happiness to the greatest number, take a tour of

the New England factories. He will there see spectacles to rejoice

his heart, if he is both a wealthy and a righteous man, and cause

him to exclaim: “God, I thank thee that I am not as other men,

_especially as these Irishmen_, and that my wife and children are

not like theirs!” The writer of these articles has had a long and

extensive experience as a missionary among the Catholic population

of the factory towns of New England. In almost every instance, the

persons who have had charge of the factories have been extremely

polite and obliging during the continuance of the missions. Often

they have manifested an interest in their success, and have

granted facilities to the operatives to attend the exercises.

So, undoubtedly, has it been with the masters of slaves on the

Southern plantations. These things cannot, however, make slavery

to be freedom, or the condition of operatives in factories one

that is fit to exist in a society which pretends to be Christian

or civilized. There are plenty of kind-hearted, philanthropic men

among New England capitalists. We do not suppose that all those

who give so largely to foreign missions and Bible societies have

either made their fortunes by selling opium and rum to the heathen,

or are seeking merely to salve over a remorseful conscience and

gain applause from men by their liberality. Yet even those who are

conscientious and benevolent are carried along by a system which is

bad and cruel. We do not mean that it is bad and cruel by accident

merely. Many of its crimes and cruelties are purely accidental, and

prove only the wickedness of particular persons. If a building is

put up in such a slight manner that it falls and crushes hundreds,

this is the crime of those particular persons who caused it to be

built in such a manner. If the superintendent of a factory abuses

his power to corrupt those who are under him, that is his own sin.

But if the principles and laws of the system produce moral and

physical misery independently of the individuals who carry it on,

the system is essentially vicious. It is even the cause of the

accidental and exceptional villanies which occur under it, because

it tends to produce a cruel and tyrannical spirit.

The essential vice of the system lies in this. Capitalists seek

to make exorbitant profits, without regard to anything but their

own selfish interests. They care not for their operatives. These

are, consequently, overworked, and employed at too tender an age,

and to a great extent are underpaid. They are regarded and treated

as working machines, and not as moral and religious beings. There

is something repulsive, gloomy, and uncivilized about the aspect

and surroundings of a factory or a factory town. The life which is

led there has the most stern and sombre elements of the monastic

institute, without the compensating charms and attractions. It

has something also of the state-prison discipline, something of

the poor-house, and a great deal of the _Commune_. There is a

dismal and frightful regularity, like that of a treadmill, in the

existence of the population of our factory towns of New England.

Everything is arranged both in the mills and the boarding-houses

with such clock-work regularity, and with such scanty allowance

for any other functions of life except those which are physical,

that the place would suit much better for a variety of apes with

sufficient intelligence to work machines than for human beings.

Sunday is free, it is true, thanks to the small amount of Christian

law which still survives in our country. Catholics can therefore

go to Mass and sermon, as they do in thousands, crowding the vast

churches which they have built for themselves, in spite of the

weariness of their week’s labor. But as for confession, it is made

almost impossible, and without that they cannot enjoy the greatest

of their Sunday privileges, holy communion. We will not enlarge

on the obvious fact that the regular amount of work exacted is

excessive. But what is to be said of those who take even more than

the regular and excessive number of hours in the day from their

overworked rational animals? At Manchester, N. H., during a mission

in which the writer was engaged, the operatives of one factory were

employed until half-past nine in the evening. Some of them, who

made a desperate effort to snatch what they could of the advantages

of the mission, complained to us that they were half-dead with

fatigue, and too jaded to care whether they had souls or not. We

asked if the extra hours of work were not voluntary. The answer

was, that they were so in appearance and in pretence, but that

they did not dare to refuse volunteering for extra work, for fear

of being punished by the ill-will of their overseers, and even

discharged at the first convenient opportunity.

At another New England town, West Rutland, Vermont, we found that

for a considerable time the workmen in the marble quarries had

been forced to take _store-pay_ for their wages. All the land, the

houses, the different branches of business, were in the hands or

under the control of a few capitalists, who would not permit any

of the Irish laborers to acquire property or gain a permanent and

independent footing on the soil.

These are scattered instances, but they tell a great deal, and

well-informed readers will know how to fill up the picture for

themselves. Many persons engaged in the system of which we

are speaking will admit its evils and hardships. They excuse

themselves, however, by the plea that they can personally do

nothing toward changing it for a better one. Private efforts,

they say, would only injure those who made them, by enabling the

merciless and unscrupulous to fill up the market and sweep up all

the profits. Legislation, they say, is hopeless, because controlled

by these very unscrupulous capitalists. Senator Wilson has made

this assertion in regard to New York. He says it is controlled by

what he calls a feudal moneyed aristocracy. Others would probably

extend the observation to a much wider sphere than New York. We do

not generally agree in opinion with Senator Wilson. But we agree

with him most heartily in condemning and denouncing such a regime

as this. Only, we would suggest that a more appropriate name for it

would be, instead of _feudal_, FOODLE ARISTOCRACY. It is not only

cruel, but despicable. Mammon was the “meanest spirit that fell,”

and the worship of the golden calf is the most degrading of all

idolatries.

The miserably poor, the helpless, the suffering, and even the

morally degraded and vicious classes of the community have also

their claims on the charity of the rich. We have no wish to deny

that these claims are very generally acknowledged in modern

society, and a great deal done to acquit them, both by organized

and by individual liberality and effort. We occasionally see

extraordinary instances of generous philanthropy towards one or

another suffering class of men. Very lately, we have seen the

Roosevelt Hospital opened, an extensive institution founded by

one of the old Knickerbocker gentlemen of New York, who left

$900,000, the bulk of his fortune, for this purpose. The miseries

of our social system are nevertheless so vast and fearful that the

remedies furnished by either public or private care are wholly

inadequate. Perhaps many persons will say that they are remediless.

There are those who look on the world and life with cold and

merciless eyes. It is a struggle of animals for their selfish

enjoyment. Let each one look out for himself, and the unlucky take

their chance. When such persons are prosperous and powerful, they

scorn and oppress the weaker individuals who are dependent on them.

Knowing their own depravity, they believe in that of all other men.

They are therefore perfectly pitiless toward their fellow-men. “The

tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” Others who are not cruel

are sad and disheartened. Although they mourn over the appalling

miseries of life, they look on them as the inevitable destiny of

the human race, and do not believe it is possible to help them. The

philosophy of the first class is diabolical, that of the second is

unworthy of Christians. We do not mean that they err in respect

to the point of fact that these miseries have always existed and

will exist. But we do say that they err in ascribing them to the

essential order of the world, to the constitution of society, to

human _destiny_, and not to the wilful sins and negligences of

men; they err in not believing that God has provided a remedy

which on his part is sufficient and adequate for these miseries;

and, therefore, they err practically, if they do not endeavor to

apply that remedy as far as they can to those miseries with which

they come in contact. Does one of these ask what hope there is of

a fundamental reformation in society which will remedy the crying

evils all benevolent persons see and deplore? We answer, that, with

all its faults, the nineteenth century is really remarkable on

account of the general interest which is felt in the improvement of

the condition of the working and suffering classes. What is wanted

is the knowledge and application of the right principles and means

for accomplishing the result. Communism, secularism, and every

kind of system which denies or ignores Christianity, is a remedy

worse than the disease, which can only produce death. Imperfect

or sectarian Christianity, although capable of producing partial

and limited improvement, is too weak for the task which its more

generous and enterprising professors exact from it, and endeavor to

stimulate it to undertake. It is only the Catholic Church which

is competent to such great and universal works. She alone has the

wellspring of divine charity, and the supernatural agencies for

distributing its health-giving, fructifying streams. Therefore, the

hope of a thorough application of the divine remedy to the dreadful

diseases of humanity is precisely commensurate with the hope of a

return of the whole people of nominal Christendom to true Catholic

Christianity.

Meanwhile, the duty of each individual is to do what he can for

the benefit of those who are within the sphere of his own efforts

or influence. Let him pay attention to his own dependents, and

to the poor and suffering who are immediately around him. No one

who has wealth, power, or influence of any kind will have any

reason to complain that he lacks the opportunity of doing good

to his fellow-men, if he is really desirous of doing it. Even if

his position is altogether that of a private person, he can do

his part, and that a good and noble one, in the general work of

human redemption. If he has the power and the opportunity to act

upon society, as a public man in a greater or lesser sphere, let

him remember that he is a Christian, and act accordingly, and

he will be doing precisely what those great and good men did in

former times who were the creators and improvers of our Christian

civilization.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] An incident has been related to the writer of this article,

within a few days, which may serve as a sample of some of the

grievances, and these not the worst, of this class of young men.

Complaint was made to the head of a large house that the clerks

were obliged to stand up during the whole day, and the reply was

made that they must keep on standing if they died for it. One

more fact which we have heard reported is worth recording: that

in certain places, deduction is made from the wages of clerks for

Christmas and New-Year’s Day. We cannot help wishing that a New

York Douglas Jerrold may start up from behind some counter, or out

of some comfortless sleeping-bunk, to do justice to this fruitful

theme.

EASTER EVE.

The midnight chimes had just done ringing, and the old church was

very still. All day long there had been comers and goers, and the

altar had been wreathed, the stone church carpeted, the clustered

pillars entwined with flowers and with evergreens. Round the

altar, that stood among the carven stalls like a May-shrine in

a dark forest-glade, was an amphitheatre of blossoming verdure;

boys’ hands had piled up the lilies, the violets, the roses, the

fuchsias; and monks’ hands had reared up the pyramid of palm, and

ivory magnolia, and many-colored rhododendron beyond. The palms

were golden, not green it is true, but they were very precious, and

could not be spared to-day from the festive decoration, for they

had come from Palestine, and only last Sunday had been offered to

the church. An Eastern guest had walked in the procession on Palm

Sunday, and had dedicated these lovely foreign boughs to the God of

East and West alike.

Everything was ready for the early celebration of the Paschal

Mass--even the golden chalice lay under its pall of satin upon the

altar of sculptured cedar-wood. Perhaps the transverse timbers

of the rare wood had not forgotten the time when the sea-breezes

blew on them on Lebanon’s heights, and when the voice of the young

crusader, Hugh of Devereux, had bidden them fall in the service of

God and help to build him another sepulchre in a Christian land.

“The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars!”

And now there was no one in the old church but the youngest

chorister, Benignus, the nephew of the monk Cuthbert. The child

was never happy save by the altar, and had no friend but Cuthbert,

because he was of the blood of the lords of Devereux, and his poor

betrayed mother was no more.

Midnight chimes are sweet, and the child had a weird passion for

their sound, and would sit entranced while they slowly rang out an

old well-known church-chant. But when they had done, and he thought

there was silence, he heard a sound he knew not growing out of the

chimes, but different from them, something graver than his childish

companions’ prattle, something sweeter than the monks’ low tones,

something that seemed like his own soul speaking to itself.

It came from the belfry, straight like an arrow of sound, and

muffled itself in a faint echo among the flower-forest round the

altar.

And presently he could make out the words:

“I have spoken to God, and offered him the last vows of dying Lent,

and woven into song the speechless prayers breathed over and yet

trembling on thy jewelled brim.”

And the child knew it was the angel of the bell who spoke.

And presently there rose a sound from the dim-robed altar, and the

voice of the angel of the chalice made answer: “My cup is as a

bell uplifted, with its song of joy hushed in the very words of

God, and drowned in the flood of ruby light that quivers, living

and sensitive, within my golden walls.”

“And my cup,” returned the voice of the bell, “is as a chalice

inverted, with its saving wealth outpoured in strains that reach

the human ken; endowed with a speaking, living tongue that can

touch the human heart.”

“I speak of men to God, while my fragile stem bears the wondrous

purple flower of the precious blood, and while I am reared aloft

with the divine burden weighing on me, even as the cross was reared

up high over Jerusalem’s walls.”

“And I speak of God to men while my brazen clangor is heard afar

like the trumpets of Israel before the crumbling walls of Jericho.”

And here the soft breeze from the open lancet-windows rustled among

the sweet-smelling shrubs around the altar’s base, and, as the

night-wind passed over them, their voices seemed to be blended into

its sighs, and to have found an interpreter in its fitful sound.

“We are children of many climes, and some of us are exiles in

this land, but under this roof we are at home again, and at this

festival none of us are strangers. We too, in all our variety,

have scarce one blossom among us that is not a chalice or a bell;

that holds not high its crimson cup towards heaven to receive the

crystal dew, or hangs not its white or purple bell with golden

tongue towards the unheeding earth. On the altar of green turf,

on the swaying columns of interwoven boughs, on the storm-tossed

belfries of vine-surrounded trees, in southern swamp or northern

forest, in tropical wilderness or rosy-tinted orchard, everywhere

is stamped the semblance of the church, with chalices upreared,

with bells anxiously bent human-ward. O brothers of the altar and

the tower, let us sing together the same hymn.”

And the child Benignus said softly to himself:

“O God! make _my_ heart a chalice, and _my_ lips a Christian bell.”

The voices of the flower-chorus spoke again, and the lilies of the

valley sang a silver peal behind their grass-green curtains:

“Every day we die by thousands, but our seed is borne afar, and

drops in some fair nook at last, beside a running brook or beneath

a spreading beech, even as the last echo of the unwearied bell that

knocks at some heart’s door, far away in the mountains of worldly

care, and strikes a well-known, long-silent chord, and draws the

exile back to the fruitful plains of God’s own church.”

The voice from the wind-rocked steeple came in swift and loving

answer:

“Even so, my blossom-sisters, for to us the word was given to

increase and multiply and fill the earth, and at every step bring

forth fresh glory and conquer fresh realms for the God of our

creation.” Then the living gems stirred again under the breath

of the still midnight breeze, and the voice came forth anew as

the royal cactus and the purple morning-glories flashed like

sun-touched clouds in the dusky foliage:

“Every day our lives are drained and our treasures rifled to adorn

with living beauty the banquets of great men, and to strew the

halls of marble palaces, and yet every day, as the sun comes forth

again, our parent stem is laden once more with exhaustless riches

and a more abundant harvest of loveliness, even as the lavished

treasures and the scattered wealth of the daily chalice are ever

being shed without intermission from the altar into the hearts of

thankless men.”

And the sweet low voice came back from the shrouded altar: “Yes,

dear emblems of God’s loving prodigality, for hath he not said:

‘Cast your bread upon the waters, and after many days it shall

return to thee‘’?”

The scarlet fuchsia shook its clusters of purple bells, planted

on a blood-red cross, as if it would say to men that none could

proclaim God save they proclaimed him from Calvary. The tall Nile

lily, whose cup is as a spotless shroud wrapped round a golden

nail, swayed in the night air as if whispering that the way to

the resurrection lay across the instruments of the passion:

the ivory-tinted roses, the first-born among their kind, whose

clustering, half-blown buds made a sculptured reredos of living

alabaster behind the altar-cross, wept tears of dew when the

midnight breeze shook their curled petals, as if weeping like

sinless virgins over the wrongs they knew only by name. A carpet of

violets was spread below, the last offering of Lent, the fringes of

the sweet pall of penance under whose folds the church spends her

yearly vigil of reparation.

The heart of the child Benignus was breaking with joy and love, and

he longed to be a flower himself, that he might sing the hymn the

living grove had sung.

The voice of the angel of the bell answered his unspoken wish:

“Wish not that thou wert other than that thou art, for Jesus said,

‘Unless ye become even as little children, ye shall not enter into

the kingdom of heaven.’”

And the flowers sighed, and gave forth a sweeter fragrance, because

they longed to be little children, and could not.

Then Benignus wished he might be an angel, if he could not be a

flower, and the voice from the altar sounded very softly, so low he

thought no one could hear it but himself:

“This wish will I put into my cup, and when to-morrow dawns, and

Jesus finds the first-fruits of this new Easter laid at his feet,

thou shalt have thy answer.”

Then came a soft chorus of welcome and congratulation, breaking

forth among the flowery worshippers, but the angel of the bell held

his peace.

And in the morning, when the sun flung his golden curtains across

the east window and crowned the saints and virgins thereon with

richer gems than living monarchs wear, the Paschal procession came

winding through All Hallow’s church, and no one missed the little

chorister Benignus. But when his turn in the anthem came, a voice

seemed to float from some unseen corner, and a shower of bell-like

crystal tones rang in triumphant cadence to the very roof, and no

one could tell if it were Benignus or an angel singing. The organ

ceased, and the monk Cuthbert looked anxiously along the lines of

white-robed choristers, but the child was not there. Still the

voice sang on, and it seemed as if it floated now from the chalice

on the altar to the distant belfry-tower, and then back again to

the fragrant forest of exotics in the choir. And Cuthbert, looking

up among the half-opened buds of the early roses that were piled

up directly over the tabernacle, thought he saw one more lovely

than the others just break gently from the frail green stem, and

fall in showering petals around the pall-covered chalice, at the

very minute the wondrous voice ceased in one long reverberating

“Alleluia.”

Then Cuthbert knew who had been singing and where Benignus was, and

he sang the “Gloria in Excelsis” as he had never done before.

But the angel of the bell was sad, because the child would have

helped him to bear abroad the message of God’s truth to men.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CATHOLIC CONGRESS IN MAYENCE.

FROM DER KATHOLIK.

It is evident that we have reached a turning-point in the history

of the world; that a crisis of terrible interest for the church,

for Christian Europe, for peoples, and for nations, is at hand. It

must, indeed, soon be decided whether Christianity shall continue

to be, in the life of the nations, what from its very nature and

design it is intended to be; whether it shall remain what it has

been acknowledged to be since it overcame the heathenism of old,

the light of the world, the supernatural leaven permeating all the

relations of life, purifying and ennobling them; or whether it

shall be cast out of public life as an illusion, and at most--and

who knows how long even that?--be tolerated as a species of

superstition. The nations--and especially the recently founded

German Empire--must soon decide whether they shall accept as their

basis the laws of eternal justice, whose root is in the holy and

personal God, and in him alone; whether they will hold to that

Christian civilization which reposes on the public recognition of

Christianity, of the church as a divine institution not subject

to the arbitrament of man; in fine, whether they will respect as

sacred those prescriptive rights of mankind which every one must

respect who believes in the divine government of the world--rights

of which history is the evidence; or whether they will yield to the

pressure of the revolution and of false science, throw Christianity

and Christian civilization overboard, proclaim the present will

of the dominant political powers or party the only and highest law

of the state, and, having done this, to use their immense power to

infuse this “modern” spirit and these “modern” principles into the

life of the people, and force it on them by every means at their

disposal, through legislation, government patronage, their system

of public instruction, and the whole organization of society; in

short, whether they will place naturalism and rationalism instead

of Christianity, the vital principle of national and popular

life, and thereby--no intelligent person can doubt it, for reason

and experience conspire to teach it--hasten for the nations the

inevitable catastrophe of which the burning of Paris was only a

premonitory symptom.

And precisely at this fatal moment in the history of the world it

is that, in Germany, a number of men, among them a few who have

deserved well of the church, blinded to a degree which it seems

hard to account for, have raised the standard of rebellion against

their mother, the church, because the Œcumenical Council did not

think fit to decide as they thought best, because it decided as

it pleased the pastors of the church and the Holy Ghost. The

foundation-stone of the church, laid by Christ himself, to preserve

unity and love within it for ever, has become a stumbling-block to

them. They have made shipwreck of the faith, and burst the bonds

of love that held them in union with their brethren in the faith.

Following the example of those who before them rebelled against the

church, they call themselves defenders of the faith, while denying

the very principle on which all faith reposes. Proclaiming human

science the supreme authority in matters of religion, placing it

above the highest authority in the church, above the Pope and the

council, above the assent of the whole Catholic world, they have

ceased to be servants of God and of his church; they have gone over

to the rationalism and naturalism which are striving so hard to do

away with Christianity entirely, and to constitute themselves in

its place a new cosmopolitan religion.

The turpitude of their rebellion against the church is equalled

only by that of the means which they have adopted to defend it and

to spread its principles. Repeating the worst and most perfidious

slanders of the past against the church, and giving them out as the

result of science, they proclaim to the world that the Apostolic

See has for a thousand years been the seat of well-concocted fraud

and deceit, and that in the most sacred of matters; that the

Catholic Church is dangerous both to the state and to morals; and

that the decree solemnly proclaimed by the Œcumenical Council,

that Christ will for ever preserve his visible representative on

earth from all error in faith and morals--a belief which has always

been the key-stone of Catholic faith, Catholic life, and Catholic

practice--is a doctrine inimical to the rights of the state. Under

these pretexts, they require the state to deprive the Catholic

Church of its rights, and of the liberty which has been guaranteed

to it by the state, and not to recognize the church represented

by the bishops and the Pope, but themselves, who have renounced

all allegiance to it, as the legal Catholic Church, the only one

recognized and promised protection by the state. Moreover, they

desire that those Catholics who have remained faithful to the

church shall be looked upon as recreant to the state, accusing them

of want of patriotism. Designating all those peoples embraced in

the Catholic Church by the name of the _Romanists_, they, in the

name of what they designate Germanism, demand their oppression and

extirpation.

And, we are sorry to say, these attempts have not been without some

success. Individual governments have been induced to take steps

against the church which, a short time ago, it was supposed it

would be impossible to take, and which the Catholics living under

those governments did nothing to warrant.

During this condition of affairs, the one hundred and twentieth

Catholic Congress met in the second week of September in Mayence,

to give expression in no weak or ambiguous terms to their faith,

and to their views on the condition of things; and they did it with

that unanimity and certainty which Catholic faith alone can give--a

faith neither anxious nor troubled with doubt, or weakened by the

spirit of the age.

This they did by their resolutions on the Roman question, on the

Vatican Council, and on the more recent opposition that has been

made to its decrees--and rightly; for, in the Roman question,

the question of all external Christian law and order reaches its

culminating point, as do theirs the constitution of the church

itself, and the whole of Catholic faith, in the decrees of the

Vatican Council.

The occupation of Rome is simply robbery--a crime against the

church, against every individual Catholic which nothing can

justify, which no principle of international law can excuse

or cover, which no prescription can make valid. The so-called

guarantees made to the church by the Italian government can never

be accepted, because they are based upon the false principle that

the state alone has the right to declare under what conditions

the church and its pastors shall exercise their functions as

teachers, priests, and shepherds of the flock--functions which

they exercise in virtue of the power conferred upon them by Jesus

Christ himself; because these laws do not by any means guarantee

to the Pope the free discharge of his supreme authority as chief

pastor, and, moreover, because there is not the least security that

these guarantees will be respected. The occupation of Rome and

of the Quirinal is the culmination of the policy of the Italian

revolution, and the success of that policy the disgrace of this

age. That the governments of European nations have done nothing

to defend the Pope is an injustice to their Catholic subjects, a

violation of the law of nations, and paves the way, necessarily, to

the violation of all law and the overthrow of all order. And this

is why it is that Catholics must for ever discountenance all these

acts, and oppose them by all legitimate means. And their opposition

cannot be rightfully construed as insubordination to the powers

that be, or as a want of patriotism on their part. On the contrary,

Catholics may be sure that in so acting they will be doing their

government and their country the greatest possible service. Such

service has been rendered by the resolutions of the Catholic

Congress in Mayence.

It was well that, at the first general meeting of the society

after the occupation of Rome, its members should give expression

to their thought on the wicked act by which, for the third time

in this century, it was attempted to destroy the work founded by

divine Providence since the christianizing of the world, in order

to secure to the head of the church his liberty and the efficient

discharge of the duties of his high office. Nor could the members

of the society express themselves concerning this crime otherwise

than in bold words of truth and justice--in words becoming an

occasion when the interests of God and man are alike at stake--in

words such as nature itself puts into the mouth of those who have

been the victims of great injustice or great misfortune. Worldly

policy may wait, and consider itself justified in waiting, to

take account of circumstances; but for us Catholics there is

but one thing to do when the question is simply this--whether

Christ or Antichrist shall reign, namely, what the martyrs did

under circumstances still more aggravating, what God himself

has commanded us to do, what we see his representative on earth

doing--to proclaim the truth to those in power before kings and

peoples.

It was, if possible, yet more necessary that the Catholic Congress

should make a public profession of its faith in the decrees of

the Œcumenical Council of the Vatican, that it should raise its

voice against those proceedings of the government which have no

object but to hinder the Catholic Church in the declaration of

its doctrines, and to lead or force Catholics into heresy. And on

these points again the association, in its resolutions, speaks the

truth, and expresses the Catholic view on them, in the plainest and

most direct manner, without any show of diplomacy or of pedantry.

We joyfully profess, say they, our faith in everything which the

church requires, particularly in the infallibility of the Pope

teaching the universal church, and in the very sense in which

the Vatican Council has defined it, do we believe it. And we are

convinced that the definition of this truth in our time is no evil,

but the work of a kind and good Providence, intended to strengthen

the church, to preserve unity, to reclaim the erring. We reject

with horror the caricature of the doctrine of Papal infallibility

which the opponents of the Vatican Council have drawn, and we

repudiate the slander that this doctrine or any other article

of our faith is in conflict with our duties as subjects of our

government, or with the allegiance which we owe our fatherland.

We protest against the course of those governments which have

endeavored to hinder the propagation of Catholic doctrine within

their territories, and to favor the opposition to the church

by their protecting the rebellion against it. In this manner,

they have overstepped the bounds of their rightful authority,

infringed the rights of conscience of their Catholic subjects, and

made themselves responsible before God for a host of evils. The

political principles which have led to these things are in conflict

with the law of God, in fact with all law and order, and can never

be recognized by Catholics as right or just. Yet are we not without

the hope that the governments which have been guilty of these

things will at no distant future forsake the unholy path upon which

they have entered.

But the members of the Catholic Congress did not confine themselves

to professing the Catholic faith, to raising a protesting voice

against the encroachments on their liberties and on their

rights--rights which should be ever inviolate; they pointed out

the fertile source from which have flown as well the most recent

evils as the more ancient ones which have done so much injury to

the Catholic life of Germany. The source of all these evils, past

as well as present, is in a science grounded on false principles,

and which appropriates to itself exclusively, but not with any

show of reason, the name of German science. These evils can be

healed only by the cultivation of real Catholic science in Germany,

and the most recent events demand absolutely that the reign of

such a science should be inaugurated at once. But so long as the

ancient institutions founded for Catholic purposes ignore, for the

most part, the object of their being; when they have gone over,

to a great extent, to infidelity or to secular management, it is

extremely important, both to pastors and people, that new seats of

science, of education, of real science and Christian education,

should be established.

Such are the principal resolutions of the Catholic Congress held

during the present year. What these resolutions contain is only

the echo and essence of the thought of the assembly expressed in

the orations and sayings of the members--the deep, unanimous,

and undoubted convictions of all. These same thoughts found

expression also in their addresses to the Holy Father, to the

Bishop of Ermeland, to the Bavarian Episcopate, to the Bishops of

Switzerland, as well as to the defenders of the Catholic faith in

Italy and Austria. But is it right to assume that the voice of

all Catholic Germany has been heard, and is heard, in the voice

of this general meeting of Catholics? True it is that they would

entirely misunderstand the essence and the spirit of the principles

of the members of those meetings who would invest their doings or

their sayings as a society with any authority; but they would err

no less grossly who would consider these meetings as mere party

meetings, or as meaning nothing as merely the coming together of a

few private individuals. From the very significance of this year’s

meeting’s resolutions, it may not be amiss to examine the question

somewhat more closely--how much importance is to be attached, what

significance and authority such Catholic meetings may have.

These general meetings are nothing more than the coming together

of believing Catholics. They do not assume to have any power or

authority ecclesiastical or political. They have nothing in their

own right that entitles them to be considered as possessed of such

power or authority, nor have they a power of attorney of any kind

to represent any one else in these meetings.

In the church no one has any power whatever except those to whom

Christ has granted it, and only such power as he conferred upon

them. But he has granted no power to any one in the church but

to Peter and the apostles. On this account the Catholic Church

recognizes no representatives, save only the pope and the bishops.

There is no such thing among Catholics as lay-participation in the

government of the church. Laymen have no power in church government

that is theirs of right, and they in no manner take the place of

or represent even the inferior clergy. Every tendency in that

direction is heretical and schismatical.

The society in question, and all other societies of the same

nature, have recognized, acted upon, this principle from the

beginning. Being Catholics and wishing to remain Catholics, they

have never interfered in the government of the church. On the

contrary, they consider it their duty to show to others the example

of the most religious submission to the Pope and the bishops in

matters relating to faith and ecclesiastical discipline. They,

therefore, represent no party in the church. The church wants no

parties and recognizes no parties within its bosom. Following the

church, the general meeting of Catholics negatives every division

in the body of the church. Its only desire is to find itself always

one with the church in all things, to be simply Catholic and

nothing else.

There is no use in wasting words to show that the Catholic Congress

and other Catholic societies claim no power of any kind whatever in

the state. They neither represent a political party, nor do they

belong to any, nor will they ever constitute themselves a political

party in the state.

True, the members of the societies are very far removed, as they

ought to be, from an unreasonable, unmanly, unchristian, and

un-Catholic indifference in matters pertaining to the nation. They

are by no means of opinion that it matters nothing to a Catholic

to which party in the country he belongs. They believe firmly that

it is the duty of Catholics, as well as their right, to watch over

the rights of the church and of its members, and to defend them by

the exercise of their political franchises. They do not, however,

doubt that it is perfectly legitimate for Catholics, wherever they

are, to organize themselves into a party for the exercise of their

political rights. But as the political life of every individual

Catholic is different from his religious life, and that, although

he may be guided in his politics by the principles of Christianity,

in like manner these associations of Catholics, inasmuch as

they are Catholic, are something higher and broader than mere

political associations. Their objects are not the political, but

the religious and ecclesiastical rights of Catholics. This has been

the universal understanding of the members of these associations

from the very beginning of their organizations. These have been the

principles which have always guided them, and which they have found

it well to be guided by. These associations have never allowed

themselves to forget these principles. They have never forgotten

them, not even in times of the greatest political excitement. And

in the last general meeting, the members of the association did not

swerve from these principles by as much as a hair’s breadth.

And precisely because these associations have held to their

principles as Catholics, to the very principles we have been

mentioning above, are they entitled to attention. They manifest,

in a manner that can be relied upon, the mind and conviction, the

determination and feeling, of those who are true to the church

and to the faith. It thus happens that this general meeting of

Catholics has given expression to the thought and feeling of the

Catholic clergy and Catholic people. And hence it is that those who

would learn what Catholics think and feel on the stirring questions

of the present must turn their attention to the resolutions of

this Catholic Congress. There is unmistakable evidence that these

general meetings express the feeling and ideas common to all

Catholics. For twenty-three years they have enjoyed the complete

confidence of the bishops of the church. The Holy Father and the

bishops of Germany have never hesitated to bless and to approve

the efforts of the Catholic association. This were impossible if

these meetings did not give expression to the Catholic mind on

the questions of the day, if there were any danger in them of

a departure from the principles of the faith or of the church.

Moreover, we may ask, Who are they that take part in these

meetings? They are precisely those persons who with living faith

partake of the sacraments, and are in habitual attendance at the

services of the church, and in the life of the church generally.

During the twenty-three years of their existence, these Catholic

associations have in every German diocese and everywhere been

one with the clergy on all subjects. Zealous and true Catholics

of every social position have been largely represented in them.

Hither have come the Catholic nobleman, the Catholic of the middle

class, the Catholic peasant, the physician of souls--the priest

himself sprung from the people--the Catholic _savant_, the teacher,

author, and publicist. Here, too, have been represented those

Catholic societies made up of those who really love the church.

In short, in those societies are represented those even who are

most despised and seldom represented anywhere else. The members of

the Catholic Congress are not representatives of their individual

opinions; they seek no worldly interest. It were more than folly

for any one to come to those meetings with any such intention.

Neither do these meetings represent any party on which they are

dependent. They represent no majority or minority to whom they are

responsible. Their faith and Catholic feeling it is that bring them

to these meetings, and those they have in common with the hundreds

and thousands from whose midst they come. There is a yet stronger

argument to show that these general assemblies really represent the

mind of all true Catholics. It is their unanimity on all questions

bearing on religion and on the church--a mark which belongs to

Catholics exclusively.

After all this, we feel ourselves warranted to say that these

meetings express decidedly the feelings and convictions of those

Catholics who are _worthy_ of the name.

But these general assemblies not only give expression to the

principles and sentiments of Catholics on the questions of the

day, they also tend to keep Catholic life awake and active. And

just here is the great use of Catholic societies. There never was

a more senseless saying than this: “We need no special societies;

our society is the Catholic Church.” Precisely because the Catholic

Church is a divine and all-embracing society, the society of

societies, does it from its inexhaustible fertility call forth from

its own bosom, in all times, other smaller societies--societies

calculated to meet the peculiar wants of the time. The life of

Christian societies, of church societies, is, indeed, a standard

by which Catholic life at any particular time or place may be

measured. And in our own day, when the spirit of evil more than

ever seeks the destruction of the church, mimicking it as he does

after his own fashion--to leave the power which societies are

calculated to wield entirely to the enemies of Christianity, to

those governed exclusively by the spirit of the world, would be to

be more than blind.

At the general meeting held at Düsseldorf, Dr. Marx agreed to take

upon himself the difficult task of collecting the statistics of the

Catholic societies of Germany. At the assembly held this year, he

presented the results of his labors. His work is imperfect, it is

true, but it is a foundation on which others may build. It embraces

the statistics of most of the German dioceses, and of a number of

those of Austria.

The amount of vitality in anything or anywhere cannot be made to

appear in a table of statistics, and the best things often thrive

in secret. Hence it is that the Catholic life of Germany is much

greater than even these tables or any others would give one reason

to believe. On the other hand, much that appears on paper in

statistics of this kind is of no importance whatever, or of almost

no importance. Yet the statistical tables before us demonstrate

that numerous live Catholic associations, and of the most varied

character, have arisen during the last twenty-three years, and that

each general assembly has made itself felt--now in one place, now

in another--furthering the creation of such local associations.

Societies purely religious, such as brotherhoods, sodalities,

congregations, are not at all or scarcely at all referred to

in these tables. It was part of the plan of the work that they

should be excluded from its tables. Yet they are of the very first

importance to the life of the church. Well-conducted societies and

sodalities for young people and of adults like those which, thanks

be to God, are springing up on every side, and particularly in the

Rhine lands, are the best nurseries of real Catholics. Rightly,

therefore, do these general assemblies continue to commend such

societies, as the general assembly did this year the “Society of

Young Merchants,” which was so worthily represented at the meeting.

Neither have our Christian social societies and associations been

noticed in these tables. And for this reason, again, are we much

richer in associations than we should suppose from these tables. On

the other hand, these statistics combine with daily experience to

show that we are yet only in the beginning of the development of

this society-life; that, much as we have to be thankful for, the

time has not yet come when we can repose upon our laurels. Rather

must we work with all our strength, with inexhaustible patience

and devotion at the establishment of Catholic societies. In many

parts of Catholic Germany there are no, or scarcely any, Catholic

societies, that is, live societies, while in others those which

have been begun are now neglected. It is so convenient to allow

things to go on in the old way, and so hard--for the most modest

association demands some sacrifice on the part of individuals--to

establish anything new. Yet a thing which in the great struggle

between the church and Antichrist is one of the most powerful

means of victory is really worth the highest sacrifice. Is it not

time to see that all Christian men should organize themselves into

societies, when infidels and free-thinkers so-called are organizing

on every side to draw everything to themselves? Our indolence would

be all the worse, all the more inexcusable, were we to yield the

field to our adversaries, since we, whenever there is a question

of real live associations, possess so great an advantage over

every other body, not on account of our own merits, but because

of the spirit and strength of Catholic Christendom. Let the world

surpass us in material means, let it be far above us in its appeal

to worldly interests; it is wasting the vital power of faith and

Catholic love, which alone are able to establish and to develop

associations possessed of real life--associations which can be

productive of real good.

How true this is, is shown by the history of the Catholic

association founded by the departed but never-to-be-forgotten

Kolping. Based only on Catholic faith and relying for support

on the very simplest of human means, it has during the past

twenty-five years had a steady growth and accomplished untold good.

And it will ever be so, so long as it holds to the simple Catholic

principles of Kolping. To these associations of young people

founded by Kolping others have been joined recently--associations

in which the masters of these young people meet. To complete the

good work, there is nothing now needed but similar societies for

apprentices.

What Kolping did for young mechanics must, with suitable

modifications, be now done for those of both sexes occupied

in factories and other such establishments. This is the most

important step that can be taken by Catholics, to solve certain

social questions, and which can be solved only on Catholic

principles. Indeed, the greatest social danger of the age is the

dechristianization and demoralization of the laboring classes

of mechanics and the employees in manufacturing establishments.

This dechristianization and demoralization are, to a great

extent, the cause of the wretchedness of these classes, and make

that wretchedness, even under the most favorable circumstances,

incurable. What enormous dimensions has this evil assumed under

the, in part at least, so unnatural, social, and economic relations

which modern liberal political economy has brought about! But

even the evils resulting from this condition of affairs might be

healed, if the laboring classes could be restored to Christianity.

The Society of Young Mechanics, founded by Kolping, demonstrates

that, even under the most unfavorable circumstances, the laboring

classes can be redeemed from evil and reclaimed to right, provided

they can be made to enter the atmosphere of Christianity in which

the members of these societies live. Let us work unanimously and

for the same object, and we shall see the number of Christian

laborers increase. We shall see them living more and more in one

another, associating with one another, and being strengthened

by that association. When we have such men, and not before, it

will be possible to make those associations really useful in the

improvement of the material condition of the laboring classes. So

long, indeed, as the laboring classes themselves remain unchristian

and immoral, it will be impossible to do anything for their

material improvement; for they will never be satisfied. Only by

strengthening the spirit of Christianity in all classes of society

can legislation itself be made Christian, and it will become

Christian just in proportion as the several classes of society

become Christian.

Let us now examine in brief the most important movements which the

general assembly of this year has initiated toward the establishing

of Catholic societies.

For a number of years, the principal subject that has engaged one

section of the Catholic Congress is the Christian solution of the

so-called social question. Through the efforts of the assembly,

the question has been fairly brought before the clergy and the

laity. The session of this year has, under this head, recommended

the establishment of Christian social associations, the raising of

helping funds, the encouragement of appropriate literature, the

circulation of the _Christian Social Journal_, and the erection

of dwellings for the laboring classes. They have pointed out

how important it is to study on every hand the condition of the

laboring classes, in order to discover the principles on which

we must proceed, in order to legislate concerning labor and the

laboring classes in a just and Christian manner.

The general assembly has, moreover, recommended the Catholic

missionary associations in the most emphatic manner. Among these,

the first place belongs to the Society of St. Francis Xavier for

Foreign Missions, and the Society of St. Boniface.

Considering the terrible blows that have fallen upon France and

upon Rome, it has become our duty to redouble our efforts in behalf

of the missions to foreign parts, and in behalf of the Society of

St. Francis Xavier; for on those efforts must depend, in a great

measure, the permanency and spread of Catholic missions the world

over. Unfortunately, the Society of St. Francis Xavier has gone

backward rather than forward, in Germany, during the last ten

years. In many places it has ceded to other societies. And yet it

should not be so. The Society of St. Francis Xavier is and must

remain the first and most important of all missionary associations.

It embraces the missions to all parts of the world, and they all

look to it for support. Even Germany has been helped by it more

than by any other association; and now, although the Society of

St. Boniface has extended so widely, it cannot be dispensed with.

Therefore it is that all Catholics, and, above all, the clergy,

who are always in all matters pertaining to Christianity the

divinely appointed leaders of the people, should take the deepest

interest in the Society of St. Francis Xavier. The Society of St.

Boniface will suffer nothing from this. On the contrary, the more

the Catholic spirit is strengthened, the more will this and every

other Catholic society thrive. As truly as the church embraces the

whole world, so truly can we not be real Catholics if we feel an

interest only in the missions of our own country, but none in the

missions to other parts of the world.

True it is that charity demands us to look first to the wants

of those who are our nearest neighbors. And on this account the

Society of St. Boniface cannot be too strongly recommended to our

benevolence. The general meeting has done its duty in this matter.

It has recommended the society in very earnest terms.

Besides these great societies, there are other smaller ones with

special objects of charity in view--smaller, but by no means

unimportant. The Society of the Holy Sepulchre is, independently of

its religious object, the most powerful auxiliary of the missions

in the East. The Society of St. Joseph is doing the work of the

Society of St. Boniface among the large and exposed Catholic

German population in large and foreign cities, and especially such

cosmopolitan cities as Paris and London.

A work of the highest importance is to care for the emigrants to

America. Here it is possible to do a great deal with little means.

The Committee on Emigration, presided over by Prince von Isenburg,

has placed its cards of recommendation at the disposal of all

parish priests, in order that emigrants presenting those cards

to the agents of the Catholic Emigration Society in America may

receive proper advice and direction in their new homes, and--who

would have imagined it?--those cards of recommendation have been

used much less than one might rightfully expect.

How great is sometimes our ignorance or indifference concerning

the interests of religion! It was, certainly, only right that the

general assembly of this year should have approved the founding

of an association, that of the Archangel Raphael, whose sole

object it is, besides the saying of a few prayers for the success

of this movement in behalf of the emigrants, to defray the heavy

expenses of the same, and thus to relieve the president of the

committee of that charge. We hear many exclaim just here, We have

too many associations, too many meetings! We know very well that,

when societies increase beyond measure, even when those societies

are benevolent ones, there may be danger. But that there may be

danger is no reason why we should not encourage the organization

of such societies when they may be necessary or useful. We do not,

however, wish to blame the taking of steps to prevent too great a

competition of societies having charitable or other objects in view.

The Catholic Congress this year could not well help--as, indeed,

all those which preceded it did--considering the school question.

There can be no question that the anti-Christian party in the state

is straining every nerve to do away, by means of legislation,

with the right of Catholic parents to a Catholic education

of their children in Catholic schools--with the right of the

church to instruct her people in a Catholic manner, and to found

institutions for that purpose. The members of the assembly spoke

on these matters in no ambiguous terms, and took, besides, into

consideration what they should do in case the state, siding with

the liberalism of the day, should banish the Catholic religion,

the Catholic Church, from the schools of the nation. Should this

happen, there was nothing left but to appeal to the consciences

of parents. It then became the duty of bishops to tell their

people that it was not allowed them to send their children to

unchristian schools. Liberty of education must be defended to

the utmost, and every sacrifice made in order to give Catholic

children opportunities for a Catholic education from the primary

schools to the university. But the impression is not hereby

intended to be conveyed that in this Catholics see the salvation

of the church, of her children, and of the nation. No; they will

always remind princes and states that it is their solemn duty to

govern a Christian people in a Christian manner, and, leaving out

of consideration the sacredness of the foundations and the right

of the church to teach, to give their Catholic subjects Catholic

schools--schools standing in proper relations with the church.

Yet, on account of the more universal questions, and the great

contests which the church is waging for her most important

possessions, for the independence and for the integrity of its

faith, the school question, even at this meeting, was held somewhat

in the background.

The general assembly was content with adopting a few resolutions,

embodying the simple principles which must guide Catholics,

should the state break with the church on the school question,

and, violating the natural and prescriptive rights of Catholics,

introduce a system of non-Catholic schools--principles not

sufficiently recognized by even well-meaning Catholics. These

resolutions are worded thus: “The monopoly of the school system by

the state is an unwarranted restriction of liberty of conscience,

and therefore to be opposed by all Catholics. Very many of the

schools have notoriously been founded by Catholics, and it is only

just that they should continue to accomplish those ends for which

they are established. In these schools, and in all Catholic schools

yet to be established, the Catholic Church must possess perfect and

unrestricted liberty in its capacity as a teacher.” Thus, while

the school question was not the most prominent before the general

assembly, the words spoken at that meeting will not, we hope, be

without beneficial results in the province of Catholic education.

All rights and liberties avail nothing in the end if Catholic

education itself is not what it ought to be. And the great battle

that is waging, that education may not be deprived of its Christian

character, can be won by us only on condition that teachers and

educators themselves, as well as parents and the clergy, understand

precisely the full bearing of the question.

It was, therefore, a happy thought to unite teachers, clergy, and

parents into one grand society, in order to further the great

matter of Christian education--a matter on which our whole future

for weal or woe depends. The association of teachers founded in

Bavaria, approved by the bishops, embracing among its members many

distinguished men, and directed by one evidently called by God to

fill that very position, Ludwig Aner, has sought and is seeking

to carry this thought into practice. The Catholic Congress held

at Düsseldorf had already called attention to the importance of

establishing similar societies elsewhere, only modified in their

character by the different nature of place or other circumstances.

The realization of this thought was a matter for the meeting at

Mayence to consider more closely yet. There was here assembled a

goodly number of educators and friends of youth from every part

of Germany, among them a number of the most widely known teachers

in the country; and they took occasion to most earnestly confer

on this matter each day of the meeting. They gave a general plan,

and threw out some very practical hints for the organization of

Catholic educational associations.

We give them here with the hope that they may prove as fertile

in blessings as did those thrown out on a former occasion, and

which resulted in the Society of St. Boniface, and in the Catholic

Association for Young Men, so often recommended by those meetings

since.

The matter is one of at least as much importance, and the general

plan of the organization of these societies at least as simple and

practical. Here are the broad outlines of the plan: “The task of

education, rendered more than ever before difficult on account of

the times in which we live, and the school question, now everywhere

looming into such immense proportions, render the foundation of

Catholic educational institutions imperative.”

The Mayence Association of Teachers--pointing to the association

already existing in Bavaria--suggests the following as the ground

principles of the new associations:

I. The Catholic educational associations recognize as their

foundation, first and last, the faith of the Catholic Church.

II. Excluding all party issues, their only object is the

furtherance of the temporal and eternal welfare of youth.

III. The Catholic educational associations desire that the youth of

the age should profit by all that the world has of good, and that

in their education all that it has of evil should be avoided.

Therefore, they are ready to accept and to use all that there is

of real worth in the educational systems of the age, all that can

promote real progress.

IV. These associations consider the proper education of youth in

the family, the schools, and later in life, that is, after the

youth have left the schools, as their exclusive object.

Therefore is it that they accept as members, parents, teachers, the

clergy, and all who, in any manner, are interested in the education

of youth.

V. They recommend to these associations, 1. The defence and

propagation of Catholic principles in education by word, writing,

and action. 2. The defence of the rights of parents to the

Christian education and Christian instruction of their children. 3.

The improvement of the family education of children, of schools,

and the providing of means for the continuance of education after

children leave schools. 4. The furtherance of the interests of

teachers, to support them in their efforts in the direction of

education, and particularly to help to elevate their material and

social position; the collecting of funds to aid in the education of

teachers, and in the support of their widows. 5. The encouragement

of literature bearing on the interests of education. 6. Founding

and caring for educational institutions of all kinds--schools for

children, boys, girls, apprentices, etc.

VI. The means for attaining the objects of these associations

are, besides the means suggested by the very nature of our holy

religion, 1. Periodicals; 2. Appropriate publications for teachers

and for families; 3. The establishment of libraries and literary

associations; 4. Co-operating with other associations--the

pecuniary assistance needed in any case to be obtained by regular

fees from the members, presents, etc.

VII. The getting up of particular by-laws to be left to the

associations from each separate province, but the by-laws to be got

up in such a manner that the above principles be not ignored.

The elevation of the tone and the support of the Catholic press

must ever be one of the principal objects of all Catholic

associations, and of the general meetings.

This year a great number of Catholic publishers and editors came

together at this meeting. All the principal organs of the Catholic

daily press were represented. The principal object gained was that

they became acquainted with one another, which is the first step

towards their understanding and appreciating one another.

As far as the press is concerned, we Catholics have nothing to

do but to look at things just as they stand. It is certain that

the unrestricted freedom of the press, which every one is ready

to abuse, and which allows every one to constitute himself a

teacher of the public, can be defended neither on principles of

reason nor of faith. It is certain, too, that the rank growth of

periodicals which has followed with all its attendant evils, and

the heterogeneous character of the reading of a great many people,

is a deplorable evil. But as, unfortunately, an unchristian press

is guaranteed the fullest liberty and the evils that flow from that

liberty, are widely spread, it becomes not only our privilege, but

our solemn duty to combat the unchristian by a really Christian

press--a matter on which the church and the head of the church

have spoken in an unmistakable manner. Yes, it is absolutely

necessary to call a Catholic journal into existence on every hand,

and to spare no sacrifice to do so. The beginnings of the Catholic

press have been everywhere small, and those who have interested

themselves in it have everywhere had to contend with untold

difficulties. This is true particularly of the larger journals,

which, to enable them to compete with other journals, need support

from other sources besides that derived from subscriptions and

advertisements. It is certainly the duty of Catholics, out of

pure love for God and for the church, to establish Catholic press

associations, in order to provide means for the support of Catholic

papers, just as the government and political parties find funds

to support their own organs. The financial difficulties which

the larger journals have to fear consist sometimes only in the

apprehension of too great a competition on the part of smaller

or other journals. There may be such a thing as a reprehensible

competition, when, for example, as in the same locality attempts

are made to found or establish new journals of the same nature as

those already existing, when those already existing are sufficient

to supply the demand. But, on the whole, we have by no means thus

far enough Catholic papers. There was a time, and it is not yet

entirely over, when Catholic Germany had very few papers among

the daily press of the country. And almost every one of these few

papers had an equal prospect, and it naturally enough seemed to be

the ambition of the editor or proprietor of each to make his paper

the central organ of the whole of Catholic Germany.

Naturally enough, too, those pecuniarily or otherwise interested

in these journals looked with a rather jealous eye upon all

attempts to found other Catholic journals. Whenever a new paper

was established, the old ones lost a number of subscribers, and

sometimes fears were entertained for the existence of the older

papers themselves. But experience has shown that these fears were

unfounded. Wherever and whenever a paper was properly managed

and ably edited, it has contrived to live and to do well. Thus

competition has, on the whole, worked advantageously rather than

otherwise.

If we look at the matter closely, we will see that it is quite an

abnormal state of affairs that Catholic Germany should possess so

few of the larger political papers. Compared with the time when

Catholics had no press at all, the existence of even one good paper

through which they can give expression to their thoughts is a great

blessing and a great gain; but that certainly does not enable

them to give their voice that weight in the questions of the day

to which it is entitled. Besides, it must be remembered that, if

Catholics have not this class of papers, they will take periodicals

which are not Catholic. Experience teaches, and it might be

expected from the very nature of things that a paper can rarely

obtain a very large circulation outside of the locality in which

it is published. Outside of these bounds it will find only a few

isolated subscribers. Hence it follows that every large city ought

to have its own Catholic paper, one that will worthily represent it.

These papers outside of the place of their publication will thus

find a number of subscribers--a number which will always depend

upon the ability with which they are edited, the reliability of

the views they advocate, and the interest which on other grounds

they may awaken. We cannot, however, be satisfied with a so-called

central organ, or with a small number of large papers. No, every

large city should have its Catholic paper, and support it, cost

what it may. We thank God that such papers have, during the past

year, been established in many parts. That such a journal should

be established in the capital of the new German Empire, at the

seat of government, was an evident necessity; and it is one of the

most pleasant events in the history of our time that a paper like

the _Germania_ should have in a short time taken its position as a

first-class and widely circulated Catholic journal.

All our already existing Catholic journals, and all those to be

hereafter established, instead of hindering, will help one another,

and that from the very fact that they exist; for, the stronger

the Catholic press becomes, the more the attention of the nation

is called to it, the more secure must become the existence of

each individual journal. Therefore, we hope that there will be no

jealousy between those interested in different Catholic journals;

that, on the contrary, they will help support one another at all

times. Still more important is it to take a proper view of the

smaller local press. It would be a great absurdity were Catholics

to neglect the establishment of smaller Catholic journals lest they

should interfere or compete with the larger ones. This competition

is not dangerous; but it is dangerous to put no antagonist in

the field to meet and to oppose the unchristian press in smaller

places. The large journals can neither be paid for nor read by

the vast majority of the inhabitants of such places--and does it

not seem wrong to leave them, or the Catholics among them, to the

evil influence of a press totally antagonistic to the faith? The

establishment and support of such papers is not hard, and the

financial difficulties which stand in the way of the larger papers

for the larger cities are not to be here encountered. Wherever the

matter of the establishment of such papers has been rightly taken

in hand, it has proved successful. If the clergy only take the

matter under advisement, they will find those willing and able to

carry the matter through. It is not a very hard matter to purchase

a press and find subscribers in such places. A feature which will

contribute not a little to aid in the matter is the finding of

the proper person to carry the papers around and to canvass for

subscribers and advertisements. By being thus practical, Catholic

men have established Catholic papers in localities where one might

have despaired of ever establishing them; and not only have they

been established, but they have succeeded. No matter what the

condition of our press, it is far from being in a state to despair

of. Oh! if the children of light were only as wise as the children

of the world, we should witness wonders. It is true that evil makes

its way in this world better than goodness does; but it is also

true that goodness does not prosper, because those who represent it

take the matter too lightly, or do not go about it as they should.

More is often done for the worst cause than men are willing to do

or to sacrifice for the best. A great deal has of late years been

done for the local press, and we sincerely hope that a great deal

more will be done and more universally, and need requires us not

only to pray, but to act and make sacrifices.

Other proposals were made at the general meeting to carry out

projects, which of course the general meeting itself could neither

undertake nor perfect, as, for instance, the furtherance of

this or that literary undertaking; yet these proposals are not

without their use. They suggest something or call attention to

something already existing. Thus, at the present general meeting

the establishment of a journal as the organ for the various

associations of young Catholics was recommended. The proposer of

the resolution was informed that there already existed a journal

of that character, and a very good one; that it was published by

the associations of young Catholics in Austria, and edited in a

very able manner, under the name of the _Bund_ in Vienna; and the

general meeting, therefore, recommended it for the purpose named.

Many other things relating to the press were touched upon. We feel

assured that the general meeting has done much for the Catholic

press of the whole country.

We pass over many things bearing on Catholic charity, which ever

engages anew the attention of the general meeting. We can only

mention that the members of St. Vincent’s Association held a

special meeting.

May the blessing of God, which has never failed the Catholic

Congress, bless their efforts of this year!

FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART FIRST.

THE OLD MANSION.

VII.

Fleurange’s education did not allow her to yield to her feelings

without bringing herself to an account for them, and it was

surprising she had thus unresistingly allowed herself to be swayed

so long by a vague and unreasonable preoccupation. And could there

be one more so than this about an unknown person--a stranger she

had only had a glimpse of, with whom she had not exchanged a single

word, and whom she would probably never behold again? This was the

third time she had heard him spoken of since the day she saw him in

her father’s studio, and each time she felt agitated and disturbed.

When questioned by Dr. Leblanc, her first emotion was overpowered

by surprise, and especially by the sad remembrances awakened.

Afterwards, when Julian Steinberg mentioned Count George at the

Christmas dinner, his name gave her a thrill, but she attributed

this keen sensation to a natural interest in the hitherto unknown

individual who purchased the picture which had played so important

a _rôle_ in her life. But this time the quickened pulsations of

her heart and the ardent curiosity with which she listened to

every word that was uttered were succeeded by a prolonged reverie

which almost merited the name of madness. “Yes, Julian was right!

That is really what he looks like!” she exclaimed aloud. And every

hero with whom history, poetry, or old legends had peopled her

imagination, passed one by one before her, but always under the

same form. Then, as there is no hero without heroic feats, and no

heroism without combats and perils, a series of terrible events

succeeded each other in her waking dream--battles, shipwrecks,

desperate enterprises, and dangers of all kinds, in which the

same person was the chief actor, and in all these phantasmagoric

adventures she saw herself enacting an inexplicable and indistinct

part.

A whole hour passed thus, but the declining day recalled a habit

contracted in childhood which changed the current of her thoughts

and brought her to herself. It was sunset--in Italy, the hour of

the Ave Maria. Fleurange never forgot it. Every evening at that

hour, a short prayer rose from her heart to her lips.

Every one is aware of the power of association. We have all felt

the influence of a tone, a flower, a perfume, and even things more

trifling, in recalling a host of remembrances of which no one else

could see the connection. What a natural and touching thought,

then, to associate a holy memory with the hour that links day with

night!--the hour of twilight, when the dazzling sunlight is fading

away, work is suspended, and propitious leisure brings on long,

sweet, and sometimes dangerous reveries! In such a case, it is not

surprising the evening star becomes a safeguard. Has not the effect

it had on Fleurange been experienced a thousand times by others?

A sudden clearness of perception, strength to prevail over all

earthly phantoms, an aspiration towards heaven, an instantaneous

revival of early impressions, an influx of salutary thoughts

dispelling the confused, illusory ideas floating in her mind--such

was the effect now produced by the remembrance indissolubly

associated with that evening hour. She resolutely got up. Her

attitude, that had been languishing, her look lost in space, were

now transformed. She awoke to a sense of duty, and the feeling was

not a transient one. What was this madness that had overpowered

her? Putting this question to herself brought a blush of confusion

to her face, and made her resolve to resist and overcome reveries

so vain and absurd. And to this end she would cut them short. She

reopened her note-book, and began by tearing out the page on which

was the name but just written; then, with no further examination

of her thoughts, even for the purpose of self-reproach, which

would have been another way of prolonging them, she seated herself

at her table, and took up a volume of Dante which lay there. She

had promised Clement to mark some passages of the canto they read

together the evening before, and to add some notes from her own

memory. She at once set herself to work, and endeavored to give

her whole mind to the occupation. It is often easier, we all

know, to abstain from an act than to repress a thought. Perhaps

the volition is at fault in the latter case; but Fleurange was so

firmly resolved to obtain a victory of this kind that, at the end

of half an hour’s effort to keep her mind on her work, she thought

herself successful. She would have been more sure of herself had

she foreseen all that was so soon to come to her aid, and banish

from her mind for a long time all vain illusions, vague reveries,

and especially all exclusive self-preoccupation.

It was quite dark when she rose from the table. She heard the

clock strike, and felt ashamed of remaining so long in her room

by herself, at a time she should have been unusually attentive

to others. This was the last evening Clara would spend at home

previous to her marriage, and it ended a period of unalloyed

happiness in the Old Mansion. One place in the family was about

to be vacated, a beloved form disappear, a cherished one cease to

make part of their daily life. They would probably see each other

again, but it would not be as before. The happiness of her who

was to leave them would change its nature, but even her mother

hoped she would be so happy as never to regret the paternal roof.

Clara’s smiling face was grave and tearful to-day, as her tender

glances wandered from her parents to her brothers and sisters, and

lingered lovingly on the old walls she was about to leave. Julian

was terrified by her melancholy appearance, but felt reassured when

Clara, smiling and weeping at the same time, said to him naïvely:

“Julian, it is you that I love! To-morrow I shall leave them all

for you, and I truly feel I never could give you up for them. Is

not this enough?”

“No. If I do not see you calm and full of trust, I shall not enjoy

my happiness.”

“My trust in you is boundless.”

“And yet you tremble, and your eyes are turned away.”

“Because the unknown happiness of a new life makes me anxious, and

terrifies me in spite of myself.--I tremble, I acknowledge, but I

do not hesitate. I am afraid, but I wish to be yours, and no fear

would induce me to resume the past or repulse the future--for the

future is you!”

It may surprise some to learn that this young girl, in speaking to

her betrothed of their approaching union, expressed unawares the

sentiments death inspires in those souls whose love extends beyond

the grave, and who, triumphing over their weakness and limited

knowledge, ardently long, in spite of their fears, for the eternal

union that awaits them.

One of these beings, holy and gifted, being asked, as her life was

ebbing away, what impression the prospect of death made on her,

hesitated, and then replied:

“The impression that the thought of marriage produces on a young

girl who loves, and yet trembles--who fears union, but desires it.”

Fleurange, when she left her chamber, went down to the gallery,

where she expected to find her cousins, but it was empty. The

preparations for the morrow caused an unusual disorder throughout

the house, generally so quiet and well-ordered. Clara was doubtless

with her mother, but where was Hilda? The latter, she knew, would

have another sad farewell to utter the following day, and she

reproached herself for having so long lost sight of this fact.

She passed through the gallery and opened the door of the library,

where she found her whom she was seeking. Ludwig Dornthal and

Hansfelt were talking together, and near them Hilda, mute, pale,

and motionless, was listening, without taking any part in the

conversation that was going on before her.

Hansfelt was talking to this friend of his departure, and spoke as

one who was never to return. He was apparently thinking of nothing

but their long friendship, their youth passed together, and the end

of their companionship, but his accents were profoundly melancholy,

and all the harmony of his soul seemed disturbed.

Ludwig, however, was extremely agitated, and, while replying to his

friend, looked attentively and anxiously, from time to time, at

his daughter. Fleurange softly approached her; Hilda’s cold hand

returned her pressure. “I am glad you have come,” she said in a low

tone, “very glad.” Fleurange did not venture to make any reply,

and scarcely looked at her, for fear of increasing her emotion

by appearing to observe it. Seeing an open jewel-case lying on

the table, she exclaimed--glad to find something to say: “What a

beautiful bracelet!”

“It is a wedding present Hansfelt has just brought Clara,” said the

professor.

“Yes, a wedding present, and a parting gift which Ludwig has

allowed me to offer one of his daughters,” said Hansfelt. “As for

the other,” continued he in a troubled tone, “the time for her

wedding presents will doubtless soon come also, but the time for a

parting gift has already arrived. Ludwig, in memory of the pleasant

years during which I have seen her grow up, and as a souvenir of

this last day, will you allow me to give Hilda this ring?”

The professor made no reply.

Hansfelt continued: “In truth, a departure like mine is so much

like death, that it gives me a similar liberty to say anything.

Hilda, why should I not acknowledge it to you now in his presence?

It will do no harm. Well, you shall know, then, that the old poet,

whose forehead is more wrinkled than your father’s, would perhaps

be foolish enough to forget his age were he to remain near you. It

is therefore well for him to go.”

He took the young girl’s icy hand in his. “If he were younger,” he

continued, forcing himself to smile, “he might perhaps obtain the

right to give you a different ring than this.”--He stopped alarmed.

Hilda’s face had become frightfully pale, and she leaned her head

against Fleurange’s shoulder. She seemed ready to faint.

“Hilda, good heavens!”

“Zounds, Karl,” cried the professor, rising abruptly. “You try my

patience at last. Where are your wits?”

“Ludwig!”

“Yes, where, if you cannot see that you are yet young enough to

force me to give you my daughter, if I would not behold her die

with grief?”

“Ludwig!” repeated Hansfelt, quite beside himself.

“Of course I am displeased with her for her folly, and I am

angry with you too, but I suppose I must forgive you both

because--because she loves you.”

“Beware, beware! Ludwig,” said Hansfelt, growing pale. “There are

hopes that prove fatal when blasted!”

“Come, now, you must not die yet, nor she either!” Then he tenderly

folded his daughter in his arms, and, as she opened her eyes and

looked around in confusion, he said in a low tone:

“Hilda, my child, I give my consent. May you be as happy as you

desire. You have your father’s blessing.--Come, now,” said he to

Fleurange, “let us go to your aunt, and leave them to make their

own disclosures.”

VIII.

Madame Dornthal was affected but not surprised at hearing what had

just taken place. She had never been deceived as to her daughter’s

sentiments, and for a long time had endeavored to open her

husband’s eyes. But he was incredulous, and persisted in declaring

it was impossible for his friend, his contemporary, his “old Karl,”

even to win the heart of a girl of twenty. “It is a mere fancy,

which will pass away as soon as she meets a man of her own age who

is worthy of her,” he obstinately repeated.

“Perhaps so, but that is the difficulty,” replied the sagacious,

clear-sighted mother. “Between you and Hansfelt, Hilda has become

accustomed to live in a rarer atmosphere than generally surrounds

youth. Whether this is fortunate or unfortunate, I know not; but

as long as I perceive only pure and noble sentiments in her heart,

which I read like an open page, I do not feel I have a right

to oppose them. Believe me, we must not think too much of our

children’s happiness, and, above all, we must not plan for them to

be happy according to our notions. The important thing, after all,

is not for them to be as happy as possible, but to fully develop

their worth. Let their souls, confided to us, bear all the fruit of

which they are capable. Is not this the chief thing, Ludwig?”

The more worthy one is to hear such language, the less easy it

is to reply, and this conversation, which took place the evening

before, made Ludwig waver at the interview in the library, and drew

from him unawares his consent.

“We shall now lose them both,” said the professor sadly.

“I should rather see them happy, as we are, than happy for our

benefit,” courageously replied his wife, with a greater effort than

she wished to appear.

All misunderstanding being now cleared away, and the consent

of every one obtained, it was at once decided that Hansfelt’s

departure should be delayed a fortnight, and at the end of that

time he should go, but not alone! The last evening the two sisters

spent together under the paternal roof became therefore, doubly

memorable; but they were all calmer than might have been expected.

The professor, in spite of the suggestions of his reason, in spite

of the evident wisdom of his opinion and opposition, could not look

at his daughter without feeling that the profound and tranquil joy

which beamed from her eyes was permanent and satisfying, and the

reflection of that joy on Hansfelt’s inspired brow and softened

look involuntarily showed the secret of her affection for him.

“Well, my venerable Karl, it must be acknowledged you look quite

youthful to-night!”

“How could it be otherwise? I was withering away, and now my

freshness has returned; my life seemed hopeless, and now it is lit

up. This resurrection, this new existence, is like the restoration

of youth, and, more than that, it elevates and ennobles. If

_noblesse oblige_, so does happiness, and what would I not do now

to merit mine?”

The following day, the bright sun cast a brilliancy around the form

of the young bride, which was declared a lucky omen, in addition to

many others carefully noted by the superstitious affection of those

who surrounded her.

The Mansion, as we have said, was very near the church, and the

wedding procession was made on foot, to the great satisfaction

of those who composed it, as well as of the curious spectators.

Clara, crowned with myrtle and clad in white, was as lovely a bride

as one could wish to see, but there was no less admiration for

the two young girls who, followed by several others, two by two,

walked immediately behind. It will be guessed they were Hilda,

whose beauty was now radiant, and Fleurange, whose black hair and

general appearance distinguished her from the rest. The latter, as

she passed along, might have noticed more than one look, and heard

more than one word, calculated to satisfy her vanity, but she was

wholly occupied in observing all the details of the wedding array

which surrounded her for the first time in her life. They found a

great crowd in church, and as the _cortége_ slowly approached the

altar, Fleurange, casting her eyes around, suddenly met a friendly

look, accompanied by a respectful salutation. She bowed slightly in

return, but without recognizing the person who saluted her, though

his face was familiar. Nor did she know the fresh young woman

leaning on his arm. A few steps further on, and she recalled her

travelling companion, and Wilhelm, her husband, who was her uncle’s

clerk. It was he, she felt sure, and she eagerly turned to look at

him. She even stopped. At that moment she heard Felix Dornthal’s

name mentioned, followed by these words: “They say that is his

intended who has just passed by.” Fleurange felt they were speaking

of her, and she blushed with displeasure. Then she heard Wilhelm’s

reply: “Would it might be so! She might, perhaps, yet save him

from--” The rest escaped her as she was borne along by the throng.

She did not see Wilhelm or his wife again, and for the present

thought no more of this incident.

The ceremony, the return, and the wedding dinner, all passed off

with joyful simplicity. At the end of the repast, Clara took off

her myrtle wreath, and divided it among her young companions,

wishing that they too, in their turn, might find good husbands, and

a happiness equal to her own.

It was Hilda who was first honored in this distribution. This

signified she would be married before the rest. She took the myrtle

from her sister’s hand without any embarrassment, as if she were

not ashamed to let others see she joyfully accepted the offering,

and regarded it as more than a mere omen.

After Hilda, came Fleurange, and then all the others down to little

Frida, who had joined them with several other companions of her age.

“In your turn, Gabrielle!” said Hilda, as Fleurange fastened the

sprig of myrtle in her belt. “Your turn will soon come also to wear

this crown.”

Fleurange shook her head, and replied with a seriousness she

herself could not have accounted for: “That day will never come for

me--no, never!”

“Why do you say so?” said Hilda, astonished.

“I do not know.” And then she laughed.

An hour after, she perceived the myrtle had fallen from her belt.

She searched for it, having been charged by her cousin to wear it

the remainder of the day, but she could not find it.

At nightfall the newly married couple left the Old Mansion,

escorted over the threshold and down the steps by all the family,

who, with kind wishes and congratulations, there bade them adieu

with more affection than sadness, for they were not to be widely

separated, or for any great length of time.

Clara’s father and mother accompanied her to her new home. It was

a modest, pleasant house in one of the faubourgs of the city,

which Julian, with loving interest, had been preparing more than

a year for her who was now to take possession of it. Her parents

took leave of her at the threshold. Madame Dornthal embraced her

daughter, and, while clasping her in her arms, said: “Remember you

are now beginning a new life. Continue to give us our share of your

affection; but let nothing henceforth prevail over the love which

is now your duty.”

“I shall merit a severe penalty,” said Julian, “if this duty ever

becomes a burden--if she ever regrets the day she joined her lot to

mine.”

The father and mother stood looking at them a moment as they

paused at the entrance of the house. They observed the moved and

respectful look of the bridegroom. They saw, too, the confiding

glance of the bride amid her tears, and they left them without fear

under the protection of God!

On their way homeward, the poor father, breaking the long silence,

said: “Years hence, when she in her turn is separated from a

child, she will understand all we have suffered to-day!”

“Yes, my Ludwig,” said Madame Dornthal, wiping away her tears; “and

Heaven grant she may then have, like us, a stronger feeling in her

heart than that of grief, which will enable her to bear it!”

They pressed each other’s hands. Never, even in the brightest days

of their youth, had this old couple felt so tenderly, so closely

united!

They found the Old Mansion brilliantly lighted up. The gallery and

library, illuminated and ornamented with flowers and wreaths, were

filled not only by the customary friends and relatives, but the two

brothers’ whole circle of acquaintance in the city.

It was the custom at that time to end the wedding day with a

_soirée_, but a delicate sentiment forbade the newly-married pair

taking a part in the festivities, their happiness being considered

too profound, too concentrated, to enjoy the noisy gaiety. But

here, the unrestrained gaiety was natural, infectious, and wholly

exempt from an ingredient too often found in the corrupting

influences of society--a sad and fatal ingredient, which inspires

ill-toned pleasantries whose effect is to excite smiles and

blushes, and a gaiety as different from the other as the laughter

of fiends from the smiles of angels! The gaiety here did not

profane by a word, a glance, or even a smile, the end of the day

which had witnessed a Christian espousal.

Felix Dornthal himself seemed less disposed to jest than usual.

He was even grave, absent-minded, and gloomy to such a degree as

to excite attention in the morning at church, where he arrived

late, and at the wedding dinner, where, appointed to propose the

health of the newly married pair, he acquitted himself of the

duty with ease, but only to resume afterwards a complete silence.

Family festivals were doubtless little to his taste, and perhaps

it was _ennui_ that produced so gloomy an aspect. Such, at least,

was the supposition of his cousins, who, after declaring him

disagreeable, left him to himself. He disappeared at the end of the

repast, and now in these crowded rooms he alone was wanting. His

absence, noticed by several persons, greatly excited his father’s

impatience, who, to-day more than ever, ardently desired to witness

before he died the marriage of his son. Illness had brought on the

irritability of old age, and Heinrich Dornthal could no longer bear

contradiction.

“Where can he be?” repeated he for the tenth time to his neighbor,

who, with his look fastened on the door, seemed to share the uneasy

expectation of the banker. At that instant Fleurange passed by.

She stopped as she saw Wilhelm Müller again, at her uncle’s side.

This time she recognized him at once, and, with the natural grace

that gave a charm to her every movement, she approached and renewed

her acquaintance with him. She learned in a few words that he had

been absent, that his wife was restored to health, and had not

forgotten her. Fleurange, in return, sent her many affectionate

messages. Then she passed on, while her uncle, gazing at her,

felt an increased regret, which she was as far from imagining as

sympathizing with.

The piano was open. Several pieces had already been played with

great success, and now all the younger members of the party

were seized with the unanimous desire of dancing, which is so

contagious, and in youth often a kind of necessary manifestation of

joyousness. The Germans are all musicians, and Clement excelled.

He at once divined the general feeling, and seized his violin.

Hilda seated herself at the piano. Hansfelt took his place at her

side, and the gaiety she fully participated in did not inspire her,

like the rest, to leave her place. She was, therefore, in the best

mood possible to acquit herself of the _rôle_ which Clement with a

glance assigned her in this improvised orchestra. The brother and

sister struck up a waltz, and played with that skill, perfect time,

and particular animation which, like the waltz itself, is peculiar

to the German nation. In an instant there was universal animation.

Fleurange had occasionally danced with her cousins in the winter

evenings, but she had never experienced, as on this occasion, the

inspiriting effect of so much liveliness and so general an impulse.

She involuntarily rose up with a desire to take a part in it, and

at that very moment she heard these words addressed her: “Will you

favor me with this waltz?”--an invitation so in accordance with

the wish of the moment that she replied in the affirmative, and

left the place before realizing it was her cousin Felix who was her

partner. They danced around twice. Poor Heinrich Dornthal saw them

sweep by, and uttered a joyful exclamation--the last that a feeling

of hope or of paternal joy would ever draw from him again in this

world!

Felix conducted Fleurange back to her seat. She was breathless,

pale, and annoyed. While waltzing, he had uttered words she wished

had never been said. Scarcely seated, her first impulse was to

leave the spot where he stood, and even the room, but she could

not. Felix’s hand, placed on hers, forced her to sit down again.

Then Fleurange rose above her embarrassment. She comprehended that

the time had come to be firm, calm, and decided--not a difficult

thing when the heart and the will are perfectly in accord. That

was the case in this instance, and Fleurange almost coolly awaited

what her cousin had to say.

“I only beseech you for one word, Gabrielle,” said Felix, with more

emotion and respect than usual--“one word, and, if you understood

me, an answer.”

“I heard you,” said Fleurange.

“And understood?”

“Yes; and with regret, Felix.”

“Tell me plainly, Gabrielle, do you understand that I love you?”

Fleurange blushed and made no reply.

“That I love you to such a degree, my happiness, my future

prospects, and my life are in your hands?” continued he vehemently.

“And this is true, literally true.”

Fleurange frowned. “Do you wish to frighten me?” she said coldly,

turning her large eyes toward him.

“No; I have told you the truth without thinking I could frighten

you; but, since you ask the question, here is my sincere reply:

Only promise to accept my hand, promise it through fear or love,

terror or joy, I will be satisfied, and ask for no more.”

“Then,” said Fleurange slowly, “it is all the same to you whether I

esteem or despise you, love or detest?”

“No woman can for ever detest a man who endeavors to win her

love--when that man is her husband, and could be her master, but

only wishes to be her slave.”

“There is great fatuity in your humility, Felix; but you are frank,

and I wish to be so too. I shall never--mark my words--never be

your wife!”

Felix turned pale, and his face assumed a frightful expression.

“Take more time, Gabrielle,” said he--“take more time to think

of it. But, first, listen to me. I am going to say something that

may touch you more than a threat or a declaration--” He stopped

an instant and then continued: “If you saw a man on the edge of a

precipice, would you stretch forth a hand to save him?”

“What do you mean?” said Fleurange, affected in spite of herself,

and suddenly recalling the words she heard that morning in the

church.

“I ask if you would put out your hand to aid a man in such peril?”

He had, in truth, found the means of making her hesitate, but it

was only for a moment.

“You are speaking figuratively, I suppose,” said she at length;

“and it is a question of a soul in peril, is it not?”

“A soul in peril? Yes,” replied Felix, with a bitter smile.

“Well, I tell you, in a danger of this kind, I would offer no

assistance that would inevitably lead to my own destruction.”

Felix rose: “And is this your final decision?”

“Yes, Felix, a decision unhesitatingly made, but not without

sorrow, if it afflicts you.”

His only reply was a loud laugh which made Fleurange shudder.

She turned towards him, but there was no longer in his look the

respect, or the sadness, or the emotion he had so recently shown.

His face had resumed its habitual expression of irony and proud

assurance.

“I thank you for your frankness, cousin. That is a trait I trust

you will retain. It somewhat detracts from the charm you are

endowed with, but it will preserve you from some of the dangers to

which your eloquent glances expose you. Adieu!”

“Felix, give me your hand as a token you bear me no ill-will,” said

Fleurange softly.

“Ill-will?” replied Felix. “Oh! be assured I am too good a player

not to bear bad luck cheerfully. Besides, one is not always, and

in everything, unfortunate. Certain defeats, they say, are pledges

of victory. Come, Gabrielle, forget it all. Give me your hand, and

wish me _good luck_.”

Before Fleurange could make any reply, he was gone. This

conversation had been so rapid that the waltz was not yet ended.

The noise, motion, and music, added to Fleurange’s agitation, made

her dizzy. She went to an open window near the piano. At that

moment the music ceased, and all resumed their places. Fleurange

found herself nearly alone. Clement was still near, and, observing

her, quickly laid down the violin he held in his hand.

“You are very pale. Are you ill?”

“No, no, let me go out. I only wish to take the air a moment.”

Clement cast a rapid glance around the room, and then followed her

into the garden:

“You were dancing just now?”

“Yes, and I did wrong.”

“Your partner left you before the waltz was over?”

“Yes.”

Clement remained thoughtful a few moments, and then said:

“Gabrielle, pardon me if I am indiscreet, but I wish I dared ask

you one question.”

“What a preamble! Did we not agree to speak freely to each other?”

“Well, will you tell me why Felix went away?”

“Yes, Clement, and I think you will be surprised. He asked me to

marry him. What do you think of that?”

“And you gave him his answer?”

“Assuredly. I said no, without hesitating.”

Clement started so abruptly that Fleurange looked at him with

surprise. She saw an expression of joy on his countenance which he

could not conceal.

“I see you are no fonder than I of our cousin,” she said, “and are

delighted with his ill-success.”

“Delighted? No. Were he my worst enemy, I should pity him at such

a moment; but I am very glad of--glad of--” Clement hesitated,

contrary to his usual practice, which was to go straight to the

point. “I am very glad of a decision,” said he at length, “which

will dispense me from ever speaking of him again to you.”

“What would you have done if I had accepted him?”

“What I am glad not to be obliged to do.”

“Now you are talking enigmatically in your turn.”

“No; enigmas are intended to be guessed, and I beg you to forget

what I have just said.”

It is uncertain what answer Fleurange was about to make Clement,

who was less candid than usual, and therefore provoking, but at

that instant she noticed a sprig of myrtle in the button-hole of

his coat.

“What! you with myrtle?” she said. “I thought it was only worn by

young maidens on such a day.”

Clement blushed, and snatched the myrtle from his coat: “It is

yours, Gabrielle. Pardon me. I saw it fall from your girdle, and

picked it up.”

“Mine? Indeed!”

“Yes; here, take it, unless,” said he, hesitating a little--“unless

you will consent to give it back to me.”

“Very willingly, Clement; keep it as a gift from me. It is a good

omen, they say, predicting a fair bride when your turn comes.”

Clement replaced the myrtle in his coat, and gravely said: “That

day will never come for me; no, never!”

“Never; no, never! Oh! how strange!” cried Fleurange, in a tone

that surprised Clement.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

What struck her as strange was that Clement, _à propos_ of this

piece of myrtle, had, without being aware of it, uttered precisely

the same words she herself had said some hours before.

On the whole, this _soirée_ she found so pleasant at its

commencement, ended in a painful manner. She returned to her

chamber less cheerful than she left it, but with the satisfaction

of feeling she had had no difficulty throughout the day in

banishing from her mind the fantastic image she had formed the

evening before of Count George.

IX.

More than a fortnight had elapsed. Hilda was married and gone

from the paternal roof. Clara and her husband were on their way

to Italy, where they intended to remain till spring. Those who

remained in the Old Mansion were suffering from the reaction that

always follows the confusion and agitation of any event however

pleasant--a reaction always depressing even when there is no real

sadness in the heart. But this was not exactly the case with

Fleurange. Her cousins were both married and happy. She loved them

too sincerely not to rejoice at this, but it was not the less

true that the house seemed to have grown more spacious, the table

around which they gathered enlarged, the library immense, and

the garden deserted. The least to be pitied was Fritz, who still

had his brother, and was not so much affected by the change; but

little Frida mourned for her sisters, and clung more than ever

to Fleurange, whose talent for amusing and diverting children

was again brought into exercise. Fleurange, on her part, greatly

appreciated this distraction as a benefit. The child seldom left

her cousin’s room, and they became almost inseparable. One day,

while there as usual, Fleurange singing a long ballad in a low

tone, and Frida listening with her head against her cousin’s

shoulder, a knock at the door made them both start. And yet it was

but a slight rap, that gave no cause for the alarm with which she

put the child down and hastily ran to the door. She found her kind

of presentiment justified.

It was Wilhelm Müller, Heinrich Dornthal’s clerk, who knocked. It

was quite evident from the expression of his countenance and his

agitated manner, as well as his unexpected appearance at such an

hour, that something unusually sad had occurred.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he said hurriedly. “I was not looking

for you; but M. Clement has gone out, and the professor also, they

tell me. Do you know where they are to be found?”

“I do not know where Clement is, but my uncle and aunt are gone to

M. Steinberg’s. They have charge of the garden during his absence.”

“Steinberg’s! It would take more than an hour to go there. What is

to be done! What is to be done!”

“What has happened, Monsieur Wilhelm? For pity’s sake, tell me what

misfortune has occurred.”

“Misfortune!” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “Ah! yes,

mademoiselle, a great misfortune has befallen us--but I cannot stop

an instant. Pray send for M. Ludwig with all possible speed, and

tell him his brother--his brother is dying!”

“Dying!” cried Fleurange. “Uncle Heinrich! Oh! take me to see him

while they are gone for his brother.”

“No, no, mademoiselle, you must not go. I cannot consent to it.”

Fleurange insisted, and had already left her room when she met

Clement, who had just returned, and heard his uncle’s clerk was in

search of him.

“Uncle Heinrich is dying!” exclaimed Fleurange, before he could

ask a question. “Let us go to him instantly, Clement, while they

are gone for your parents.” And she drew him toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, Wilhelm approached and whispered a few words in

Clement’s ear. The latter turned pale, but, instantly surmounting

his violent emotion, he took Fleurange by the hand.

“Remain here,” he said. “You must not go. Believe me, you must not.

When it is suitable, I will come for you.” And he led her back

kindly, but firmly, into her chamber, and then went out, closing

the door behind him. In less than two minutes the street door was

heard to shut in its turn. Fleurange was left alone, or, at least,

with only little Frida, who, frightened, was crying. She tried to

soothe her, endeavoring at the same time to be calm herself, and

patiently bear the torture of waiting anxiously, without the power

of action.

It was about five o’clock when Wilhelm came to her door, and of

course still light, as it was summer. But day declined, and night

came on, finding Fleurange still waiting. Frida, after crying a

long time, had gone to sleep in her arms. Fleurange, in spite of

her usual activity, wished to remain where she was, that Clement

might find her at once when he returned. She heard him order the

carriage as he went out, and knew he had sent for his father and

mother. She looked at the clock, and counted the hours. Not a

third of the time was required to go to the faubourg, and yet they

had not returned. They had evidently gone directly to the dying

man’s house. And what was now taking place there? Why had Clement

dissuaded her from going? She joined her hands in silent prayer:

then began to listen again with a feverish and ever-increasing

anxiety.

At last she heard the rumbling of a carriage. She softly placed the

sleeping child on the bed, and was about to go down-stairs to meet

her uncle and aunt, whom she supposed to have arrived. But before

she had time, she heard Clement ascending the stairs in great

haste. An instant more and he opened the door. Before she could ask

the question on her lips, he said:

“Gabrielle, poor Uncle Heinrich is no more!” Then he added after a

moment’s silence: “A dreadful shock caused his instantaneous death.”

“Ah! my heart told me I should hear sad news.”

“Yes, sad indeed,” said Clement. And in spite of himself he seemed

for a moment suffocated by an emotion too violent to be surmounted.

Fleurange looked at him. There was something besides the shock

and grief caused by this sudden death. “Clement, what else has

happened? Tell me everything. Tell me at once, I implore you!”

“Yes, Gabrielle,” he said, making an effort to command his voice,

usually so firm and mild. “Yes, I am going to tell you everything.

I came on purpose to spare my poor father and mother this

additional pain. Listen, or, rather, read this yourself!”

Fleurange with a trembling hand took the letter he offered her, and

read as follows:

“FATHER: I have abused your confidence. Your name, which you

allowed me to make use of, has hitherto enabled me to conceal my

losses. With the hope of repairing them, I rashly aimed at an

immense prize which chance seemed to offer me. Had I obtained it,

all would have been saved. I have been unsuccessful. Ruin has

fallen not only on us, but on all whose property is in our hands.

Farewell, father, you will never see me again. Do not be afraid of

my taking my own life. That would only be another base act. But

there are lands where they who seek death can find it. I hope to

have that good luck. May I speedily expiate what I can never repair!

“FELIX.”

Fleurange silently clasped her hands. Pity mingled with the

repugnance, now so well justified, with which Felix had always

inspired her, and she could not utter a word. Clement continued:

“This letter, imprudently given to my unhappy uncle this morning,

immediately brought on one of the attacks to which he was liable,

and which (perhaps happily for him) has proved fatal. He had not

time to realize the blow that had befallen him.”

Fleurange herself hardly comprehended its extent. “But where is

Felix, then?” she said at length.

“He has been gone a fortnight.”

“A fortnight!” she exclaimed, with a painful remembrance of their

last interview.

“He left the day after the _soirée_ at the time of Clara’s

marriage.”

“That evening,” she said with emotion, “he spoke of an abyss into

which my hand would prevent him from falling. O God!” she continued

with the greatest agitation, “could I really have saved him by

consenting? Would the sacrifice of my life have prevented this

terrible disaster?”

“No; the great stake he made that night was his sole resource

against ruin. Why did he talk to you in such a manner? Was it

through madness or perversity? It must have been madness, the

unfortunate fellow loved you without doubt. I pity him, but--”

Clement hesitated and then rapidly continued: “Listen to me,

Gabrielle. I am going to tell you something it might be better to

keep to myself, but I must justify myself and reassure you, and it

cannot injure him now. I regarded Felix with contempt because,” and

for a moment there was a flash in Clement’s eye--“because he wished

to make me as despicable as himself, and once played the vile

_rôle_ of a tempter to me who was then but a boy--because he would,

if he could, have drawn me after him into the path which to-day

has ended so fatally. Therefore, cousin,” he continued with still

more emotion, “had he succeeded in winning your hand, I should have

felt it my duty to have warned you of his unworthiness, of which I

was too well aware, for I have never forgotten you called me your

brother. But I was reluctant to denounce him, and glad, oh! so

glad, that evening, not to be obliged to do so--glad you were saved

by your own self! And if I tell you all this now, it is to put an

end to the fears you have just expressed.”

“And I am grateful to you for banishing them. But, Clement, tell me

once more--here, in the presence of God, have I nothing to reproach

myself with?”

“Nothing, on my honor, Gabrielle, believe me!”

Clement, as we have remarked, possessed great firmness of

character, and a kind of premature wisdom which gave him great

ascendency over others. When this trait is natural, it is manifest

at an early age, and a day often suffices for its complete

development. That day had arrived for Clement, and henceforth no

one would ever dream of calling him a boy.

X.

Ruin!--a word at once positive and yet extremely vague--very

plain in itself, and yet conveying the idea of a multitude of

undefined consequences, often more alarming than actual misfortune,

and sometimes suggesting chimerical hopes. And it has a deeper

signification when it happens to a person unaccustomed to the

calculations of material life, given up to thought and study, and

moreover delivered from the necessity of exertion through long

years of prosperous ease.

Such was the nature, and hitherto such the position, of Professor

Ludwig Dornthal. Of all the misfortunes in the world, that which

had now befallen him was the last he would have dreamed of, and

he was less capable of comprehending it than of supporting it

courageously. Besides, the word _ruin_ may also be taken in a

relative sense which mitigates its severity, and this was the way

the professor regarded it. With only a faint idea of the extent

of the catastrophe, he remained inactively expectant of something

to partially remedy what merely related to his finances, being

more preoccupied about his nephew’s shameful flight and its fatal

consequence--the death of his brother.

Meanwhile, Clement, with the aid of Wilhelm Müller, examined the

state of affairs with a promptitude and sagacity that greatly

edified the honest and intelligent clerk who initiated him into

this new business. Seeing him so quick of comprehension, so firm

in decision and prompt in action, he exclaimed with despair in the

midst of their frightful discoveries:

“Alas! alas! if your unfortunate cousin had only had your head on

his shoulders!”

“My head! It is not equal to his,” responded Clement to one of his

companions. “No, no, it is not that, but something else, he lacks.

Why have not I, on the contrary, his capacity and wit! Then I might

be capable of retrieving our fortunes, whereas my only talent is

that of knowing how to endure poverty. Oh! if it threatened me

alone, how little I should dread it!”

“Poverty!” interrupted Wilhelm. “But do you not understand all I

have explained to you?”

“With respect to my uncle’s creditors?”

“Yes. Do you not see that the principal creditor, the first of all

on the list, is M. Ludwig Dornthal, whose whole fortune nearly can

be saved from shipwreck?”

“Yes, on condition of the ruin of the remainder.”

“But their claims are not equal to his: he was not his brother’s

partner. He had only entrusted his property to him, like so many

others.”

Clement made no reply. After a short silence he observed: “The

entire renunciation of my father’s property would enable us to

repay all the creditors without exception, would it not?”

“Yes, all.”

“Would there not be a single debt in this case?”

“No,” replied Wilhelm, smiling; “not a debt--not a penny.”

Clement again took up one of the papers on the table, and silently

read it over once more with the most profound attention.

“Yes, it is really so,” said he rising. “Everything is plain now.

I must leave you, Wilhelm. It is after four o’clock, and I am

expected at home. I shall see you again this evening, and we will

decide on some definite course of action.”

This conversation took place in a lower room of the banker’s house,

which had been Wilhelm Müller’s office for many years. He pressed

the young man’s hand, and Clement proceeded rapidly towards home.

It was their dinner hour, and his parents were waiting for him.

The habits of the family had resumed their ordinary course. The

sad routine of life is seldom interrupted more than a day even

by the most overwhelming disaster, and this exterior regularity,

however painful a contrast to the grief that has changed everything

interiorly, helped restore calmness to the soul, and with calmness

the courage and strength to act.

Clement was a quarter of an hour late. He went directly to the

dining-room, knowing his father’s punctuality. As he supposed, the

family were at dinner, and he took his place after some hasty words

of apology at his entrance, and then fell into a profound silence.

The fine, spacious room in which they were was one of the

pleasantest in the house. Rare old china lined the _étagères_, and

the dark panels were relieved by old portraits, all original and

of great value, and the most celebrated part of the professor’s

collection. The open windows commanded a view of the garden.

Verdure refreshed the eye, and the perfume of the flowers pervaded

the room. The glass and silver reflected the rays of the sun,

though there was a large awning before one of the windows. An air

of quiet, opulent comfort everywhere reigned.

Clement look around. All these things, to which he was daily

accustomed, now made a new impression on him. He noticed to-day

the objects he often forgot to observe, but this examination did

not have the effect of weaning him from his sad thoughts. On the

contrary, it only increased them, and Clement was deeply plunged in

gloomy reverie when he was aroused by his little sister’s voice:

“Papa,” said Frida, “we shall start for the sea-shore in a week,

shall we not?”

“Yes, my child,” replied the professor.

“And then we shall go to see Hilda?”

“Yes, she expects us in a month.”

“And after that?”

“We shall return home. It will be time, I think, after two months‘’

absence.”

In fact, that was the longest time the professor had ever been

absent from his cherished home.

These few words produced an expression of suffering on Clement’s

face which he could not conceal. His mother observed it and

questioned him with a look. But Clement turned his eyes away, and

did not raise them again till the end of the silent meal, though he

keenly felt another look besides his mother’s fastened on him.

“Clement, I have something to say to you,” said his mother as soon

as dinner was over. He rose instantly, and followed her into the

garden, but before leaving the room he said:

“Father, will you allow me a few minutes‘’ conversation with you

afterwards? I have several things to tell you.”

“Yes, my dear son, I will wait for you.” And the professor turned

towards the library, where he always spent an hour after dinner.

“Come, tell me everything now,” said Madame Dornthal, leading the

way to a bench where they could not be seen from the house.

“Yes, mother, dear mother, it is to you I will refer a decision

which my honor and my conscience tell me is required. You shall

decide whether we ought to evade or submit to it.”

He began his account, and, while she was attentively listening

without interrupting him once, laid before her the details, in all

their reality, of the situation in which his uncle’s death and his

cousin’s flight had left them.

Madame Dornthal, more accustomed to the practical details of life

than her husband, had not shared his illusions. She was much better

prepared than he for the sad consequences of a reverse of fortune,

but had been far from anticipating its extent. They would be much

less wealthy than before, have some privations to endure, and for a

time be obliged to practise considerable economy; such had been the

extent of her fears. But all this did not appear to so excellent a

manager a trial beyond her strength. During the past week she had

declared, as often as her husband, that the loss of money was the

smallest part of the misfortune that had befallen them.

Now she realized that this loss was something real, something

almost as appalling as death, for it involved the end of the life

she had been accustomed to for twenty years--an end she must face

and at once accept. And she was courageous enough not to hesitate.

She embraced her son, and said:

“God be blessed for giving me a son like you! Yes, dear Clement,

yes, you are right--a thousand times right.”

“Then you agree with me, mother, that the ruin of the Dornthals

should not cause the ruin of any one else?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Our name must remain without reproach, and nobody in the world

have a right to curse it?”

“Certainly, Clement, whatever be the consequence.”

“Whatever be the consequence!” repeated Clement firmly. “Thanks,

dear mother. I must leave you. It is not my place, but yours, to

inform my father.”

“Yes, Clement, it is my place.” She put back her son’s thick hair,

and gazed silently at him for a moment with profound attention and

emotion. Never had Clement’s eyes expressed more clearly than now

the firmness, integrity, and energy of his nature.

“No!” thought she, “there is not among those who effect great

things in the world, and leave behind them a glorious and

illustrious name, a nobler or more courageous heart than yours, my

son! God be praised! Your life will be blessed, even though your

worth and all the faculties you possess remain hidden and for ever

unknown but to him alone!”

Such were Madame Dornthal’s thoughts, as she gazed with maternal

fondness into her son’s eyes, but she did not give them utterance.

She pressed her lips once more to his brow, and placed her hand on

his head as if in benediction. Clement in return kissed her hand

with grave and tender respect. Then he rose and left the garden at

once, and, soon after, the house.

He remained absent several hours. It was nearly nine o’clock when

he returned. His mother was waiting in the entry for him, and

opened the door when he rang. He was very pale, and held a pile of

papers in his hand.

“Well,” said Madame Dornthal, “is everything arranged?”

“Yes, mother, everything! These papers only lack my father’s

signature. He is willing to give it, is he not?”

“You cannot doubt it, I think.”

“No, but my poor father was so far from supposing--”

“Yes, that was it, I did not fear any hesitation on his part, but

only the complete illusion he was under. I only dreaded the effect

of surprise and the shock. O Clement! I know not what terror came

over me from the frightful remembrance of the other day! My poor

Ludwig!”

Madame Dornthal stopped a moment to brush away her tears, then

smiled as she continued:

“But be easy, he knows everything now. He comprehends the state of

affairs, and feels as we do. It is better, however, that I alone

should see him this evening. Give me those papers. And you, my boy,

see after your brother and sister. I have not had time to think of

them. Ah! and Gabrielle, poor child, perhaps it would be well to

look for her also and tell her all. We have nothing to conceal from

any one, above all from her.”

Without awaiting a reply, Madame Dornthal abruptly left her son to

rejoin her husband in the library, where she remained the rest of

the evening.

THE LAST DAYS OF OISIN, THE BARD.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

IV.

OISIN’S QUESTION.

“O Patrick! taught by him, the Unknown,

These questions answer ere I die:--

Why, when the trees at evening moan,

Why must an old man sigh?

“No kinsmen of my stock are they,

Though reared was I in sylvan cell:

Love-whispers once they breathed: this day

They mutter but ‘farewell.’

“What mean the floods? Of old they said,

‘Thus, thus, ye chiefs, ye clans, sweep on!’

They whiten still their rocky bed:

Those chiefs and clans are gone.

“What Power is that which daily heaves

O’er earth’s dark verge the rising sun,

As large, the Druid, Alph, believes,

As Tork or Maugerton?

“A woman once, in youthful flower,

An infant laid upon my knee:

What was it shook my heart that hour?

I live--Where now is he?

“What thing is youth, which speeds so fast?

What thing is life, which lags so long?

Trapped, trapped we are by age at last,

In a net of fraud and wrong!

“I cheated am by Eld--or cheat--

Heart-young as leaves in sun that bask:

Is that fresh heart a counterfeit,

Or this gray shape a mask?

“Some say ‘tis folly to be moved.

‘The dog, he dieth--why not thou?’

They lie! We loved! The ill reproved!--

Is Oscar nothing now?

“O Patrick of the crosier staff,

The wondrous Book, the anthems slow!

If thou the riddle know’st but half,

Help those who nothing know!

“Who made the worlds? the Soul? Man’s race?

The man that knoweth, he is Man!

I, once a prince, will serve in place

Clansman of that man’s clan!”

AFFIRMATIONS.

“Instead of considering the physical condition of a nation

determining its moral character, we must always regard the moral as

determining, as well as moulding and modifying, the physical.”

“As the divine modifies the moral, so the moral modifies the

physical, or external.”

“In education all sight has been lost of the _reality_ which is

regeneration, and only when this is brought into the soul, will it

be fit to receive the spirit.”

“As the body grows older, the mind grows younger, when the will

conceives with the divine will in the permanent ground.”

“Christ is desirous to divorce the soul from Satan, and to do this

he begins by making the soul uneasy.”

“There are thousands who have been taught to think from learning

have yet to be taught to think from the living basis within the

will that sustains the thinker.”

“Know thyself is a false maxim. _Be whole_--_or one_--and one with

thy Lord.”

“Only does the Jesus spirit in the soul make the soul exhibit the

divine essence.”

HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

FIRST ARTICLE.

AGES OF MARTYRDOM.

Women are receiving just now, at the hands of a certain class

of agitators, a degree of attention which may be flattering to

some, but which certainly is not only intrusive, but unnecessary

with regard to many. They are told that their rights are trampled

upon, that they must assert and defend themselves, and take their

place in the great battle of life. Now, these exhortations have

generally been met by copious references to all the undoubted

precepts of old, which made the domestic life woman’s own sphere,

and consecrated her the minister of all man’s comforts. This sphere

of home duties is incontestably theirs; and what is more, while

they can help man in his avocations, man, on the other hand, can

scarcely help them in their own. But in addition to this, their

inviolable territory which they intend never to abandon, let them

boldly claim a share of man’s kingdom, and let them make good

their claim. People have listened to many women and to a few men

on the subject of the so-called “Women’s Rights:” let them listen

with indulgence to one woman more, who comes claiming far greater

things than they dream of, and yet showing that her claims are but

long-established and real _rights_, recognized, defined, limited,

and protected by an older code of jurisprudence, and a longer

tradition of immemorial custom, than they have as yet been told of

by the press or in the lecture-room.

The existence of woman is a fact: it is equally a fact that

everything that exists has some work to do in the order of the

universe. God himself, in a few simple words, stated what her work

was: “Let us make him a help like unto himself” (Gen. ii. 18). The

words indeed are so simple that they hardly arrest attention, yet

in them lies the whole relation of woman to man. She is to be _a

help_; but no restrictive detail is added, so that it is clearly

open to her to help man intellectually, religiously, morally,

as well as domestically. She is to be _like_ unto him; that is,

emphatically not masculine, not a creature that is a _mere_ copy or

reproduction of himself, but _like_ unto him, that is, sufficiently

like to understand him, sufficiently unlike to love him. Again, no

precise relation in which she is to stand to man is defined: she

may therefore be a help as a wife, mother, sister, in the domestic

circle; she may be a help as a consecrated virgin, as an adviser,

as an intercessor, in the religious order; she may be a help as a

governor, a regent, a queen, in the political order: lastly, she

may be a help as a friend and confidant in the social order.

Now, having seen that God distinctly gave woman a mission, as

he has to every animate and inanimate creature, we must suppose

that he has also provided her with the means of fulfilling it.

We look around us to see how he has done so, and whether, when

the means were at hand, woman used them to her own distinction

and advantage. In one place and under one set of circumstances

alone do we find that it was so, and this not by exception, but

by rule. This place is the Catholic Church; these circumstances

are her laws and her history. The reason why it remained for our

times to form “_women’s rights_” associations, is simply that

women’s wrongs have, under the influence of the Reformation, been

so shamefully multiplied. The present movement is a reaction

against the Protestant atmosphere of repression which has

suffocated woman’s highest aspirations for three hundred years.

The tribute unconsciously paid to the Catholic Church by the

Anglican communities of monks and sisters is a proof of the wisdom

of the old church in regard to its treatment of women. Sensitive,

enthusiastic, earnest souls found themselves without the outward

means of satisfying their craving after a more perfect life;

others with superabundance of energy and devotion, with the gift

of tending the sick or instructing the young, found themselves

confined to the circle of their own unaided efforts and unorganized

activity. They hailed “sisterhoods” as the newly opened gates of

heaven, not knowing that sisterhoods were no new invention, but had

their source in the very beginnings of the days of which the then

unwritten Gospels became the after-history.

In a sermon recently delivered by one of the most popular preachers

of New York, and reported in the columns of a widely-read journal,

occur the following words, which are a singular corroboration of

what we have just said: “There is nothing more dangerous than

an educated community with nothing to do. There are thousands

of educated women who do not work.... I do not wonder the bold,

eagle-like natures fret in their limits and detest life, or that

the great hearts dash themselves out in waste. There must be outlet

for these immense forces, or society will go on getting worse and

worse to the end.” A few days after these words were spoken, the

following appeared in a letter referring to the attempt made by

a woman to drop her vote in the ballot-box, at the New York City

election of the 7th of November, 1871. She gives a lamentable

account of woman’s world, as it has grown to be under the shade of

Protestantism. “The condition of involuntary servitude is favorable

to the cultivation of all the vices of secrecy and deceit. As

women, we have been schooled in hypocrisy and duplicity, until

our deep souls revolt against the oppression that so compels us

to belie our sincere and earnest natures. The most docile wife

has that latent fire in her heart which only needs the air of

freedom to fan into a flame. Many seemingly contented wives would

almost risk the salvation of their souls to make their masters

feel for one day the humiliation they have endured uncomplainingly

for years. If this is true of the favorites of fortune, what

may not be said of the great crowd of women who rush into every

folly, or are doomed to severest trial by stringent laws and the

oppressive customs growing out of them--laws and customs that

disfranchise them, prescribe their pleasures, limit their fields of

labor, and curtail their wages, all on the plea of sex? We have,

gentlemen, very generally arrived at the knowledge that sex is a

crime punishable by law.” The writer of this subscribes herself

“Mary Leland,” and is, no doubt, a fair representative of the

indignant champions of indiscriminate equality between men and

women. If the slumbering volcano she describes is really hidden

beneath the frivolous life of ordinary women, what a fearful

responsibility lies at the door of the system whose effect it is!

This spirit of rebellion can only exist as a reaction against the

forced inactivity of woman’s mind and will, and against the torpor

induced by the delicate flattery of those who would make her a

sultana, or the brutality of those who would fain turn her into a

beast of burden. Both alike are forms of slavery; both alike are

anti-Christian; both are contradictions against nature, and will

inevitably bear their evil fruit. Since their true rights have been

denied them by the spirit of the Reformation; since the education

of their children is taken out of their hands by the state; since

nothing but a savory meal and a pleasant face are expected from

them--what wonder that the displaced pendulum of their mind should

sway violently aside, and thus come in rude contact with the more

arduous sphere of man?

But it is not our purpose to give a lecture on the abstract

principles concerned in the question of the rights of women; facts

speak more loudly and more convincingly than the most eloquent

arguments, the most fascinating pleas: we aim only at giving a few

of these facts to our sisters of the present day, and showing them

how the church has ever regarded, and has long ago settled, the

question now agitating them so painfully.

Our only difficulty is in the mass of evidence from which to make

selections, the matter that is to serve us as a witness being

simply the history of the church, and its abundance so rich that

we hesitate which of the countless examples to draw forth for

the admiration of _woman_-kind, and which to leave in undeserved

oblivion. If we take a cursory glance at the infant church on the

shores of the Lake of Galilee, we shall find woman already in a

conspicuous and honorable position. It is a remarkable fact that

no nation of antiquity, save the Jews, had any respect for the

female sex, beyond that which included women in the _possessions_

of their husbands and fathers, and consequently could make no

difference between an insult to a virgin or a wife and a theft of

any other precious chattel. The Jews--that is, the people whom

God himself guided and taught, and whose laws were his immediate

decrees--hedged in the chastity of women with the most stringent

safeguards, and defended it by the severest penalties. They allowed

women to inherit from their parents and perpetuate their own

name, and to be preferred before the male relations, that is, the

brothers or nephews of their father (Numb. xxvii. 8). Not only

were the wives and daughters of the Israelites inviolable; their

hired servants, whether Jew or Gentile, and their captives, were

equally protected from the licentiousness of man. The Old Testament

has numberless chapters consecrated to the praises of women, and

to the precepts necessary for the education of their sex. In

Genesis, chap. xxxiv., we find the sons of Jacob making war upon

the Sichemites, to revenge the insult done to their sister Dina by

the prince Sichem; in the Book of Judges, chap. xx., we read of a

bloody and protracted war waged by the Israelites against one of

their own tribes, the Benjaminites, to revenge the Levite’s wife,

outraged by strange men in the town of Gabaa; in the Second Book

of Kings, chap. xiii., we see how promptly and fearfully Absalom

resented the wrong done to his sister Thamar by their brother

Amnon. In the Book of Judith, we are astounded at seeing the high

and solemn eulogium pronounced upon this valiant woman. She speaks

to the elders of Bethulia as one having authority, yet, with such

humility as befits even the most highly favored servant of God, she

comforts them and bids them hope, so that they acknowledge that her

words are true, and ask her to pray for them (chap. viii. 29). Her

own prayer for guidance and success is full of wisdom, of poetry,

of confidence in God and the right: her speech to Holofernes is

conspicuous for tact, and the heathen general himself exclaims,

“There is not such another woman upon earth ... in sense of words.”

When the great deed is done and Judith returns to the besieged

city, she sings a noble canticle, a true poem, full of grave beauty

and deep meaning, and we are then told how highly she was honored

by the high-priest Joachim, who came from Jerusalem, with all

his elders, to see her and bless her. He calls her the “glory of

Jerusalem, the joy of Israel, and the honor of the people” (chap.

xv. 10), and bestows upon her precious vessels from the spoils

of the Assyrians. He does not forget to extol her chastity as

intimately connected with her success; indeed, this praise seems to

supersede the blessings with which she is hailed as a deliverer.

When she died, the people publicly mourned for her seven days, and

to the time of her death it is recorded that “she came forth with

great glory on festival days.”

This is not the only instance where we find woman in a responsible

and elevated position, surrounded by friends of high degree, vying

with each other in bestowing upon her marks of esteem and respect.

Later on we find Christian prelates acting the part of Joachim to

some new Judith, some woman distinguished for piety and virtue, and

whose influence or example is a powerful auxiliary of their own

efforts.

Reverting for a few moments to the history of the Jews, we see how

in numberless instances women were the instruments of grace and

deliverance, how they were gifted, and how they were esteemed.

Instead of a marriage that was nothing but a bargain such as

was in use among heathen nations, the betrothal of Rebecca was

a most grave and solemn ceremony, and the consent of the maiden

was formally asked. Jacob had such a high idea of Rachel’s worth

that he served her for fourteen years. When the walls of Jericho

fell and the inhabitants were put to the sword, the woman Rahab

was spared, together with all those who chose to take refuge in

her house. The child Moses was rescued and educated by a woman,

and his sister, Mary, was a great prophetess whose canticle has

come down to us almost as a national hymn. Anna, the mother of

Samuel, sang praises to God in language which the inspired writers

thought worthy of transmitting to the perpetual remembrance of

all generations; the Queen of Sheba was so enamored of wisdom and

learning that she came a long and tedious journey to pay homage to

the superior gifts of Solomon; Anna, the wife of Tobias, after her

husband had lost his sight, earned the wherewithal for their humble

home at “weaving-work” (Tob. ii. 19). Sara, the wife of the younger

Tobias, prayed God in words that have always been incorporated in

the sacred text. Mardochai said pointedly to Queen Esther, “Who

knoweth whether thou art therefore come to the kingdom that thou

mightest be ready at such a time as this?” and she answered by

effectually interceding for her people, though, notwithstanding her

regal position, it was only at the risk of her life that she could

approach the king unbidden. Her prayer, like all the rest recorded

in the Scriptures, is a poem in itself, and points to the true

source whence all real courage springs, while it also hallows with

religious feeling the deep patriotism peculiar to the Hebrew race.

Later on, the mother of the Machabees showed such heroic fortitude

under persecution that the Scriptures say of her that she “was to

be admired above measure, and was worthy to be remembered by good

men.”

Turning to the New Testament, we find woman in equally prominent

positions, honored by the special notice of the Man-God himself,

and materially aiding in the establishment of his church. Not

to speak of the Mother of God, whose influence on the fate of

woman has been simply paramount, and leaving aside the fact of

his undoubted voluntary subjection to her, as well as that of her

intercession, being the immediate occasion of his first public

miracle and manifestation at Cana of Galilee--the place of woman in

the Gospel history is one that may justly be the pride of her sex.

The greater part of our Lord’s miracles were worked in favor of

women, most often on their own persons, at other times on persons

whom they held dearer than life. Of the first, witness the cure

of the mother-in-law of Peter, of the woman healed of an issue of

blood, of the daughter of the Chanaanitish woman, to whom Jesus

said, “O woman, great is thy faith; be it done to thee as thou

wilt” (St. Matt. xv. 28); of the woman bowed down with an infirmity

that had afflicted her for eighteen years; also the raising of the

daughter of Jairus. Of the second, witness the restoring to the

widow of Naim of her only son, whom Jesus raised to life “being

moved with mercy towards _her_” (St. Luke vii. 13), and whom, when

he had raised him, he “gave to his mother.” Lazarus, too, dear

as he was personally to the Master, was yet raised to a new life

chiefly through the prayers and the faith of his sisters, whose

sorrow had touched the heart of the divine Saviour. Not only in

temporal things, but much more in spiritual, did our Lord seek out

women for their cure and salvation. He did not disdain to speak

long and patiently with the woman of Samaria, and, instead of

heralding his saving presence to her countrymen through his own

disciples, he preferred to let her be his messenger. He proposed

the modest almsgiving of the poor widow as a model of all true

charity. He protected the woman taken in adultery against her

pharisaical judges; he commended the woman Magdalen, and prophesied

that, wherever the Gospel should be preached, there should her name

be also remembered. When he was teaching the multitudes, it was a

woman who cried out in touching boldness and pathetic directness

of speech: “Blessed is the womb that bore thee, and the breasts

that gave thee suck.” Again it was to women that he spoke when, on

the path to Calvary, he turned, and said, “Weep not for me, but

weep for yourselves and for your children.” Women followed him

bravely when men deserted, betrayed, and denied him; women stood

beneath his cross while his apostles were hiding in fear, and the

solitary friend who never left him was the most woman-like of all

his disciples. His last legacy on earth, the last precious thing

on which he turned his thoughts, was a woman, and the first person

to whom he appeared after his resurrection was also a woman. When

the disciples were gathered together awaiting the coming of the

Paraclete, a woman was among them: “The mother of Jesus,” as the

Gospel says, was there.

Later on, in the Acts of the Apostles, we find women mentioned as

most efficacious helpers in the work of the infant church. Tabitha,

for instance, a “woman full of good works, and almsdeeds” (Acts ix.

36), and Priscilla, the wife of Aquila, a woman who accompanied St.

Paul from Corinth to Ephesus, and there took Apollo, an eloquent

and fervent man, and “expounded to him the way of the Lord more

diligently” (Acts xviii. 26). Again, Lydia, a seller of purple,

“one that worshipped God,” offered hospitality to St. Paul, and

“constrained” him to dwell in her house (Acts xvi. 14, 15). St.

Paul has been quoted and misquoted so often that one almost shrinks

from appealing to his arguments and precepts; yet perhaps even

here we may find something new to say, something to point out in

a new light, something that the controversialists on the subject

of Women’s Rights, on both sides, have, apparently at least,

overlooked. We will not dwell on such portions of his Epistles

as are always in the mouth of those who aim at relegating woman

to an exclusively domestic sphere, but, on the contrary, we will

point out words of his, honoring woman so highly that no law of

modern times has been able to rival such deference, and no claim

of strong-minded female associations would dare to lift itself to

such importance. In his First Epistle to the Romans, chapter xvi.,

he says: “And I commend to you Phebe, our sister, who is in the

_ministry_ of the church ... that you receive her in the Lord as

becometh saints, and that you assist her in _whatsoever business_

she shall have need of you: for she also hath assisted many, and

myself also.” Ministry, of course, stands for help, and is used

here in its strict and original sense, as when the Gospel says of

our Lord, “And angels came and ministered unto him,” and as when

we say the _ministrations_ of charity. Some persons, indeed, have

affected to see in this text an implied permission for women to

act as priests; common sense and the general tone of the Epistles

are sufficiently explicit, however, to undeceive all such as do

not on this head voluntarily deceive themselves. The same Epistle

we have quoted goes on to say: “Salute Prisca [Priscilla] and

Aquila [her husband], my _helpers_ in Christ Jesus; who have for

my life laid down their own necks; to whom not only I give thanks,

but also _all the churches_ of the Gentiles; and the church which

is in their house.” Observe how St. Paul speaks of them without

distinction of sex as equally helpers, and how he even mentions

the woman’s name first. Again he continues: “Salute Mary, who

hath _labored much_ among you ... salute Julia, Nereus, and his

_sister_, and Olympias, and all the saints that are with them.” We

have no space for recalling the well-known precepts St. Paul gives

concerning both the state of marriage and that of virginity; we

would only indicate by a passing notice how truly liberal is his

teaching, including both states as honorable, _commanding_ neither

marriage nor continence, and providing with minute foresight for

each circumstance that human mutability can create. And in one of

these, the case being the desertion by an unbelieving consort of

the Christian yoke-fellow, he distinctly says: “If the unbeliever

depart, let him depart; for a brother or sister _is not under

servitude_ in such cases; but God hath called us in peace” (1 Cor.

vii. 15). The very custom of calling women “sisters,” universal in

the early church, is a token of the respect that was paid them, and

of the Christian equality which denied them no legitimate share in

the spiritual and social life of man. St. Paul has traced out in

one word the whole duty of man to woman when he said, “The elder

women entreat as mothers, the younger as sisters, in all chastity”

(1 Tim. v. 2). In the First Epistle to the Philippians, he says:

“Help those women who have _labored_ with me in the _Gospel_, ...

and whose names are in the _book of life_.” St. John dedicated a

whole Epistle, or letter, to the “Lady Elect and her children,

whom I love in the truth, and not I only, but also _all_ they

that have known the truth.... And now I beseech thee, lady, _not_

as writing a _new_ commandment, but that which we have had _from

the beginning_, that we love one another.... Having more things

to write to you, I would not by paper and ink, for I hope that I

shall be with you, and speak face to face, that your joy may be

full.” St. Peter, in his First Epistle, does not disdain to give

counsel as to the outward dress of women, thus dignifying the

subject through the symbolism he wishes it to express. And let not

any one of our own times call these counsels either frivolous or

interfering, for has not every sect that arose as a self-appointed

reformer begun by the restraint on female apparel, typical of

moral restraint over our passions and inclinations? Even now, in

a mistaken and distorted interpretation of the significance of

dress, have not the ultra-advocates of Woman’s Rights laid their

“reforming” hands upon the current fashions?

When St. Peter came to Rome, the first house that received him was

that of Pudens, a Roman senator, whose wife Priscilla, and whose

daughters Pudentiana and Praxedes, became his first converts and

his most powerful co-laborers. The two virgins, having become the

heiresses of their parents and brothers, sold their vast estates,

and gave the price to the suffering and persecuted among their

brethren; and, though we read of hundreds of such cases among the

women of the early church, we seldom find it so with the men,

except in such families where the influence of some female relative

resulted in this heroic renunciation. The palace of Pudentiana and

Praxedes was converted into a church which for centuries has borne

their name, and in which is shown as well the temporary receptacle

and hiding-place, says time-honored tradition, of the bodies of

the martyrs, carefully collected by these brave women. This church

is the oldest in Rome, says a reliable authority, the Rev. Joachim

Ventura, whom we shall often have reason to quote in these pages,

and it is also the first among those giving titular rank to the

order of cardinals.

Among the apostolic women whose names stand beside those of the

great saints to whom the church owes her wide sway, St. Thecla has

ever been foremost; St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, St. Chrysostom, St.

Gregory of Nyssa, St. Gregory Nazianzen, St. Isidore of Pelusium,

St. Epiphanius, and St. Methodius, bishops and fathers of the

church, have vied with one another in extolling her constancy and

her greatness. The last mentioned of these tells us, in his book

the _Banquet of Virgins_, that she was well versed in secular

philosophy, and in the various branches of polite literature; he

also exceedingly commends her eloquence, and the ease, strength,

sweetness, and modesty of her discourse (_Butler’s Lives of the

Saints_). Of the persecution she suffered at the hands of the

young pagan to whom she had, before her conversion, been betrothed,

we will not speak, neither will we touch upon her miraculous

deliverance from the wild beasts to whom she had been thrown,

further than to point out, however, that woman has shown more than

masculine courage long before modern agitators began to accuse her

of degeneracy and tameness. But the secret lay then, as it does

now, in the teaching of a church that sees in her children only

hierarchies of _souls_, and that looks upon the body as a mere

form, determining respective duties, it is true, but certainly

not conferring _de jure_ on the possessors of such forms any

superiority or difference of intellectual or moral capacity. A

proof of this lies open to all in the fact that women’s names as

well as men’s are incorporated in the text of the Mass, and are

repeated every day with as much honor, before the altar of God.

After the “Commemoration of the Dead,” and in the prayer beginning,

“Nobis quoque peccatoribus,” the names of Felicitas, Perpetua,

Agatha, Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia, Anastasia, are coupled with those

of the apostles and martyrs _John_, Stephen, Matthias, Barnabas,

_Ignatius_, Alexander, Marcellinus, and _Peter_, that is, with some

of the greatest saints whom even Protestants consent to admire. The

church, too, shows her appreciation of the sex and its capabilities

by the express words, often used in her liturgy, “devoto femineo

sexu,” which, whether translated as usual, the “devout female sex,”

or the “devoted,” seems equally honorable to woman and her special

characteristics. Virgins and widows are mentioned by name in the

prayers used in public on Good Friday, and immediately before them

are named the seven orders of the priesthood. The mere fact of so

many churches being dedicated to God under the special invocation

of some female saint, often one whose history has become obscure

and traditional from very remoteness, serves to illustrate the

high respect of the Catholic Church for womanhood, and the perfect

equality with which she looks upon both her sons and her daughters.

The cathedral of Milan, one of the most renowned shrines in the

world, is under the patronage of the virgin of whom we have just

spoken, the proto-martyr, St. Thecla. The fathers of the church,

following the example of St. Paul, call the help of faithful

Christian women a ministry, and Ventura tells us that Origen, St.

Chrysostom, and Haymon speak of “women having through their good

offices deserved to attain to the glorious title of apostles, and

having supplemented the work of the evangelists and apostles by

their preaching in private houses, especially to persons of their

own sex” (Ventura, _La Donna Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 279). It is

related in the _Breviarium Romanum_, at the part appointed to be

read on the 19th of May, that St. Pudentiana once presented ninety

persons to St. Pius, Pope, to be baptized, all of them being

perfectly instructed in the faith through her teaching alone. St.

Martina, who was a deaconess (which answers to _religious_ in the

later church), converted and instructed many persons, principally

women. The _Breviarium_ honors her as the _protectress_ of Rome.

She has also a hymn specially set apart for her office in the

_Breviarium_, and the church dedicated to her in Rome is the

richest and most magnificent of those under the patronage of the

martyrs. The house of Lucina, a noble Roman matron, was converted

into a church, afterwards dedicated to the holy Pope Marcellus.

Another church, now called _San Lorenzo in Lucina_, stands over the

tomb which Lucina prepared for that saint. Priscilla, also a Roman

lady of high lineage, the wife of the before-mentioned senator

Pudens, gave her fortune and her land for a cemetery, to which her

name was justly appended. Natalia, the wife of the martyr Adrian,

after publicly exhorting her husband to be steadfast in the faith,

boldly put on man’s attire to elude the order recently given that

no Christian woman should be allowed to visit the prisoners. The

_Breviarium_ tells us that St. Justina, upon whom a famous magician

named Cyprian had tried all manner of unhallowed arts, so far

prevailed over him that she brought him to know the true God, and

to abandon his idols and sorceries. But examples such as these of

the intellectual influence of women upon their friends, and even

upon strangers and enemies, would multiply under our hands into a

volume, if we could stop to collect them all.

Martyrdom was, in the early ages, the almost inevitable end of

zealous faith and active evangelization. St. Cecilia ranks among

the most prominent of those who, strong with a supernatural

strength, gladly gave up life, youth, health, and beauty, for the

sake of principle. Let us put it in that form, for even now there

are many who respect in the abstract a single-minded devotion to

principle. This devotion would be essentially called manliness in

our day; yet the women of the early church--some mere children in

years, some threatened with what would make a woman waver in her

determination far more than mere physical torture could, the loss

of her honor, some again with natural diseases or weakness upon

them--showed a superabundant amount of this very _manliness_.

Cecilia has long been the patroness of music, and we read in her

_Acts_ that she employed both vocal and instrumental music in the

service of the Most High, fitly using the most beautiful of arts to

glorify Supreme Beauty. Her love for the Holy Scriptures was such

that she often wore them on her bosom in the folds of her robe,

and that long before the Canon of Scripture had been fixed, and

before the Holy Book could have the world-wide reputation which the

church has now bestowed upon it. Cecilia’s will, made in presence

of Pope Urban, consisted in the giving of her palace for a church,

and the distributing of her remaining wealth to the poor. Her death

was heroic, and, as her life-blood was ebbing slowly from her, she

only thought of converting her executioners. Oblivious of bodily

pain, she exhorted them to throw off the yoke of idolatry, and

succeeded so far as to cause them to exclaim, “It is only a God

who could have created such a prodigy as his servant Cecilia!” The

body of the martyr was interred in the Catacomb of St. Callixtus,

in a chapel hollowed out of the earth, and somewhat larger than the

other chambers of the same catacomb: it was the sepulchre of the

popes, and the placing of her body in this sepulchre was a mark

of the extraordinary respect due to her generous munificence and

her heroic courage. Thus has the old church, so truly called the

“mother church,” always recognized and rewarded merit, whether in

man or woman. Susannah, a relation both of Pope Caius and of the

Emperor Diocletian, and daughter to Gabinius, a man as learned as

he was noble, was another instance of how religion can reconcile

profound instruction with deep piety, and unite both to beauty

of person and grace of manner. She was learned, say her _Acts_,

in philosophy, in literature, and in religion. The emperor sent

one of his nobles, Claudius, Susannah’s own uncle, to entreat her

to marry Maximinus Cæsar, Diocletian’s son. The noble and learned

virgin not only refused the alliance, but, strengthened by the

approbation of her Christian father and her other uncle, Pope

Caius, who were present, spoke so eloquently that Claudius was

converted to Christianity. The _Acts of the Martyrs_ record his

words in announcing this conversion to his wife: “It is chiefly

my niece Susannah who has conquered me. I owe to the prayers of

this young girl the happiness of having received God’s grace.”

His wife, Prepedigna, and Maximus, his brother, were also won

over by her influence, and the latter bears tribute equally to

her _wisdom_, holiness, and her beauty. There could be but one

end to such proceedings, a glorious end for all: her friends all

suffered martyrdom before her, and she who had braved an emperor’s

displeasure without a sign of so-called _womanly_ weakness, met her

death in secret with equal courage and joy.

Agnes, the maiden of twelve or thirteen years, is praised by

Ambrose, a Christian priest, for her contempt of the jewels with

which the son of Symphronius attempted to bribe her: she is also

pictured as the very incarnation of youthful bravery, when with

holy defiance she scorns the threat of her impure and cruel judge

to send her to a place of ill-fame. This threat, often executed,

was more than any other the touch-stone of their faith to the

Christian virgins of antiquity, while their invariable deliverance

from this danger was the reward of their unflinching denial of the

power of the false gods, even in the face of this shameful threat.

Death would seem a bridal, to judge by the loving alacrity with

which these child-virgins ran to meet it. Who can say that the

church does not admire and inculcate courage and self-respect in

women, since half the martyrs defended their honor as well as their

faith with the last drop of their blood?

St. Ambrose, speaking to his sister Marcellina of the martyr

Sothera, in whose praises he is enthusiastic, says: “What need for

me to seek for examples for thee, who hast been formed to holiness

by thy martyred relative? [Sothera was their great-aunt.] ...

Brought up thyself in the country, having no companion to set thee

examples, no master to teach thee precepts, there were at hand

no human means to teach thee what thou has learnt. Thou art no

disciple, therefore--for there can be no disciple where there is

no master--but the heiress of the virtues of thy ancestress. Let

us speak of the example of our holy relative, for we priests have

a nobility of our own, preferable to that which counts it an honor

to have prefects and consuls among our forefathers: we have the

nobility of faith, which cannot die.” These words of grave import

are addressed to a woman, and the boast of holy ancestry they

contain also refers to a woman. Agatha, the heroine of Catana, and

Lucy, the martyr of Syracuse, both noble Sicilian maidens, speak

the boldest language to their barbarous judges, and meet death as

bravely as any man could face it for his country and his home.

Victoria, a lady of Abyssinia, in Africa, accused of being a

Christian, and defended by her pagan brother, who swore she had

been deluded into connivance with the Christians, vehemently

contradicted him in open court. “I came here of my own accord,”

she averred, “and neither Dativus nor any one else beguiled me;

I can bring witnesses among my fellow-townspeople to the fact

that I came simply because I knew there would be a gathering of

our brethren here, under our priest Saturninus, and that the holy

mysteries would be celebrated.” She persists when her brother

excuses her again as being insane, and eagerly criminates herself

in the eyes of the judge, till she succeeds in winning her crown.

Forty-eight other martyrs, men and women, heroically suffer the

same penalty, greatly comforted and encouraged by her dauntless

attitude. At Thessalonica, a woman named Irene was apprehended,

together with her five sisters, and was herself chiefly accused

of having kept and concealed the books of Scripture, and other

papers relating to the Christian religion. Dulcetius, the judge

before whom she was brought, and who was president of Macedonia,

could elicit from her nothing that could endanger any one but

herself, her sisters having been tried and martyred upon the charge

of refusing to eat meats consecrated to idols. Her firmness both

in screening others and in avowing her eager care for the holy

writings, not only gives us a high idea of her moral courage, but

also of her intellectual interest in those scarce and valuable

works. She suffered death for her dauntless custody of these

treasures, and it is related that she sang psalms of praise while

ascending the funeral pile.

St. Catherine of Alexandria is a most noted example of the

erudition often attained and displayed by Christian women. At the

age of eighteen, says the _Breviarium Romanum_, she outstripped in

knowledge the most learned men of her day: Maximinus, who was both

a libertine and a tyrant, was cruelly persecuting the Christians

of Alexandria, and dishonoring the noble matrons of that city.

Catherine boldly and publicly upbraided him, and forced him to

listen to her arguments. Her _Acts_ and the Greek _Menology_ of the

Emperor Basil affirm that she supported her thesis of Christianity

against the arguments of forty of the ablest heathen philosophers,

and so effectually confuted them that they preceded her in her

martyrdom by declaring themselves Christians, and being forthwith

condemned to be burned alive. Catherine, during her imprisonment,

converted the wife of Maximinus, and the commander of his army, and

further made such an impression upon the crowd assembled to witness

her death that many became Christians on the spot. The interesting

Church of San Clemente, in Rome, contains one chapel, the walls

of which are covered with frescoes illustrative of each of these

occurrences; this chapel is supposed to date from the fourth or

fifth century, and is a mute witness to the honor with which the

memory of the illustrious and learned maiden of Alexandria was,

even at that early age, surrounded. Butler, in his _Lives of the

Saints_, says of her: “From this martyr’s _uncommon erudition_,

... and the use she made of it, she is chosen in the schools the

_patroness_ and _model_ of Christian philosophers.” This is by no

means the only instance of a woman being honored as patroness in

the roads of learning or of art. Later on, we shall have occasion

to speak of other saints equally distinguished for their talents

and zeal for true philosophy. Butler says in a foot-note to the

_Life of St. Catherine_: “The female sex is not less capable of

the sublime sciences, nor less remarkable for liveliness of genius.

Witness, among numberless instances in polite literature and in

theology, the celebrated Venetian lady, Helen Lucretia Cornaro,

doctress in theology at Padua in 1678, the _wonder_ of her age for

her skill in _every_ branch of literature, and, still more, for the

austerity of her life and her extraordinary piety.”

Most of the martyrs we have hitherto mentioned were virgins: among

widows and widowed mothers, we find other heroines whom no bodily

torture nor that more bitter anguish of witnessing their children’s

sufferings could daunt or even cause to waver.

Symphorosa, a noble Roman matron, denounced by the astrologers of

Rome to the Emperor Adrian, bravely confessed her faith in the

presence of her seven sons, whom she thus encouraged to do the

same. She spoke of herself as honored in being the widow and sister

of martyrs, and utterly scorned the proposal to forsake the truth

for which they had bled. Here is a foreshadowing of the times of

mediæval chivalry, which were but the legitimate offshoot from such

a moral atmosphere of pure chivalric heroism as enveloped the lives

of the early Christians. Invincible strength and a courage that

smiled in the face of death was with the children of the primitive

church a point of honor, a family tradition, a hereditary legacy.

Another widow and mother, Felicitas, suffered more cruelly yet than

Symphorosa; for, under the reign of Marcus Aurelius, she beheld

her seven children butchered before her eyes, and never ceased

exhorting them to constancy, while her mother’s heart and more

natural feeling were suffering a sevenfold martyrdom. She followed

her sons to death with fervent joy. St. Augustine was eloquent in

her praise, and on one anniversary of her triumph called her death

a “great spectacle offered to the eyes of faith,” and herself

“more fruitful by reason of her many virtues than of her many

children.” St. Gregory, the great father, exalted her by likening

her example to a new and spiritual birth of the Saviour in each

soul that she thus secured to God, according to the interpretation

of the words of the Gospel: “He who does the will of my Father in

heaven is my brother, and my sister, and my _mother_.”

Another St. Felicitas, a Christian slave and widow, with her

mistress Perpetua, who had also lately lost her husband, suffered

death in the amphitheatre of Tharbacium, near Carthage, in Africa,

rather than give up what they knew to be divine truth. Felicitas

was martyred a day or two after the premature birth in prison of

her child, and, when brutally jeered by the guards at her inability

to suffer the pains of childbirth in silence, answered in words

that to this day furnish the key to all woman’s superiority as

proved by the facts of church history: “It is I that suffer to-day,

and nature is weak: to-morrow Jesus himself will suffer in me, and

his grace will give my nature the strength it needs” (_Acts of the

Martyrs_). Perpetua, her mistress, but also her sister in Christ

(for in the church alone resides true equality), resisted the

pleadings of her aged father and the mute appeals of her infant’s

unprotected condition, and bore her sufferings as it is said the

Spartan women knew how to bear theirs. But while the enduringness

both of men and women was in Sparta only the artificial result

of compulsory laws, and soon disappeared before the shameful

voluptuousness that was natural to all heathen beliefs, that

of Christians of both sexes made its mark through successive

generations, and lives yet in our less hardy times, because it

is intrinsic to the nature of a faith whose God had no more

hospitable birthplace than a cold stable, and no better death-bed

than a cross.

Blandina, the martyr of Lyons, is justly celebrated for her

extraordinary constancy, and the Christians of Lyons who wrote a

letter preserved to history by Eusebius, and addressed to their

brethren of Asia and Phrygia, extol her as the soul of the heroic

stand made by many of their number against idolatry. She was a

slave, very young and _very weak_ in health, says this letter, and

yet even her executioners marvelled at her powers of endurance,

exclaiming: _One_ of the tortures she has suffered ought to have

killed her, and she is alive yet after them all! Further on, she

is likened to a _bold athlete_. Some of her companions having

wavered, her example and exhortations recalled them to their duty,

and Ponticus, a young boy, was the last to die under her eyes,

_encouraged_ and _upheld_ by _Blandina_. Potamiana, another slave,

who died in defence of her honor as well as her faith, chose a more

lingering death than that to which she was condemned, rather than

uncover herself in public, the judge consenting to this change not

in pity, but in cruelty. Her executioner became her first convert;

many other men likewise came to the faith through visions of this

young and steadfast virgin.

We have mentioned women in every sphere and state of life, social

and domestic, as endowed with confessedly heroic powers, and

capable of attaining high and noble ends in the field of religion,

of art, and of philosophy. One class of women, however, remains

still to be noticed, and it is perhaps the greatest proof of the

church’s universal and instinctive tenderness toward the sex,

that among that unhappy class she alone has been able to make

fruitful the call of God. The Catholic Church has set upon her

altars and in her calendar the names of many illustrious penitents

and anchorites, side by side with stainless virgins and matrons of

unblemished fame. The Catholic Church alone can restore to fallen

woman her rightful inheritance, and so efface the brand of sin

that its shame shall be merged into a glory as pure as that of

baptismal innocence. To take among the martyrs but one instance

of this rehabilitation, let us see what history relates of Afra,

the courtesan of Augsburg, in the Roman province of Rhetia, and

the present kingdom of Bavaria. Afra was of noble birth, and had

many slaves and possessions. She was converted by St. Narcissus, a

Christian bishop who was fleeing from the persecution then raging

in Gaul. Her household as well as her mother followed her example.

She succeeded in concealing Narcissus and his deacon Felix for some

time in her own house, and meanwhile diligently applied herself to

making converts of her friends and former associates. Denounced

in her turn a little later, and sneered at for the contradiction

between her past and present life, she answers the judge boldly,

admitting humbly that she is unworthy to be called a Christian, yet

affirming that the threatened torments will cleanse and purify her

body, while the proposed sacrifice to the gods would only further

stain and disfigure her soul. Bound to a stake and burned with slow

fire, her intrepidity only redoubles, and, having sinned through

the weakness of undisciplined nature, she shows a more than manly

courage through the new-born strength of grace.

With her, we close the few practical examples of the greatness of

woman during the ages of martyrdom, but the spirit that made the

martyrs did not die with the last of the canonized victims of

the pagan persecutions. St. Jerome speaks of a “daily martyrdom,

which consists not in the shedding of blood as a testimony, but

in the devout and undefiled service of the mind” (_De Laud. S.

Paulæ_). This we propose to illustrate in a subsequent article,

giving historical instances of the actual honor paid in the church

to learned, holy, and influential women, rather than entering into

abstract controversy on the subject of what is and is not due

to her sex. What we have already said in these pages will tend,

please God, to remove prejudices, and at least clear the way for

evidence still more appreciable by our ambitious non-Catholic

sisters, namely, that which goes to show that not only in social

and home life, but also in the wide sphere of statecraft and public

influence, the church has marked out a noble margin for women’s

genius.

THE PASSION.

Was ever tale of love like this?

The wooing of the Spouse of blood:

Who came to wed us to his bliss

In those eternal years with God?

Those griefless years, those wantless years,

He left them--counting loss for gain--

To taste the luxury of tears,

And revel in the wine of pain!

’Twas sin had mixed the cup of woe

From Adam passed to every lip:

And none could shirk its brimming flow--

For some a draught, for all a sip:

Till Jesus came, athirst to save:

Nor sucked content a sinless breast;

But grasped the fatal cup, and gave

That Mother half, then drained the rest.

Enough the milk without the wine.

When first the new-born Infant smiled,

’Twas merit infinite, divine,

To cleanse a thousand worlds defiled.

But _we_ must take of both. And how

Could love look on, nor rush to share?

Or hear us moan: “Death’s darkness now:

And _Thou_, at least, wast never there”?

And so he drank our Marah dry:

Then filled the cup with wine of heaven.

Who would not live--with him to die?

Or not have sinned--when so forgiven?

Lent, 1872.

JANS VON STEUFLE’S DONKEY.

I.

Jans von Steufle was a happy man until he got that donkey. Now, you

might think the donkey was left him as a legacy by some dear friend

or rich relation, or that Jans found him in the highway some cold

wintry night and took him home in pity, or the donkey might have

strayed into Jans’ enclosure and refused to go out, but no such

thing; Jans bought and paid for all his trouble in good silver coin.

Jans had some comforts, however to compensate: he had a good wife.

Some say, “A good wife is a rare thing,” but you never hear that

sneer in German-land, for German wives and German children are

taught betimes to be good. Jans’ wife kept the house clean and the

kettles bright; and made _Sauerkraut_,[14] and _Wurst_,[15] and

delicious _Rahmkäse_[16]--ah! it would melt in your mouth--and

had always such nicely browned _Rinderbraten_,[17] and delicate

_gedämpftes Fleisch_,[18] and put vinegar in everything.

Then such beautiful patchwork _Bettdecke_[19] she stitched

together, and such snowy _Bettwäsche_,[20] you would be floated off

to dream of _Arabian Nights_ just to sleep under them. And when her

fingers had nothing particular to do, that is, when she walked

about the house and garden a little just before supper-time, to

see that every corner was clean, and everything in good order, and

the pot-herbs coming up properly, or when she went down the lane

to drive home the truant chickens and little ducks who were out

on some juvenile frolic, did her ten fingers rest? Oh! no, then a

thread of yarn came creeping out of her pocket, and click, click,

went the needles, and such stockings! You might wear them to the

North Pole, only they’d be too warm.

But her great genius and tact lay in garden-making. We do wrong

to apply these words to her, for she understood neither, and Jans

despised both; rather be it said that her industry was made most

manifest when she betook herself (under Jans’ direction, of course)

to digging and planting.

Jans had a pleasant way of imparting knowledge, and at the same

time making himself comfortable. Seated on a wooden bench in some

shaded gravel-walk near the scene of her rural operations, with

a pipe in his mouth, he would sit patiently the long hot summer

afternoon, directing the putting down of pea-sticks, the tying up

of hop-vines, and apportioning off the territory to be allowed to

the marauding pumpkins. Some people profess to discover a striking

resemblance between the human family and the great family of

animals each to each, and they even run a parallel between them

in physiognomy; but in a garden the similitude is perfect. No one

who cultivates a garden for very love of it but what unconsciously

invests his community there with a sort of intelligent existence.

They are well-behaved or troublesome; in good health or pining

under little ailments. Here a hardy native pushes his way to upper

air, heedless alike of deluge or drought, while that other one

from some far-away country, like any discontented foreigner, finds

nothing to its taste, but must be sheltered, and watered, and

gives a deal of trouble. Some are orderly and upright; others are

inclined to crooked ways, and seldom amend until tied to a stake.

The roots generally stay underground until they are wanted, while

some, like the bold, conceited turnips, climb to the surface when

not more than half-grown, and bask in the sunlight as if they

were roses. The vine tribe care as little as human climbers whom

they crush down in their aspiring efforts; onward they trail and

take possession, reckless of those who have a better right. Many

a pretty little plant have those green vines tyrannized over! As

for flowers, we call them modest, bold, gaudy, retiring, even in

common speech; and many a habit and inclination do they exhibit to

a humble admirer which has never been entered in scientific books.

Yes, a garden is a community of wonderful creations, where each

one has its peculiarities, and yet each one conforms in a certain

degree to the type of its family.

With such loving eyes did Jans and his _gute Frau_ look on their

flower-beds and their edibles; and such like matters did they often

discourse about, when the spading and raking for the day were done,

and she sat on the bench by his side knitting, knitting.

It is doubtful, however, whether they would have noticed matters

quite so particularly, not having been educated to abstractions,

comparisons, generalizations, and such like metaphysical flights,

had not their attention been directed to them occasionally by a

third member of their family, the very learned Herr von Heine.

Now, Jans in his efforts at amassing riches had neglected no

honest means of success. Consequently, when their two children

had both married well and gone to live in distant cities, and he

found himself with a spare room in his house, he looked about for

a tenant. Then mein herr (as he was called for brevity’s sake)

presented himself, and, as his testimonials for respectability and

prompt pay were satisfactory, he was soon established in the pretty

little chamber with its white curtains, its patchwork bedspread,

and a floor so well scrubbed you might have eaten off of it.

He somewhat marred the beauty of the spot by an importation of

certain odd things which he professed to consider indispensable.

There was a regiment of ragged-looking old leather books, and

some well-worn coats and dingy dressing-gowns, not to mention an

assortment of pipes and tobacco jars and old boots, and a few

warlike weapons which stuck out in a protecting way from the top of

his book-shelves.

Mein herr was just now direct from the _Collegienhaus_[21] of

the famous University at Königsberg, where he had been giving

short lectures and receiving long pay, and being, therefore, on

good terms with himself and the world in general, he resolved to

rusticate in some secluded spot for the summer, and renovate his

faculties for the next winter’s campaign.

No place could be more quiet or better suited for his purpose

than his present abode. Here he could spin all kinds of cobweb

theories hour after hour, with not a sound to ripple the air and

demolish them, for neither Jans nor his wife ever intruded into his

apartment. It was only in the soft summer evening twilight that

he made his descent to the garden, and indulged in a brief social

intercourse with his host and hostess. Indeed, he came almost as

regularly as the sun set. His tall, straight figure enveloped in a

long black sort of ecclesiastical gown, a jaunty cap on his head,

with its tassel hanging down behind, a meerschaum in hand which

he was bound to finish before he should retire, behold Mein Herr

von Heine!--the embodiment of profound and extended erudition out

for a little recreation. Mein herr was always welcome. Pleasant

enough was the discourse they all held as he slowly walked up and

down the gravel-walk, or took a seat beside them, especially when

the subject was farm-matters; and mutually profitable was the

exchange between theory and practice; many a pleasant laugh they

had, too; and as to the _gute Frau_, she listened and smiled, and

occasionally put in a modest little word, this being, according to

her best belief, the extent of “woman’s rights.”

They were sitting thus one June evening, when Jans laid aside his

pipe, and said, in his usual deliberate way:

“I think I’ll buy a horse, or a donkey, or a dog-cart, or

something, to take all these cabbages to market.”

“Buy a _donkey_ by all means,” said mein herr, “for a donkey,

that is an ass, is classical. They are famous in sacred as well

as in profane literature. No animal has always been so much the

companion of man as the donkey, no one more valuable. An ox and

an ass are what we are warned in the commandments not to covet,

showing their universality in the days of Moses, besides being what

any man in his senses would be most likely to covet. Asses are

repeatedly mentioned in the Old Testament. Every one has heard of

Balaam’s ass, who was so much wiser than his master. I have often

noted the great injustice done to that ass. Balaam bestowed on him

three very decided beatings; and although he was fully convinced

afterwards that they were entirely undeserved, we have no record

that he made the least apology or expressed the least regret. Now,

even a donkey deserves justice. Asses have pervaded all ranks in

life. There was Debbora the prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth; in

the Canticle, where she addresses the brave princes of Israel,

she adjures them as ‘you that ride upon fair asses, and sit in

judgment, and walk in the way’; on the other hand, Job predicts woe

to him ‘who hath driven away the ass of the fatherless.’ Certainly,

asses were everywhere. When the wealth of Abraham was counted,

he-asses and she-asses made a part of it; and when he was about to

ascend the mountain to sacrifice his son Isaac, we are told that

‘he arose and saddled his ass.’ Then there was Abdon, eight years

a judge of Israel, who had forty sons and thirty grandsons, ‘all

mounted on seventy asses,’ are the words of history. Then there was

the Levite of Mount Ephraim--ah! I forget his name--his wife left

him and went to stay four months with her father in Bethlehem Juda,

and when he went to bring her back, he took with him ‘a servant and

two asses,’ one doubtless for her use. Then the jaw-bone of the ass

made famous by Samson is well known, I mean the jaw-bone he wielded

at Ramathlechi, when he put his thousand enemies to flight. Some

of these animals possess virtues worthy of our own imitation; they

have displayed oftentimes very great intelligence, and affection

for those they serve; as in the case of a certain old prophet who

went forth from Juda to Bethel to denounce Jeroboam, and, being

misled and turned from his duty by a pretended friend, was killed

by the way on his return home; his ass was found standing patient

and watchful by the side of his dead master.”

Thus discoursed mein herr; his colloquial efforts were apt to be

rather prolix and oratorical, but this was to be ascribed to his

profession as lecturer; he was so much accustomed, when he had

unearthed an idea, to follow it up and make the most of it--a sort

of intellectual fox-chase.

Failing to keep pace with him over such extended and erudite

ground, Jans had, nevertheless, a dim notion that it was something

to own even one donkey, so he said:

“To-morrow I will buy a donkey.”

“Ah! yes,” said the Frau von Steufle, “and next market-day we will

go with a donkey.”

“You will be wise to buy a donkey,” repeated mein herr, “for

now I call to mind that Sancho Panza had one whose labors, as he

tells us, half-supported his family. I am reminded, also, that the

great Cervantes himself rode an ass, as he relates, on a pleasant

journey from Equivias with two of his friends. They heard some one

clattering up from behind and calling to them to stop, and when he

at length overtook them it proved to be a student, who was mounted

on an animal of the same sort; he no sooner learned their names

than he flung himself off of his ass, says Cervantes, whilst his

cloak-bag tumbled on one side, and his portmanteau on the other,

and he hastened to express his admiration of the great author of

_Don Quixote_.”[22]

Just at this point both meerschaum and pipe had given forth their

last whiff, and the knitting-work had arrived at the middle of a

needle; and as the great matter under discussion, the purchase,

was considered as wisely decided in the affirmative, they mutually

exchanged a kind “Gute Nacht” with the inevitable “Schlafen Sie

wohl!”[23]

II.

The day after the above conversation, Jans left his home for a

little business in a distant city, and several more elapsed before

he returned with his purchase.

Oh! vain boast when Jans von Steufle declared, “To-morrow I will

buy a donkey.”

What is a donkey? In one phase of his character, he is the very

personification of the stoical philosophy of the ancients; the type

of that perfect indifference to all sublunary mutations to which

Zeno vainly strives to elevate humankind; patient and enduring

under any amount of rain, hail, snow, and sleet that can pour down

on him, and any amount of luggage that can be piled upon him;

totally, indifferent, in the road he travels, as to its length,

direction, hostelries, or hardships, and satisfied, as far as food

and sleep are concerned, with the smallest quantity and the poorest

quality.

This was Jans’ idea of a donkey, but it was not what he got for

his money; he got a little gray beast, with a shaggy hide, a large

head, long ears, and a temper.

It was quite dark when Jackey with a boy astride him arrived

from the place of his last abode; so he was quietly taken to the

comfortable quarters prepared for him not far from brindle-cow,

and particular introductions to him were deferred until the next

morning.

The next morning ushered in market-day. The edibles had all been

gathered in and nicely washed the night before; the flowers also

had been culled and tastefully arranged in beautiful bouquets--some

small for sweet little love tokens; some larger to decorate the

tables and mantel-shelves of those people who are unhappily forced

to dwell always among the bricks and mortar of the town, who paid

large prices for them, and took them thankfully, as their very

minute share of all the glorious and beautiful works of the Creator

which are spread around life in the country. Others, again, were

tied together in tall pyramid-like forms, the apex a pure white

lily or perhaps a white rose, and spreading down from that to the

base in blossoms that mingled all the colors of the rainbow. These

were destined for the grand altar of the great church; for there

were always pious souls in the town ready to expend their good

groschen and thalers in adornments for the sanctuary. Very skilful

are the fingers of German wives, and great their taste in making up

all these tempting little articles of merchandise; and as they lay

waiting in the _Wohnzimmer_[24] of the Von Steufle dwelling-house,

you might have thought the whole garden had moved for a departure.

Breakfast was disposed of early, and immediately after it Jackey

was brought out for his first load.

“He has good points,” said the learned herr, after taking a

leisurely survey.

Jans knew not much about points, but he knew how to put a good load

on his back, and this he now proceeded to do.

“Much discretion is necessary in purchasing a donkey,” observed

the Herr von Heine--“much discrimination; wisdom and foolishness

are so much alike on a cursory view. A demure aspect may represent

either; and, then, a staid, dignified manner may proceed from lack

of ideas, nay, even absolute stupidity, as well as from profound

thought. In dealing with an animal which exhibits these traits,

great penetration is called for, or you will be deceived. Then,

there is a brightness of the eye, nothing vicious. Ah! I think your

animal has it, a sort of exuberance of spirit, a repressed strength

which can accomplish deeds almost incredible when opportunity

offers. You seldom see this in pictures of the donkey race;

painters seem to think it necessary to represent them dull and

imbecile, which is far from being correct.”

Mein herr paused, but his friends were both too busy to reply,

so he was only met by a “Freilich, mein Herr”[25] from Jans,

and a smiling “Ja Wohl”[26] from his helpmate. In German-land,

social life has no sharp points and corners to prick and scratch.

All is polished and polite, and such a little acknowledgment of

attention to a speaker could never be neglected. It was sufficient

encouragement for the herr, and he proceeded. He was so accustomed

to vibrate between his study and his lecture-room, that to be

quite silent or to have all the talking to himself had become most

natural to him, so, as we have said, he proceeded.

“Painting recalls to me Polygnotus, mentioned, I think, by

Pausanias, yet I’m not quite certain. He was an Athenian painter

of great celebrity, and one of his works was an allegorical

picture, in which unavailing labor was symbolized by a man twisting

a rope which an ass nibbles in pieces as fast as he advanced.

These allegorical pictures are pleasant studies, and it is truly

surprising to compare all the different interpretations of them

by all the different people, who call the same object by totally

different names, and of course draw from the entire composition

very different conclusions. Things are generally contradictory to

themselves as well as to other things, especially when viewed in

that dim light which I would call, if I may be allowed an original

expression, the _mist of ages_. We may cite for this Silenus.

He is the only heathen god depicted on an ass. Now, the morals

and manners of Silenus are very well known, and his association

with this quadruped is complimentary to it or not, according to

the view taken. It may be a panegyric on a patient, sure-footed,

philosophical animal, who could put aside personal feeling in

choosing his company, and bear his bibulous rider in safety when

he was totally unable to walk. Or was Silenus an immortal in

disgrace--degraded from horse, tiger, lion, panther, not to mention

chariots and wings, all that gods and men delight in, and doomed

to the indignity of donkey-back? If the latter, certainly the

creature rose superior to his situation in the end; his voice must

have been tremendous! In battle between the gods and giants, when

Silenus rode in among them, it was his sonorous bray that threw

the giant ranks in confusion and actually put them to flight. He

was well rewarded for this service, for justice is in the sky if

not on earth. He was exalted to the constellations. Search the

star-lighted sky for Cancer, and you will find in it the once

humble Asellus of Silenus.

“_Midæ aures_, the asinine appendages which the king was forced to

accept so unwillingly on Mount Tmolus (a proper reproof to captious

criticism),

‘Induiturque aures lente gradientis aselli,’[27]

were evidently a compliment to the quadruped; for certainly Apollo

meant them for an improvement on his own, which had so signally

failed him.”

Here mein herr came to a decided stop necessarily, for the donkey

was at last loaded, and such a load! Nothing but a donkey could

have stood under it, much less walk! It was cabbages this side,

potatoes that side, cauliflowers in the middle. Then salad laid on

loose; then celery stuck in endwise; then great bunches of sage and

savory and thyme, and herbs for the soup, _Petersilie_ and _der

Rettig_. All these, hung on everywhere, made Jack so fragrant that

his coming could be known long before he was in sight. Lastly, was

a delicate little basket of eggs, engaged long ago by a dainty

customer, swinging easily, so as not to break, under all.

As Jack was pretty nearly buried out of sight under the

substantials of trade, the Frau von Steufle took the flowers for

her share, and she was equally well laden. She could only be said

to resemble an immense walking bouquet, with a pleasant, happy face

peering out from its midst. Truly, the two were worth seeing. As

for Jans, his great responsibility was load enough for him, and so,

with good wishes and great expectations, they departed.

The Herr von Heine was alone all that long summer day. It was

rather a pleasant variety at first. Solitude has charms about it.

He wandered through the house, and explored every nook in the

garden, and went a long way over the grass to look at the pigs; he

fed the chickens and even patted the cow. The old cat seemed to

think it incumbent on her to show him the premises. At all events,

she escorted him hither and thither, now turning somersaults in

front of him, now flying up a tree to take a bird’s-eye view of

him, or perhaps to show him there were some feats not to be learned

in books; then down again, in a sentimental sort of humor rubbing

her head and ears against him, under his very steps; she quite

disturbed his equilibrium.

The large house-dog, or, rather, yard-dog, for there he lived,

looked on with a more suspicious air, as if he should like to be

informed what this new state of things meant; and after returning

the learned Herr von Heine’s proferred intimacy with the slightest

possible wag of his tail, he walked off to attend to his own

business.

Perhaps mein herr added a trifle that holiday to his stock of

knowledge. He had evidently descended from his pedestal of dignity,

and he enjoyed it vastly; besides, he had often introduced such

things in an illustrative or figurative manner to his classes, and

it was as well to make himself familiar with their surroundings.

But it was getting late now, the sun had set, twilight deepened

into darkness, or rather moonlight. Where could the three be

staying? Jans and his good wife were always home from market long

before this hour, even when each carried a load with a barrow to

wheel by turns!

He walked down to the road-way, and gazed long and anxiously

into the distance. No signs of them yet! Where could they be? He

returned to the house, and, ascending to his chamber, selected

from among his books a volume in Latin by the renowned Cornelius

Agrippa. He turned to the last chapter, “Ad Encomium Asini

Digressio.”[28] He felt an intense interest at this moment in

asses. It was possible some of their peculiarities had escaped

his knowledge; he desired to ascertain. But he failed, under the

peculiar circumstances, to fix his attention, so he laid the book

aside, and returned to the regions below; to his solitary stroll up

and down the gravel-walk, with an occasional pause for a long and

anxious survey of the road. Even his meerschaum was forgotten or

uncared for.

“But Time is faithful to his trust:

Only await, thou pining dust.”

Time, which does so much, at length brought them home. To his great

relief, the trio reappeared, and, creeping slowly along, turned

from the road into the gravel-walk and reached the house, all three

evidently depressed in spirits.

III.

Jackey had been turned loose in the paddock on his return, _not_

for good behavior; and he alternated there between nibbling the

grass as assiduously as if he had engaged to mow the whole before

next daylight, and standing still with his head thrust down and

fixed, as motionless as if he had been carved out of stone.

“A singular animal truly,” said mein herr to himself as he looked

down from his chamber window. “He reminds me--”

Here a summons to supper interrupted the reminiscence; and, when

they were all revived with the delicious hot coffee and cream which

the Frau von Steufle knew so well how to mix, Jans entered on his

adventures as follows:

“I thought a donkey was a great traveller, and very careful and

mindful, and to be trusted, and good on bad roads, and could eat

what a donkey ought to eat, and not steal what was not meant for

him.”

“Of course,” said the Herr von Heine; “you are right, he is a

great traveller. I tried one myself on the Alps, that is, I began

the Alps on a donkey; most people begin the Alps on a donkey, next

a mule, then on foot, if they try Mont Blanc. I well remember

the last view I took of the Jungfrau and its avalanches from the

Wengern Alps. At the Hospice of St. Bernard I took a comfortable

meal from the good monks, and then on foot and mule-back I mounted

by way of Martigny and Tête Noire to Chamouni. In Egypt there is

nothing like a donkey for the desert; when I was at Cairo (that

was in my student life), many a pleasant morning I started out on

a donkey, and spent the day among the ruins about there. Great

climbers they are, so obedient and sure-footed. The little white

donkeys of Egypt are beauties, long silky hair; the pashas value

them highly. Certainly the ass is a traveller; the wild asses of

Syria are fleet as the wind. Then, what would Rome be without

donkeys? or any part of Italy, for that matter? Along the coasts,

the bay of Naples, Mount Vesuvius, now over sand and stones and

lava, and volcanic ashes fetlock-deep, now to explore pleasant

fields, and woody paths, and old highways, always picking his way

so carefully up and down steep places, by some path of his own

you fail to see--why, you may ride on one to the very verge of a

precipice, and take your view from his back, as safely as if you

crept there on hands and knees! Oh! yes, they are great travellers,

though sometimes slow.”

“Very slow is Jackey,” responded his owner, “so slow that a good

part of the time he stood still.”

“Possible?” queried mein herr. “Perhaps his load was rather--but

yet, you can hardly overload a donkey. Why, in Rome they are

perfect moving heaps of fagots, hay, fruit, old clothes, mats,

brooms, and brushes, and everything, in fact, that is salable

and movable, with a dirty, swarthy peasant striding beside him

as driver, or, it may be, a boy; but, no, I should say they are

_always_ driven by a mob of boys. I hold that the most gregarious

of all animals is the human biped in its youth; and if I were

called upon for a centre-piece, with most power to collect around

it these juvenile swarms of the genus _homo_, I should name a

Roman donkey. Before him, behind him, a body-guard on each side,

all sizes, in all sorts of garments, or, rather, in all degrees

of nudity, shouting, yelling, laughing, talking, and each one

using all his powers to increase the speed of the poor little

beast--there you have a Roman donkey! I have been told of a scene

in Rome. A little ass whose panniers were two good-sized baskets

of eggs; it was about Easter time, when eggs are valuable. To

hasten him, his driver, a tall, ragged peasant, struck him smartly,

which offended him. He stood still a moment, then deliberately

laid himself down, and rolled over. The peals of laughter which

greeted the donkey as he arose, daubed and dripping with the

yellow semi-liquid, the bewailings of his owner, all together were

worth seeing. In no place in Europe are they as poorly fed and

as much abused as by the lower classes in Paris; truly they are

miserable-looking wretches there, bony, sulky, dirty. I have often

wished to apply to the back of the ragged, screaming boy-driver

the stick with which he was cudgelling his poor donkey. Monsieur

Chateaubriand says he would gladly be the advocate of certain

creatures, works of God, despised by men, and ‘en première ligne,’

says he, ‘figuereraient l’âne et le chat.’

“The heavy-laden ass is a verity in ancient lore; even its name

is used to express hardship and endurance; as from the Greek

word ὄνος, an ass, is supposed to be derived the Latin _onus_,

signifying a _burden_.”

Mein herr made a pause, he was evidently lapsing into the delusion

that he was in his _Collegienhaus_, lecturing on donkeys. The

gentle frau recalled his wandering wits by observing, in a low, sad

voice:

“Oh! he shook so many things off; all lost; he shook half his load

off in the creek!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the herr, “is it possible! that was not to be

expected of him. Many classical writers mention _loading_ the ass,

but I cannot recall a single instance where he _unloaded_ himself

in a creek!

“Horace, it is true, refers to what might be a little sulkiness

under a heavy load, when he represents himself as a sort of

discontented donkey under the infliction of some of his troublesome

friends:

‘Demitto auriculas ut iniquæ mentis asellus

Quum gravius dorso, subiit onus.’[29]

“Then, the poor creature has been at times imposed on in a manner

which might excuse resentment. In ancient Rome, for instance, on

sacred days all labor was forbidden, with the exception of some

certain kinds considered necessary.

‘Quippe etiam festis quædam exercere diebus

Fas et jura sinunt.’[30]

“The works allowed were setting traps for birds which were hurtful,

ordering the trenches which irrigated the fields, and some few

others of like kind. To the rustics, permission was granted to

carry their farm produce to market on sacred days, and they also

might bring a load back. This was allowed them in order that this

business might not interrupt them on working-days. Now, a _load_

with them necessarily demanded an ass; consequently the ass knew

no sacred day, no day of rest from his burdens, and _such_ loads,

Mynheer von Steufle!

‘Sæpe oleo tardi costas agitator aselli

Vilibus aut oneras pomis; lapidemque revertans

Incusum,’ etc.[31]

“Oil, cheap fruits, millstones, black pitch! Ah! _mein lieber

Freund_ what a load! I hardly believe they prefer thistles to

grass, as some say, but they will subsist on one-third of what is

required by a horse under all this labor.”

Jans looked at him ruefully and incredulous:

“Some may--some of them may--but I count Jack two horses at the

least. He must have been eating all night, for he had enough put

before him; and to-day, why, you’d think he hadn’t seen a corn-husk

in a month. He ate apples and cauliflowers, and a peck of peas,

and--and--”

The Frau von Steufle supplemented the catalogue of enormities.

“All my roses, thorns and all, and Katrina von Dyke’s beautiful

tulips that she had just sold, and my tallest bouquet, the one that

was engaged for the grand altar. O dear! what will they do? Then

he chewed up a nice bonnet, and he overset the things! Dear me, so

much mischief! Ah me!”

“Yes, yes,” said Jans, “it is well to say, ah me! Look at the

bills that will come in to-morrow!”

“Truly,” said the herr in a tone of commiseration, “it is

surprising. It was not to be expected! Yet we must look at the best

of it. Horace says:

‘Nemo adeo ferus est, ut nom mitiscere possit

Si modo culturæ patientem commodet aurem.’”[32]

“I know not what that may mean, Mein Herr von Heine,” said Jans,

“nor do I know the Herr Horace; but I wish, if he wants a donkey,

he would take mine. I wish he had him.”

The herr was silenced.

Morning came, and with it a heavy bill to Jans von Steufle for

damages done by a certain donkey, who did kick, bite, tear, trample

on, and devour a long list of things belonging to a long list of

persons.

Evening came, and with it came a lad, halter in hand, which he

quietly knotted round Jackey’s neck, and led him away, looking as

solemn and as amiable as when he first arrived.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Sourkrout.

[15] Sausage.

[16] Cream-cheese.

[17] Roast-beef.

[18] Stewed meat.

[19] Bed-quilts.

[20] Bed-linen.

[21] The hall where lectures are mostly delivered.

[22] See preface to _Labors of Persiles and Sigismunda: A Romance_,

the last work of Cervantes, and left unfinished at his death.

[23] “May you sleep well!”

[24] Common sitting-room.

[25] “Assuredly, sir.”

[26] “Ah! yes.”

[27] “And he puts on the ears of an ass quietly moving along.”

[28] “A Digression in Praise of an Ass.”

[29] “I let down my ears as a young ass of stubborn mind when he

has taken a burden too heavy for his back.”

[30] “Since even on festive days, right and the laws allow us to do

certain things.”

[31] “Often the driver loads the sides of the slow ass with oil or

cheap fruit, and bringing back the wrought stone,” etc.

[32] “No one is so savage that he cannot be tamed if he will lend

an ear to instruction.”

THE ROMAN EMPIRE AND THE MISSION OF THE BARBARIANS.

“Our clock strikes when there is a change from hour to hour; but

no hammer in the horologe of time peals through the universe when

there is a change from era to era.”[33] So writes Mr. Carlyle in

one of his powerful essays; and he is correct. As gradually and as

silently as childhood passes into youth, and youth into manhood,

and manhood again into old age, so does a nation and the world

itself pass from one era into another. But if the signal of such

a change is not heard sounding through the world, the moment of

the transition is foreknown and has been preordained by God, under

whose eye all agents throughout the universe are ever acting out

their parts. Men are sometimes taken by surprise, but God never.

Men are often mistaken in their calculations of the action of

natural forces, but it cannot be so with God. A revolution brews

like an angry storm, all in silence; and bursts; and a nation is

shivered into fragments. Men are amazed; they have made a false

reckoning; but the storm has brewed under the eye of God, and

gathered its hidden forces, and burst at the very moment that God

allowed it, and the havoc has been done up to the time which he has

marked out. This is the expression of a great Catholic principle

of history which it is well, especially in this age of godless

theories, to keep constantly before our minds. We are about to

endeavor to show how powerfully the truth of this great historical

principle is brought out in that part of history to which our

subject refers, for it is well said by Cesare Cantu in his _Storia

Universale_,[34] “If ever history was manifested as a visible order

of Providence, it was in these times.”

As we pass from the fourth into the fifth century, we come into

a new era of the history of the church. The fourth age was one

of mental strife; it was an age of great minds. The enemy of the

church in the time of the persecutions had been brute force; now

it was power of intellect. But God always has his champions ready.

In the persecutions, they were the martyrs; in the fourth age,

they were the Athanasiuses and the Ambroses. But in the fifth

age the men of God’s choice are of another type. They are men

out of the darkness, savages of the forest, wild dwellers amid

the ice-mountains and the swamps. They have known no civilizing

influences; they are nature’s children, and hardy as the rock and

granite. They have reason, it is true; but it does not guide them

on their strange, savage mission. They are all driven on by an

instinct that is irresistible.

The words of Alaric are the expression of the feelings of all those

wild warriors. As the Gothic leader is marching towards Rome at the

head of his army, a solitary goes out from his grotto to arrest him

in his course. “No,” replies Alaric, “a mysterious voice within me

says: March on, go and sack Rome.” So we are told by Socrates[35]

and Sozomen[36] in their histories. Thus, then, they go to their

stupendous work of destruction. That work is characterized by

blood, and smoke, and the crash of falling cities. The age is one

of chaos. Never before since the world began were there such wild

ruin and devastation; never such terrible levelling to the ground

of human grandeur; never such savage smashing up of the monuments

of luxury and worldly greatness. It would, indeed, be difficult

to describe adequately what is so confused and so chaotic. When

the storm-clouds have gathered and overshadowed us with darkness,

when the lightning-fires flame through the sky and scathe the

forest-trees, and the blinding raindrops drive in fury through the

air, can we see any order in it all? Can we draw lines and mark

out clearly the different elements of the storm? No. It is only

when the storm is spent and the air becomes clear again that the

eye can discern what havoc has been done. The giant oak has been

cleft by the storm-spirit’s fiery sword; the lofty tower has been

hurled down from its stately height; the rocks have been split,

and the earth’s surface torn up, as by the bursting of some mighty

engine of war. So it would be difficult to describe, with anything

like clearness of method, the mighty storm which burst upon the

Roman Empire in the fifth century. However long we pore over the

pages of Paul Orosius or Salvian, we still rise from our study with

bewildered brain. God lets loose his wild messengers of wrath, and

they do their savage work in their own savage way. We can see no

order in it--to our eye there is none. We hear the wailing cries

of despair, and the frenzied howls of the conquering barbarians,

and the loud re-echoing crashes of the falling empire. But it is

only when the smoke has cleared off and the dust has subsided that

we can form any idea of the ruin and devastation which have been

accomplished. If our task, then, were mainly to draw an accurate

and true picture, we should fail. But it is rather to give a view

of a period of history from a Catholic philosophical standpoint: it

is to show, as far as we can, the action of God on human affairs.

It will be necessary, then, first to point out what the mission of

the Roman Empire was--a mission to build up: and then the causes

which prepared the way for the mission of the barbarians--a mission

of sweeping destruction.

At the time when the Son of God came down upon earth, the Roman

Empire was at the height of its splendor and power. Never in

the history of the world had there been an empire in every way

so wonderful. Never before had there been a power so mighty

and all-embracing in its dominion. All that had been great and

brilliant in the civilization of the empires of old had come down

to Rome, and had undergone a boundless development there. This

truth is powerfully put forth in the words of the first professor

of the philosophy of history at the Catholic University of Ireland.

We will quote his words: “The Empire of Augustus,” he says,

“inherited the whole civilization of the ancient world. Whatever

political and social knowledge, whatever moral or intellectual

truth, whatever useful or elegant arts the enterprising race of

Japheth had acquired, preserved, and accumulated in the long course

of centuries since the beginning of history, had descended without

a break to Rome, with the dominion of all the countries washed by

the Mediterranean. For her the wisdom of Egypt and all the East

had been stored up; for her Pythagoras and Thales, Socrates, Plato

and Aristotle, and all the schools besides of Grecian philosophy

suggested by these names, had thought; for her Zoroaster, as well

as Solon and Lycurgus, legislated; for her Alexander conquered, the

races which he subdued forming but a portion of her empire. Every

city in the ears of whose youth the Poems of Homer were familiar

as household words, owned her sway. Her magistrates, from the

Northern Sea to the confines of Arabia, issued their decrees in the

language of empire--the Latin tongue; while, as men of letters,

they spoke and wrote in Greek. For her Carthage had risen, founded

colonies, discovered distant coasts, set up a world-wide trade, and

then fallen, leaving her the empire of Africa and the West, with

the lessons of a long experience. Not only so, but likewise Spain,

Gaul, and all the frontier provinces from the Alps to the mouth of

the Danube, spent in her service their strength and skill; supplied

her armies with their bravest youths; gave to her senate and her

knights their choicest minds. The vigor of new, and the culture

of long-polished, races were alike employed in the vast fabric

of her power. In fact, every science and art, all human thought,

experience, and discovery had poured their treasure in one stream

into the bosom of that society which, after forty-four years of

undisputed rule, Augustus had consolidated into a new system of

government, and bequeathed to the charge of Tiberius.”[37]

This passage from Mr. Allies is like a brilliant flash of light

thrown on Rome’s greatness; but yet it only gives us a glimpse. It

would take us long to form to ourselves an adequate idea of this

greatest of empires. We should have to make long journeys through

her extensive provinces, measure her vast cities, march along her

grand roads, and, after we had journeyed over all the civilized

world of those days, we should still be within the circuit of

the mighty empire. Her sway extended over the three then known

continents: “Gaul and Spain, Britain and North Africa, Switzerland

and the greater part of Austria, Turkey in Europe, Asia Minor,

Syria and Egypt, formed but single limbs of her mighty body.”[38]

It is wonderful, again, to think of what Pliny calls the “immensa

Romanæ pacis majestas.” The inconceivable majesty of Rome in

the time of peace was, perhaps, more overpowering than anything

else about her. Having a boundlessness of empire such as we have

described, containing within her circuit a population, according to

Gibbon, of 120,000,000, looking round from her throne of supreme

authority, and claiming all as her own that was visible to the eye

of civilization, she could stretch forth her sceptre over all this

immeasurable area and over these countless peoples, and hold all

in submission and peace. We cannot, then, be surprised that Rome

ruled over the nations as a goddess; that divine power and majesty

were believed to belong to her. Her sway was felt from the Rhine

and the Danube to the deserts of Africa, from utmost Spain to

the Euphrates, like an ubiquitous presence. Her eye of authority

reached from one extremity of the world to the other, and she had

her 340,000 men stationed on the frontiers, looking with watchful

ken into the vast unknown solitudes beyond, and ever ready to hurl

back the savage hordes of external foes, if perchance they stepped

forward for a moment from their native darkness. Very few forces

were needed to preserve internal order. That same Gaul which in

1860 required 626,000 armed men to preserve internal order and

for external security in time of peace, had a garrison of only

1,200 men in the days of old Rome.[39] Well then may Pliny and

the old Roman authors speak with such admiration of the “immensa

Romanæ pacis majestas.” Nothing had ever been seen on the earth

so imposing and so grand. No empire had ever existed with such a

boundless sway, such wonderful internal organization, such a union

of strength, such compactness of power, and such an awe-inspiring

name. And at the time of Augustus there was no sign of decay

or deterioration. Rome was, on the contrary, rising higher and

higher in cultivation and refinement. We may here quote the words

of Tertullian in his treatise _De Anima_; they give us a vivid

and beautiful picture of the Roman Empire of his day. “The world

itself,” he says, “is opened up, and becomes from day to day more

civilized, and increases the sum of human enjoyment. Every place is

reached, is become known, is full of business. Solitudes, famous of

old, have changed their aspects under the richest cultivation. The

plough has levelled forests, and the beasts that prey on man have

given place to those that serve him. Corn waves on the sea-shore,

rocks are opened out into roads; marshes are drained, cities are

more numerous now than villages in former times. The island has

lost its savageness, and the cliff its desolation. Houses spring up

everywhere, and men to dwell in them. On all sides are government

and life.” And so we might go on indefinitely, describing Rome’s

power, and riches, and civilization, and never succeed in giving an

idea equal to the great reality. Then, as we think of all this, we

are led to ask ourselves, How is this mighty empire ever to fall?

Other empires, we know, rose and fell, but at their highest point

of greatness they could not be compared to the Empire of Rome. All

that they had of might and majesty and durability Rome has, and

immeasurably more. Men have not known how to qualify her power, nor

how to designate her except by calling her “Eternal Rome.” Where,

then, can another power come from that shall be able to cope with

her? She looked as durable as the very firmament which God had set

on immovable pillars, more lasting than the rock-built earth on

which she had grown and developed for nearly a thousand years. Her

existence was inconceivable before she began to be; her ceasing to

exist was as inconceivable afterwards. It seemed as if to destroy

her would be to split the earth itself on which she was based, or

to shiver the universe, which she seemed to embrace in her mighty

arms. Of her capital itself a great living writer says: “Look at

the Palatine Hill, penetrated, traversed, cased with brick-work,

till it appears a work of man, not of nature; run your eye along

the cliffs from Ostia to Terracina, covered with the _débris_ of

masonry; gaze around the bay of Baiæ, whose rocks have been made

to serve as the foundations and the walls of palaces; and in those

mere remains, lasting to this day, you will have a type of the

moral and political strength of the establishments of Rome. Think

of the aqueducts making for the imperial city for miles across the

plain; think of the straight roads stretching off again from that

one centre to the ends of the earth; consider that vast territory

round about it, strewn to this day with countless ruins; follow

in your mind its suburbs, extending along its roads for as much,

at least in some directions, as forty miles; and number up its

continuous mass of population, amounting, as grave authors say,

to almost six million; and answer the question, How was Rome ever

to be got rid of? Why was it not to progress? Why was it not to

progress for ever? Where was that ancient civilization to end?”[40]

After looking at Rome with a human eye, this is the way we should

speak; these are questions we should ask. To the human eye, Rome

was based on everlasting foundations, and was to be immortal.

There was no power--there could be no power sufficiently mighty to

move her from her seat. But looking at her from the standpoint of

the great Catholic principles of history, we shall use language

very different. We shall say that Rome, however mighty and well

based, will last no longer than serves the wise designs of God’s

providence. He raised her up, as he has raised other empires, for

a mission; when that mission is fulfilled, he will say to her,

“Perish,” and she will wither away and gradually die, or, if so be

his pleasure, she will be swept, as by the fury of a storm, from

the face of the earth. It was the latter judgment that actually

fell upon her, and we have to see in the course of this essay with

what terrible reality it was carried out.

Mighty as Rome was, so was she intended for a mighty mission. She

had subdued the world, and the world was at her feet. Her great

highways cut through her immense empire in every direction. By

these broad roads the riches of the provinces were carried to

her bosom, and by these roads went forth her legions to guard

the distant frontier. She had given her own language to the

various races which she had bent under her sway, so that her

word of command was understood and obeyed in every part of her

wide empire. At this point, then, in the course of her history,

God had determined to appear, in visible form, on the scene of

human events. When the world was thus at peace, and under the

sway of this mightiest of empires, the Prince of Peace came on

earth. Circumstances never could have been more favorable for the

establishment of his kingdom. It strikes us, then, here at once,

that the evident mission of the Roman Empire was to prepare the

way for Christianity. In spite of the opposition of pagan gods;

in spite of sensual passions and human pride, the Crucified will

have Rome, as has been long ago preordained, for the seat of his

own wonderful empire. Thence his missionaries will go forth,

like Rome’s own conquering legions, but unto still more glorious

conquests than they. The broad Roman roads will rejoice more under

the footsteps of these new conquerors than ever they did in days

before under the tramp of warlike battalions returning booty-laden

to the great capital. Everything is ready for the prosecution

of these new conquests. The provinces are at peace and ready to

receive these Heaven-sent messengers. Men seem to be waiting for

some voice that shall be heard sounding through the world telling

them to lay down their swords for ever, to forget their strifes,

and that they are all brothers. Such a voice is now to be heard.

The language of Rome has made itself universal in order that it may

be the organ of a universal religion. When the first revelation

was made, the language of the human race was one; so was it

necessary that, when a new revelation was about to be given to men,

they should be brought back again to unity of language, in order

that revelation might be universally received, and be transmitted

to future ages. The great Roman conquerors had no thought, whilst

they went forth to conquest with their countless warriors, full

of ideas of human glory and lust of booty, that they were the

simple instruments of him who was ruling in the heavens, and whom

they knew not. But so it was. And we see how God’s designs were

carried out. We see, in course of time, the aged fisherman, from

the Galilean Lake, wending his way toward the great Roman capital.

As he walks along the Via Appia with his scrip and staff, he is

the symbol of simplicity and human weakness. But mark you well

that old way-worn form. There walks the first of the great race

of Popes. He represents no contemptible power, that weak-looking

wayfarer. He bears with him a secret source of strength which will

give him courage against all obstacles. Though he looks so mean in

his Jewish garb, yet he is a conqueror such as the world has not

yet seen. He has no legends at his back, no surroundings of earthly

might to make the world tremble before him. But he bears with him

something mightier than Roman armies, and far more irresistible: it

is the Cross of Jesus Christ. March on, old man, to the great city

that is called the mistress of nations and omnipotent. Fear not;

thou shalt subdue her with thy poor wooden cross, and plant in her

midst thy everlasting throne. Yea, of a truth, the throne which

that old man shall establish there shall be the first immovable

throne which the world has ever seen. The throne of Cambyses has

passed away; the throne of Alexander has crumbled to dust; and the

throne of the Roman Cæsars will soon be buried in the wreck of

barbarian invasion. But the throne of the fisherman will stand firm

where he planted it, whilst everything around perishes and crumbles

away. Nations and kings will mistake it for a human thing, and they

will, in their blind rage, rush against it to overturn it; but they

will dash themselves to pieces in the collision, and they will be

seen lying around in scattered fragments, whilst that throne itself

still remains immovable. So, then, the fisherman, conscious of

his great mission, enters into the mighty city which God had been

preparing for him those long ages. That was a solemn moment for

the world, though the world knew it not. Other conquerors enter

into the capitals of kingdoms with great pomp and a mighty array

of armed men; and perhaps their hold upon the subdued cities is

of short duration. The tide of human affairs quickly changes, and

perhaps the conquerors themselves are in their turn the conquered

and the captive. But this meek old man has no armed force to awe

men into submission. He is the centre of no pageant. He walks on

his way in silence. He has nothing but his staff and his scrip and

his little wooden cross, which in reality is his sceptre. But he

enters Rome to take a lasting possession of it. Not all the world

in arms will ever again be able to make a permanent conquest of

that city. A mystery will henceforth hang about it for ever. It

will always look like a city of the past, and yet it will hold

within it the life of all peoples and nations to come. By degrees,

other kings shall leave it altogether to Peter and his successors,

as if scared away by the mysterious presence of Christ’s vicar.

And if, in the course of ages, men dream like Rienzi of the great

days of ancient Rome, and long to see the old pagan prestige of the

city brought back, and then come with their mailed hands and strike

the mysterious power that God has established there, their mailed

hands shall wither, and they will fall back stricken by Heaven in

their turn, as Oza was in past days for his irreverence.

When, then, Peter had taken possession of his city, the rapid

spread of Christianity began. Here was the throne of the head of

the church established in the very centre of civilization and

of the Western World. We cannot think that Romulus and his wild

robber-followers had any profound design in fixing the site of

their city on those seven hills. No; but God had. It is remarkable

that Rome seems built to be even naturally and physically the

centre of the world. “Nothing,” says Father Lacordaire, “is

isolated in things; the body, the soul, divine grace, everything

is united; all is harmonious. The body of man is not that of the

irrational animal; the configuration of a country intended for one

destiny is not the same as that of a country appointed to another

destiny, and the general form of our globe is as full of reason

as of mystery.”[41] The ancients seem to have had a traditional

knowledge of this; hence it was that, when they built their cities,

they made a deep and religious study of the spot which was chosen

as the site. Looking, then, first at Italy, we see that God formed

it for a great purpose. It is curious to remark how Asia, Africa,

and Europe are united, as it were, together by the basin of the

Mediterranean Sea, which also opens toward the West to allow

the vessels of all nations to sail to the American continent.

Into this central Mediterranean Sea, Italy shoots out its long

length. On its northern side it is strongly guarded by ridges of

mountains, and seems thus designed to be defended from Europe,

whilst it is its heart. Almost in the centre of this Italian

peninsula, more to the south than the north, and more westward

than eastward, Rome is seated. She is built on seven hills, and

by the borders of the Tiber, whose yellow waters roll sluggishly

along between banks bare and uninteresting, and destitute of that

green verdure which gives such a charm to the rivers of our own

country. At a distance of six leagues eastward rises the dark line

of the Apennines; looking westward, you may catch a view from some

elevated spot of the bright-glancing waters of the Mediterranean;

northward rises the isolated Soracte, towering up like a mighty

giant, and seeming to stand as guardian of the plain. Directing

your gaze southward, your eye falls on the pleasant hamlets of

Castel-Gandolfo, Marino, Frascati, and Colonna.[42] In this centre

of the world, then, made such by God when he formed the globe;

in this centre, so wonderfully adapted for easy communication

with the rest of the world, God has his central city built, and

when the hour comes which he preordained in his wise Providence,

he conducts the Fisherman-Pope there, and bids him there abide

till the end of time. It is not likely, then, that any other city

of the world, either Jerusalem or Constantinople, or any great

capital yet to be built, can supplant Rome in the honor of being

the city of the Popes, or that any other country will be in as

true a sense the chosen country of God as Italy is. Italy was

chosen, as we have seen, to be the heart of the world. Then God

chose to have this great central capital from which the light of

Christianity was to radiate to the four quarters of the globe. It

would be easy to show what a glorious and conspicuous part she has

acted in all ages through the church’s history. It is Italy which

has given to the church almost the whole long line of Pontiffs who

have filled the chair of St. Peter. From Italy have gone forth

almost all the greatest missionaries of the world. St. Innocent

says, in his Epistle to Decentius, that all the great founders of

Christian churches in Gaul, Sicily, Spain, and Africa came from

this favored county. To her also is Germany indebted for her first

apostles; and, unless we credit the legend of Joseph of Arimathea,

we must own that Christianity was first brought over into Britain

by missionaries from Rome. And we are not surprised that Italy

is so prolific in apostles and preachers. Nearest to the heart

does the life-blood flow most quickly. Under the eye of Christ’s

Vicar, and under the shadow of his presence, has the Christian

life always been best realized. We cannot, then, wonder that the

history of Christian Italy should furnish the highest and the most

glorious pages of the history of the church. She is glorious in her

countless martyrs, in her learned doctors, in her great founders of

religious orders. With all this before us, we can understand the

soul-stirring words of Luigi Tosti to the Italian clergy. “State

sa,” he cries out, “Leviti dell’ Italiano chericato, abitatori

della terra in cui la chiesa impresse sempre la prima orma dei suoi

passi, quando procede all’ assunzione di una forma novella. Scalza,

perseguitata, cruenta di martirio in Pietro: ricca, guistiziera,

fulminatrice in Ildebrando; bella, copulatrice di due civiltà nel

decimo Leone; e sempre in Italia.” We lose much of the fire and

vigor of the original by translating these words into our own

language, but yet we may, perhaps, venture to render them thus:

“Arise, Levites of the Italian clergy, dwellers in that land on

which the church always imprints her first foot-mark whenever she

is about to take up a new form. Barefooted, persecuted, red with

the blood of martyrdom in Peter; rich, rigid, hurling anathemas in

Hildebrand; beautiful, uniting the two civilizations in the tenth

Leo; and always in Italy.”[43]

Returning, then, to what we have already said regarding the Roman

Empire, and seeing how wonderfully God has arranged all things for

the establishment of his holy religion, we may form to ourselves

an idea how rapidly the truths of Christianity would spread

throughout the world. Now we see a nobler and higher use for those

grand Roman roads than ever entered into the minds of those who

designed and constructed them; now we perceive the advantage of

that one noble Latin language being the established language of

the empire; now we take in more perfectly the great design of God

in laying so many nations at the feet of Rome, and inspiring them

with such veneration for her very name. Thus favored on all sides,

Christianity soon made its way into the cities and towns of the

wide-spreading empire. We have been amazed as we have observed

God working out in detail this grand scheme for the propagation

of his religion. We have seen and wondered at the mighty power

of that Word which was confided by Jesus Christ to the apostles

and their successors. We have seen it captivating the rich and

the poor alike, and baffling and finally humbling at its feet the

proud philosophers themselves. We know how in a few years the

Christians could be counted by thousands in Rome itself, and how

they were found wherever the Roman legions had penetrated. From

Rome, as from a great central sun, the light of truth shone far out

in all directions, and Christian churches seemed to rise as by an

invisible power, in all cities and towns near and far distant, and

then shoot forth their beautiful brightness into the surrounding

darkness. In Africa, as Alzog and Döllinger relate, the Christians

soon outnumbered the pagans. And we know well, for there is no

one who has not read them, the famous words of Tertullian, in

his _Apologetica_: “We are but of yesterday, and already we fill

your towns, your villages, your fortresses, your islands, your

assemblies and your camps, the senate and the imperial court; we

leave you nothing but the temples.” In studying the first ages of

the church’s history, what glorious things do we witness, and how

strongly is the conviction forced upon us that God is there ruling

events and using men for his own great purposes! We see the Roman

legions transforming themselves, as did the Thundering Legion,

into so many phalanxes of conquering Christians, who rushed to

victory under the impulse of the grand idea that they were thus

subduing new countries to the rule of Christ.[44] We see those

victorious legions carrying with them their laws, their customs,

and their schools to the banks of the Rhine and the Danube, and

there planting civilization and the faith of Christ. We wonder

less at this when we think what noble Christian hearts were

burning in the breasts of those brave men, and how oftentimes

they laid down their lives as martyrs for Christ’s name. We can

never forget the noble Theban legions dying at the foot of the

Alps, thus giving by their heroic martyrdom the first lessons of

Christian teaching to the people of Switzerland. In the camps of

Rhætia, Noricum, and Vindelicia, again, we see Christian soldiers

sowing the seeds of their holy religion on every side of them. How

beautiful a thing did it appear to the devoted Ozanam to follow the

footsteps of these early missionaries, to represent to himself the

hymns of redemption rising heavenwards amidst the silence of the

pagan forests, and to see in imagination the barbarians receiving

the waters of baptism at the same fountains which their fathers

adored![45] The more closely, then, we study the manner in which

Christianity was propagated in the first ages, the more clearly

does the mission of the Roman Empire stand out before our eyes. It

becomes more and more evident, the longer we look at facts, that

Rome’s conquering legions, her great far-reaching roads, her laws,

and her one universal language were all made use of by God in a

wonderful way, not only to prepare the way for, but also for the

establishment of his great spiritual kingdom upon earth.

Thus far we have considered the Roman Empire as working for God, as

aiding in a remarkable manner the propagation of Christianity. Thus

viewed, the Roman Empire was on God’s side. But from another point

of view we know how bitterly she opposed God’s work. Never was

there such dire war made against God as during the three hundred

years of the persecutions. We have now to glance at these years of

blood and hatred, since they are a part of the explanation why in

later times there came, by God’s sending, such a whirlwind of wrath

on the mighty empire that it was shaken to its very foundations,

and fell with a crash which made the whole universe tremble. We do

not intend to dwell on the more minute details of these strange,

sad years, but only to refer in a general way to the cruelty of the

persecutors and the heroic conduct of the children of the cross in

the presence of death.

Towards the end of the first seventy years of the Christian

church, we see the imperial garden at Rome the scene of a strange

festivity. The Roman people are there assembled on a dark night

for an entertainment. The Emperor Nero is seen passing to and

fro in his imperial carriage, followed by the senators in their

costly equipages amidst the shouts and plaudits of the people. It

is the opening of the first persecution. The long, shady avenues

are lighted up by living torches--human beings covered over with

burning pitch are serving as festal lamps. In the open squares of

this garden we see women and children, belonging to some of the

noblest families of Rome, clothed with the skins of wild beasts,

and cast to hungry dogs, which devour them alive. Meanwhile Nero

laughs with savage glee at the success of his new invention, and

his myrmidons congratulate him on the ingenuity he has displayed in

it. This is only a glimpse--but we need no more.

Later on we see that other monster Domitian, shut up in a dark

chamber of his palace, holding with fiendish satisfaction the end

of the chain which binds the limbs of those who are brought before

him for trial. We see him oftentimes presiding in person and

gloating with a wild beast’s _gusto_ over the tortures inflicted on

innocent Christians. In his reign, virtue became a crime, and the

followers of Christ were put to death throughout the whole extent

of the empire as being the declared enemies of the state. We do

not wonder that Domitian acquired for himself the odious name of

“the tyrant whom the universe detested,” as Suetonius tells us in

his _Life_ of this emperor. Neither can we wonder that the Roman

people endeavored to blot out even his very name from their memory.

Lactantius tells us, in his _De Morte Persecutorum_, that his

statues were broken to pieces, and his inscriptions effaced from

the proud monuments which his hands had raised.

As we pass on to Trajan and Adrian, we find no reason to be partial

to their memories. Though no new edicts of persecution were

published during their reign, yet Christians were put to death in

great numbers throughout the empire. When we think of Trajan’s

persecution, a grand, saintly figure always rises before our

minds--it is St. Ignatius of Antioch, as he himself has sketched

in striking outlines, in his famous _Epistle to the Romans_,

the sublime ideal of the Christian martyr, and he realized with

wonderful exactitude that ideal in his own person.

The student of church history well remembers the bold independence

of the holy man as he stood before the emperor at Antioch; and the

courageous joy with which he went to the amphitheatre to be the

victim of wild beasts and a spectacle to the bloodthirsty Romans,

is one of those glorious things which the church points to as

characteristic of her great martyr-bishops.

Again, when we think of Adrian, we recall that symbol of his

cruelty, the brazen bull, into which, when heated to red-heat, the

faithful veteran Eustachius with his wife and family was cast. His

name, too, brings back to our memory the brave widow Symphorosa and

her seven sons. The cruel scene of torment is again enacted before

our minds. We think how the poor mother was suspended aloft by the

hair, all bruised and mangled as she was by hard lashes, whilst

the bodies of her children were opened before her eyes with knives

and iron hooks. Such facts as these are certainly not calculated

to persuade us that Adrian’s character was one of mildness and

clemency, as profane historians would have us believe. To this

emperor belongs, as Tillemont tells us, the odious distinction of

having profaned in the vilest manner those holy places which are

so dear to Christian hearts. He defiled the holy Mount of Calvary

by erecting thereon the sensual figure of Venus; he desecrated the

sacred Cave at Bethlehem by setting up the statue of Adonis; and

he placed, as though in jeering triumph, the image of Jupiter over

the tomb of our blessed Saviour. Under the influence of Adrian’s

zeal, paganism experienced a temporary revival; idolatry seemed to

regain new life and vigor, and made a great effort to substitute

the trophies of the devil for those of Jesus Christ. Adrian went so

far as to erect temples in his own honor, which, as Döllinger says,

have been falsely supposed by some to have been places of Christian

worship. Adrian died at last a wretched prey to his crimes. As

he writhed in agony and rotted away under the violence of a

loathsome disease, he called a thousand times upon death to come

to his deliverance. But death came slowly to the cruel torturer of

Symphorosa and her sons.

As we pass rapidly on down these years of blood, our eye is again

arrested, in the time of Marcus Aurelius, by the grand figure

of glorious Polycarp, who rises then distinct and clear to our

view, as he stands up bravely on his funeral pile above the heads

of the Roman rabble, overspanned by his triumphal arch of fire.

As the venerable martyr went to his trial, a voice from heaven

spoke to him these words: “Courage, Polycarp, quit thyself like

a brave man.” And so he did. No one can read without emotion the

beautiful, calm answer which the old man gave to the proconsul who

ordered him to “blaspheme against Christ.” “It is now eighty-six

years,” the aged martyr replied, “that I have served him. How then

can I blaspheme against my Lord and Saviour?” His noble words

and his heroic death inspired courage in thousands of Christians

who afterwards gave their lives for Christ. We learn, also, that

during this persecution Christians who had been for some time

detained in the prisons were massacred _en masse_, and that the

Rhone flowed all red and ghastly with the blood which countless

martyrs had shed on its banks. But the emperor-philosopher felt

his impotence to destroy the ever-dying yet ever-multiplying race

of Christians. “Vary their torments,” he writes, in his despair,

to the governors of the provinces; and then we see the victims of

his hatred crucified, burned, or cast to the wild beasts. Modern

men of science may rank Marcus Aurelius with philosophers, but we

are inclined to believe, with M. Leroy, that it was his infamous

cruelty towards the Christians rather than true wisdom which has

made them pass over in silence his shameless turpitudes and grant

him this proud distinction.

During the raging persecution which Septimius Severus had

enkindled against the Christians, we see St. Perpetua going

boldly to death, bearing in her arms her new-born child. Her aged

pagan father, kneeling in tears at her feet and begging her to

sacrifice to the gods, could not deter her from advancing, with

firm step and calm look, to meet the wild beasts of the circus. We

see Felicitas, Saturninus, Revocatus, and others accompanying her

through the savage crowd to the same fate. What a grand procession

of heroes--something to look at till our tears flow and our hearts

are set on fire! As they advance proudly along, the voice of Satur,

one of their number, is heard giving forth those scathing words to

the wild crowd that surrounded them: “Look well at us, that you may

know us again at the judgment-day.”

Turning our eyes to Alexandria, we find that city a great centre

of persecution at this time. There it was that the most intrepid

defenders of religion, and the stern, penitential men of the

Thebaid, were summoned to crown their noble lives by the heroism of

martyrdom. And again is the blood of martyrs flowing like water in

the streets of Lyons. St. Irenæus and twenty thousand Christians

are immolated in honor of Christ’s name. The work of extermination

is continued with unrelenting vigor under the gigantic son of

the Thracian peasant. Maximin deals out his blows of death with

the power and fury of a Cyclops. But the brave Christian hearts,

braced up to noble deeds by the secret indwelling presence of

their Lord, do not quail before his terrors. And in the midst of

the bloody fray, we hear the soul-inspiring voice of great Origen,

calling aloud to his brethren in these words: “Behold, generous

athletes, your portion--a tribulation above all tribulations, but

yet a hope above all hopes; for the Lord knows how to glorify, by

his rewards, those who have thought little of this poor earthen

vessel, which death so easily breaks to pieces. I should like to

see you, when the combat is at hand, bounding with joy as did the

apostles in their day, who rejoiced that they were found worthy

to suffer outrages for the name of Jesus. Remember ye the words

of Isaiah, ‘Fear not the reproach which comes from men, and let

not yourselves be cast down by their contempt.’ Men laugh to-day,

and to-morrow they are no more; already the eternal pit swallows

them up for ever. When you shall be on the arena of combat, think

with Paul that you are a spectacle to the world, to angels, and

to men. If you triumph, Christians will applaud your courage; the

heavenly spirits will rejoice at your victory. But if you yield,

the powers of hell will shout for joy, and will come forth in

myriads from their fiery abyss to meet you. Fight, then, valiantly,

and, in imitation of Eleazar, leave behind you, as a remembrance

of your death, a noble example of constancy and virtue.”[46] These

noble words are worthy of the generous soul and the marvellously

gifted mind of the great doctor of Alexandria. They sound forth

with a soul-stirring, awakening power, like a trumpet-blast from

heaven. And, no doubt, many a trembling heart was nerved into

courageous daring by them; many a glorious victory was won under

their influence which would otherwise have been lost. And it was in

the next persecution under Decius that such powerful, encouraging

words were needed. Never yet since the empire began to make bloody

war against Christ’s followers had the Christians more need of

strength and help; never had they more need than now to picture to

themselves the depths of the fiery abyss, and the bright glories

of God’s kingdom. Decius came to his bloody work with a resolution

to succeed at any cost. His orders went abroad over the empire to

all governors and public functionaries, that every conceivable

torture was to be used in order to force the Christians to renounce

their faith. It was not, then, prompt, quick death that was now

the order of the day, but slow, cruel torture. We have a picture

of the horrors of this persecution in the words of St. Gregory of

Nyssa. “The magistrates,” he says, “suspended all cases, private or

public, to apply themselves to the great, the important affair--the

arrest and punishment of the faithful. The heated iron chains, the

steel claws, the pyre, the sword, the beasts, all the instruments

invented by the cruelty of man, lacerated, by night and by day, the

bodies of martyrs; and each tormentor seemed to fear that he might

not be as barbarous as his fellows. Neighbors, relatives, friends,

heartlessly betrayed each other, and denounced Christians before

the magistrates. The provinces were in consternation; families were

decimated; cities became deserts; and the deserts were peopled.

Soon the prisons were insufficient for the multitudes arrested

for their faith, and most of the public edifices were converted

into prisons.”[47] We find, also, St. Denis of Alexandria speaking

in moving language of the persecution which he witnessed in his

own city. He tells us that the numbers of the martyrs were past

counting. No regard was paid to sex, age, or rank; men, women,

children, and old men were tormented with equal cruelty. Every

species of torture was employed, and every imaginable cruelty used

to increase the horrors of death.[48] Again, at Smyrna, Antioch,

Lampsacus, Toulouse, Nîmes, and Marseilles, martyrs died in

thousands. In fact, wherever we turn our gaze, we see throughout

the length and breadth of the empire the blood of Christians

flowing.

During the reign of Valerian the monotonous work of death goes

on, but, perhaps, as we advance, the destruction of Christians

becomes more wholesale. At Utica the heads of one hundred and fifty

followers of Christ fell at once, and at Cirta in Numidia we see an

atrocious butchery taking place which lasts the greater part of a

day. The martyrs are led into a valley with ranges of hills rising

to a great height on both sides, as if to favor the spectacle. They

are ranged in line, their eyes bandaged, along the river-side; and

the executioner passes on from one to another, striking off their

heads.[49] It was, perhaps, a glad sight for the savage idolaters

who thronged the high hill-sides to witness the bloody slaughter,

but it was a sublime spectacle, too, for the angels of heaven, as

they looked down upon those brave soldiers of Christ, and saw them

standing in calm, joyful silence by that African river-bank and

receiving their bright martyrs’ crowns.

The ages of blood came to an end with the Diocletian persecution.

It would be difficult to imagine that anything new in the way

of torture could be invented at this date. Ingenuity and malice

had already done their worst in the matter of inventions; but

Diocletian and his associates brought with them a qualification

in which they were surpassed by none of their predecessors, and

that was an intense hatred for the Christian religion. Never had

the rage and fury of persecutors been greater than was displayed

by these “three ferocious wild beasts,” as Lactantius calls them;

and never, consequently, did the blood of Christians flow more

copiously. Hell was making its last great effort. Though we are

accustomed, in traversing these centuries of terrible bloodshed,

to read of cruelties which are almost beyond belief, yet we are

startled into new horror when we find in this tenth persecution

an entire town with its twelve or fifteen thousand inhabitants

consumed by fire because it is a town of Christians. Each province

has its peculiar species of torture. In Mesopotamia, it is fire; in

Pontus, the wheel; in Syria, the gridiron; in Arabia, the hatchet;

in Cappadocia, iron bars for breaking limbs; in Africa, hanging;

the wooden horse in Gaul, and wild beasts at Rome.[50] Where, we

ask, as we gaze over the wide-stretching empire, is not the blood

of Christians flowing? Its voice rises heavenwards from the cliffs

of Tangiers; it saturates the plains of Mauritania; it springs from

wounded combatants on the shores of Tyr; but nowhere over the wide

earth is it poured out for God’s glory without his taking count of

it. The blood of martyrs will not cry to heaven in vain; God’s day

of reckoning with the empire will surely come.

But we can dwell no longer on these ages of heroic sacrifice.

Pascal has truly said that “the history of the rest of the Romans

pales beside the history of the martyrs.” Whoever wishes to see the

full force of this remark, let him read the _Acts of the Martyrs_,

in the history of Eusebius, or the charming pages of Ruinart, or

in the ponderous tomes of the Bollandists. Nowhere in Christian

literature is there anything so simply and touchingly eloquent.

The _Acts of the Martyrs_ constitute a drama whose character is

most sublime, and the interest of which is more than ravishing. In

order to express our idea more perfectly, we will borrow the words

of Mgr. Freppel. “If there be a drama,” he says, “each of whose

acts bears a special character, whilst at the same time perfect

unity is preserved, it is the _Acts of the Martyrs_. Here we have

a bishop who puts to confusion a proconsul by the calm constancy

of his faith; there we have a virgin who mingles with her answers

that enthusiasm of love with which her heart is on fire. In another

place, we have the Christian mother surrounded by her sons, who

confess one after another the simple faith of their infancy, and

pass from mouth to mouth the testimony of truth. Again, we have

the Christian soldier, who reveres in Cæsar the majesty of power,

but who places above all imperial honors the worship of the King

of kings. In this magnificent epopee of martyrdom, to which each

persecution adds a new song, the scene varies according to time and

place; it is the fidelity of love and the grandeur of sacrifice

which constitute its unity.”[51] It is there that we have put

before us the most beautiful and the most noble characters that

have ever done honor to the human race. We find nothing sordid,

nothing selfish, nothing haughty in these heroes. They are meek

and humble, yet brave and high-souled, and strikingly grand in the

face of death. Profane history may ransack its annals, but it will

never be able to show us characters so noble and so admirable.

Their equals are not to be found in the _Lives_ of Plutarch, nor

in the pages of Eutropius. How true is it that the Catholic Church

alone is the Mother of Heroes! The heroism of the martyrs was of

that kind for which all ordinary theories fail to account. It

gave strength to the tottering frames of venerable old men; it

made timid virgins courageous in the presence of hideous racks;

it spoke by the lisping tongues of frail infants. Let the profane

historian point to any scene that can equal in simple grandeur

the trial and death of the gentle, sweet St. Agnes, or in heroic

endurance the painful, slow martyrdom of the beautiful Agatha, the

glory of Sicilian virgins. Let him tell us of anything, either

in profane fact or fable, which can equal in purity and strange

boldness the beautiful history of Eulalia, the child-saint of

twelve summers, whose name is celebrated in touching harmonies

by Prudentius as the glory of Merida, the sweet Lusitanian city

which stands on the flowery banks of the rapid Guadiana. Let

him tell us of anything, even in the fancied facts of strangest

romance, that is half as marvellous as the history of St. Cyr, the

child-confessor and martyr of three years old, who, when he was

taken up into the governor’s embrace to be coaxed into apostasy,

lisped out his brave confession, “Christianus sum,” and was dashed

to pieces on the steps of the tribunal. Will the profane historian

speak of wonderful endurance? We invite him to look at the child

Barallah, in his seventh year, who was suspended in the air and

scourged before his mother’s eyes, and who, as his blood sprang

out on all sides, and his little bones were stripped of their

flesh, could be brave and unflinching whilst the rough executioners

themselves shed tears of pity. As the blood flowed from his body,

the little martyr cried out in the burning heat of his torments,

“I am thirsty; give me a little water.” His brave mother reproved

him, saying, “Soon, my son, thou wilt be at the source of living

waters”; and she carried her child in her arms to the spot where

he was to be beheaded, and as his head was severed from his body

she received it into her veil. Tell us, profane historian, of great

mothers like this. Tell us if your greatest heroes could be so

invincible in the midst of suffering as the child-martyrs of the

Catholic Church.

The three ages of martyrdom in the church’s history are

emphatically the ages of great heroes. No brave man that ever

went to death for any other cause went so boldly or was so calm

and dignified as the Christian martyr in the presence of the

executioner. Never before in the annals of the human race were

men known to go to death rejoicing; never before were they seen

to smile and be glad when brought in sight of the rack and the

gibbet. This perfection of courage and sublime self-possession

were seen every day among the martyrs of the church. This it was

that amazed the frantic rabble which witnessed their sufferings;

it was this that oftentimes enraged the Roman governors so far

as to drive them to order the death-blow to be inflicted before

the torturers had done their appointed work. The joy with which

the martyrs gave their blood for Christ’s holy name is one of the

problems which unchristian philosophers have never been able to

solve. These so-called thinkers have never been able to comprehend

the long, mysterious blood-shedding of those three hundred years.

The Christian philosopher alone, with his great Catholic principles

of history, can understand that _blood-shedding_ is the mysterious

law which characterizes in such a striking manner the great work of

the Incarnation. As he gazes into the past, he sees the sacrificial

blood flowing in every nation’s worship. Far back in the ages of

the patriarchs, he can discern the red stream glistening; and as

his eye still gazes, he sees it flowing ever onward, with typical

significance, through the centuries, until it meets the God-man’s

sacred blood pouring down from the Cross of Calvary. There the

typical was merged in the real. He can see, again, how congruous

it seems that, after the great sacrifice of the cross had been

typified through the proceding ages by an ever-flowing stream of

blood, and after Christ had poured out all his own blood on the

hill of Calvary, and it had flowed down so copiously on the sinful

world, his first followers and disciples should in their turn shed

their blood for him. This abundant blood-shedding, this wondrous

heroic self-sacrifice, was a testimony which honest men could

not withstand, for, as Pascal says, “men believe witnesses who

shed their blood.” To die willingly and joyfully for another was

something of which the world had not yet heard. Jesus Christ, then,

wished to show the mighty power of his doctrine. He would let the

world see what wonders his cross could work in the souls of men.

He wished to make it manifest to all men’s eyes what courage it

could give in the presence of the most terrible racks; how it could

so influence the weak and timid as to make them joyful when they

were taken to die; how it could be a consolation and an ineffable

sweetness in the midst of torments the most painful. All this he

did manifest to the world in the most striking light. His martyrs

were such characters as the world had not seen before; what was

terrible to others was not so to them; when others would shriek

with agony, they would smile with joy; when others would languish

and faint under the lash and the knife, they could calmly remark

with St. Eulalia as she looked at her wounds: “They write your name

all over my body, sweet Jesus.” Truly, the cross planted amidst a

very sea of blood, generously shed for the love of the Crucified,

is the grand central point of all history, which men may look back

at, and gaze upon with admiration and ravishment to the end of time.

But, returning to our former point of view, and looking upon

these centuries of terrible blood-shedding as the fierce, furious

war which the Roman Empire waged against God and his religion,

we naturally ask ourselves a question, Where is the great God of

the Christians whilst his children are being immolated to pagan

savagery throughout the whole earth? Does he from his high heaven

take note of what is done? Oh! he who sees the sparrow fall does

not lose sight of his children, nor does his eye fail to see the

sufferings which they endure for him. The voice of his martyrs rose

heavenwards with a mighty cry during those three hundred years. It

rose from the saturated floor of the Roman amphitheatre; it spoke

with pleading eloquence from the depths of the mines of Numidia;

it echoed incessantly in the ear of God from amid the solitudes of

Pannonia. God was not at any time deaf to that cry. He was slow in

his anger, but, then, on that account he was the more terrible.

Whilst Nero was shedding the first Christian blood at Rome, God was

silently gathering together his avenging armies in the forests of

the north. It took him more than three hundred years to marshal his

overwhelming warrior-hosts; but, O heavens! what a direful shaking

of the universe when they did come!

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_, vol. ii., “On History,” p. 151.

[34] Vol. i. p. 44, French ed.

[35] _Eccl. Hist._, vii. 10.

[36] _Hist._ ix. 6.

[37] Allies, _Formation of Christendom_, vol. i. p. 42.

[38] Allies, _Formation of Christendom_.

[39] See _Formation of Christendom_, by Mr. Allies.

[40] Dr. Newman, _Office and Work of Universities_, pp. 161, 162.

[41] _Œuvres_ du R. P. Lacordaire, tome vi. p. 172.

[42] See Père Lacordaire’s _Lettre sur le Saint-Liège_.

[43] Tosti, _Al Clero Italiano; Prolegom.-alla Storia Universale_,

vol. i.

[44] See _Leroy_, vol. ii. p. 295.

[45] See Ozanam, _La Civilisation chrét. chez les Francs_, p. 4.

[46] Origen, _Exhortatio ad Mart., passim_, quoted by Leroy.

[47] St. Greg. of Nyssa, _Vita Thaumat._, p. 578.

[48] See the sixth book of Eusebius’ _Hist. of the Church_.

[49] See Darras’ _History of the Church_, Amer-edit., p. 262.

[50] See Eusebius’ _History_, book viii. ch. 12, and following.

[51] _Les Pères Apostoliques_, 20me leçon, p. 433.

ACOUSTICS AND VENTILATION.[52]

Every effort to elucidate what is obscure, or to provide a

remedy for acknowledged evils, is a just title to that friendly

acknowledgment which the writer of this little book bespeaks. It

is a step in the direction of progress. But it is of the highest

importance in the attempt to impart clear ideas upon any subject,

that they should be so distinctly expressed as to leave no doubt

concerning the identity of their subject. Thus, in treating of

_sound_, it seems to us that the question first presented is this:

_What is sound?_ Our author says that it “_receives_ its vitality

or its life through the air, and without air sound loses it and

becomes extinct.”

We object to this statement of the origin of sound, as both

unsatisfactory and indistinct. It implies that _sound_ is something

born and floating in the air, and external to the mind perceiving.

We fancy that, without _an ear to hear_, sound would not become

extinct, but have no existence; and that the _vitality_ of which

our writer treats is not _in_ or _on_ the air, but in the mind

itself. This exception to the supposed origin of the _life of

sound_ may not seem to affect the discussion of acoustics as far as

the practical purpose of the architect is concerned; but we insist

that neither the drumsticks nor the drum, nor the air within it or

without, nor even all these at work, are _sound_, more than the

telegraph wire and the electric current are the _message_ sent

from one operator to another.

That inaccuracy which we discover in our author’s use of terms,

we find also in his quotations from others. For example: “The

intensity of sound depends on the density of the air in which the

sound is generated, and _not on that of the air in which it is

heard_. A feeble sound becomes instantly louder as soon as the air

becomes more dense. So you will always find, on great elevations

in the atmosphere, the sound sensibly diminished in loudness. If

two cannon are equally charged, and one fired at [from] the top of

a high mountain, and the other in a valley, the one fired below,

in the heavy air, may be heard above, while the one fired in the

higher air will not be heard below; owing to its origin, the

sound generated in the denser air is louder than that generated

in the rarer. Peals of thunder are unable to penetrate the air to

a distance commensurate with their intensity on account of the

non-homogeneous character of the atmosphere which accompanies them;

from the same cause, battles have raged and have been lost within

a short distance of the reserves of the defeated army, while they

were waiting for the sound of artillery to call them to the scene

of action.”

It seems to us that the truth here expressed is not unmixed with

error. In the very first sentence, we think that accuracy would

require the suppression of the word _not_. The intensity of sound

depends not only upon the density and elasticity of the air whose

pulsation is an antecedent condition, but also upon the density and

elasticity of the air _through which_ the pulse is transmitted.

While it is true that a pulse given to the denser column or stratum

of air may be transmitted through a _rarer_ medium with greater

resultant force than if its origin and direction were reversed, it

by no means follows that the intensity of sound is unaffected by

the density of the air _in_ which it is heard. We apprehend the

truth to be that the pulse given to highly rarefied air is very

feeble; and its secondary effect upon a denser and more elastic

fluid, correspondingly slight; while the pulse from the denser air

would be transmitted with greater--but still diminished--force,

through the rarer atmosphere _in which_ it reaches the ear. An

_absolute vacuum_ could not transmit the pulse given through

a column or stratum of elastic fluid. A _rarefied atmosphere_

could but transmit it with a force always varying with its own

elasticity. And were it possible to preserve one’s consciousness

within the exhausted receiver of an air-pump, we doubt if the most

sensitive ear could be made to hear the roar of a cataract without.

“A feeble sound becomes instantly louder as soon as the air becomes

more dense;” but _not as loud_ as if the same initial pulse were

_immediately_ given to the denser air. In the case of two cannon

equally charged, one of which is fired on the top of a mountain,

and the other in a valley below it, to say that “_owing to its

origin_, the sound generated in the denser air is louder than that

generated in the rarer,” _sounds_ much like saying it is _because_

it is. If it be more than this, it is wrong. It is a clear case of

_non causa pro causa_. The origin [of the _pulse_] of sound is in

either case the same: the explosion of equal charges of gunpowder,

in guns supposed to be of like material and equal size. The

_effects_ are not the same, because the effect of a force depends

upon its _transmission_ as well as upon its origin.

Does the atmosphere “_accompany_” peals of thunder? Or does this

expression convey a distinct idea of the office of the atmosphere

in the production of sound? We understand that the atmosphere

receives the pulse or blow, and that its transmission to the ear

is due to the elastic force of the intermediate air. It is not the

_homogeneousness_ of air, but its _elasticity_ which transmits

the pulse. And though, in architecture, the object sought is a

uniformly elastic air throughout the _auditorium_, it does not

follow, nor is it even desirable, that the _maximum effect at a

given point_ should be obtained by it.

“Science,” says our author, “teaches us that, whenever a shock or

pressure of any sort is suddenly applied to material of any nature,

whether metal, wood, gas, water, air, etc., it is immediately

affected in all its parts, from the point of contact to the whole

extent of the material, in displacing and replacing the particles

of a _determinate volume_; and the velocity of the movement of

the particles of the mass, created by the concussion of shocks or

pressure, depends _solely_ (?) upon its elasticity and density.

Sound likewise _causes_ motions (?) with every particle of the

air, and as far as the motion reaches; so that each particle, with

regard to that which lies immediately beyond it, is in a progress

of rarefaction during return.”

What is meant by affecting a mass of matter “_in all its parts_,”

by “displacing and replacing the particles of a _determinate

volume_,” we do not precisely understand. That whatever

causes motion does it “as far as the motion reaches,” is as

unquestionable as any other identical proposition. But that

the velocity of the movement of the particles, created by the

concussion of shocks, pressure, _upon an unconfined elastic fluid_,

depends _solely_ upon its elasticity and density, we dispute.

That _pulses_ “are propagated from a _trembling body_ all around

in a _spherical_ manner” may be true, if the air is on all sides

equally elastic. Such might be the case with those produced by the

vibrations of a _bell_, when the surrounding air is undisturbed

by other causes, and is uniformly elastic at equal distances

from it. It would not be strictly true if the initial pulse were

made only in a certain direction. “Every impression made on a

fluid is propagated every way throughout the fluid, whatever be

the direction wherein it is made;” but it is not true that the

impressions are equal at equal distances from the initial pulse,

irrespective of its _direction_. This result would presuppose a

fluid _perfectly_ elastic; which we never have--and _then_ we

might, with equal truth, say that the impressions would be equal at

all distances.

Everybody is familiar with the fact that the “transmission of

sound,” the pulse which strikes upon the ear to produce the

sensation, _is affected_ by currents of air--the direction, force,

and velocity of the wind--between the initial pulse and the hearer.

_How_? and _how much_? _directly_ or _indirectly_? are questions

distinct from the fact itself. The distance through which guns are

heard, as well as the loudness of their report, varies with the

_direction_, _force_, and _velocity_ of the wind; and, in very

still air, with the _aim_ of the gun itself, the _direction of

the initial pulse_. For short distances, these differences may be

so minute as to escape notice; just as the false proportions of

a miniature picture are unobserved until the magnifier displays

them. And for longer ranges, they are so small, in contrast with

the magnitudes compared, as to seem rather like _accidental_ than

_legitimate_ differences. But the difference is not the less real

because the reality is less. Words spoken in a faint whisper are

clearly heard by a listener immediately _before_ the speaker, when

quite inaudible or indistinct to one at an equal distance _behind_

him.

The _actual velocities_ of wind and sound differ so widely that the

small fraction by which their _relative velocity_ is denoted is

held as proof that the propagation of sound--_the pulse_--through

distances of a few yards or feet, is not affected by currents of

air: that there are no _differences in the “velocity of sound.”_

Yet the ear detects them as one of the small differences between

discord and harmony in music; distinctness and confusion of

speech. In music these differences may be blended by the prolonged

intonation of _vowel sounds_; but in speech, whose distinct

significance is due to _consonants_, “which cannot be sounded

without the aid of a vowel,” these differences are fatally evident.

The sharp edges of the vocal pulses, which give shape and meaning

to vowel sounds, are destroyed alike by a husky voice and a puff of

air. What remains is _vox et præterea nihil_.

It seems to us that some of the many failures in practical

acoustics come from considering the air--the material involved--as

perfectly elastic. From this it is inferred that sound is not

affected by the direction of the initial _pulse_: that the

direction and velocity of the _effective_ pulse are not varied by

currents and blasts of air. In short, that the slight inaccuracy

of these assumptions will be the actual measurement of resultant

error.

Were the purpose only to ascertain the _acoustic_ properties of

unadulterated air, varied experiments might eliminate the errors of

anomalous results. But when the process is reversed, and we deduce

_effects_ from _only one_ among concurrent and conflicting causes,

theory is confounded by discordant facts. Theories of _sound in

purely elastic air_ might give results approximately realized in

practice, if the actual pulses with which we are concerned were

given by a flail; but are pregnant of error when the atmosphere

is mixed with vicious vapors, and the _pulse_ is a breath of air.

Then, the assumption that “_pulses of sound_” proceed _equally_

in all directions from the initial point, is simply false; and

theories based upon it can only complicate the problems to be

solved.

Water, as well as air, is a highly elastic fluid, and, if confined

and subjected to pressure, the force applied is exerted on all

sides of the confined volume. But the _effect_ of a _pulse_ or

blow upon a surface of large extent varies with the _direction_ of

the force as well as with its _power_ and _velocity_. We have seen

fish swimming near the surface killed or paralyzed by a blow upon

the water immediately over them. And we have seen the blow fail of

its intended effect _solely_ because it was _misdirected_. Perhaps

the water in the latter case was _not perfectly elastic_! Neither

is the air of churches and public halls, when their atmosphere

has yielded a portion of its _oxygen_, and, in return, is charged

with _carbonic acid_ and moist vapors from the breath of crowded

assemblies. _Carbonic acid gas_ is heavier _by one-half_ than

atmospheric air. It does not, then, always rise toward the ceiling

or roof, but remains in solution with impure exhalations; or else,

condensed by contact with the colder walls, descends to poison the

lower air and impair its elastic force--its power of transmitting

the “_pulse of sound_” to the ear.

We have just come from one of our city churches, where we have

had a striking example of this result. The church in question

will _accommodate_ (?) about two thousand people. Twenty-five

hundred may be crowded into it. At the commencement of the

sermon, the preacher’s voice was distinctly audible at points

fifty or sixty feet from the pulpit, in spite of reflections of

sound--_air pulses_--from galleries, wooden columns, and the

arched ceiling and side-walls, of lath and plaster. Before it was

ended, the exhalations of the breathing crowd had so filled the

lower half of the “_auditorium_” that only vowel sounds could be

distinguished; and the _peroration_ seemed to consist of spasmodic

utterances--scarcely sounds--of _a_, _e_, _i_, _o_, _u_. _W_ and

_y_ had lost their affinity to vowels, and the rest of the alphabet

were no longer _consonants_, for they were not heard at all.

The acoustic and sanitary problems are here identical--to find

a method of preventing an accumulation of foul and inelastic

vapors around the breathing and listening congregation, and to

give, instead, wholesome air to their lungs, while enabling their

ears to hear. And since these poisonous and inelastic gases are

specifically heavier than atmospheric air, and must fall to the

floor by their own weight, the problem is reduced to providing

a practicable way for their escape, and guarding it against

counter-currents which might obstruct the passage.

The introduction of warm air through openings in or near the floor

will not readily produce uniformity of temperature within a room.

The simplest experiment in proof of this is constantly made by

multitudes of people, who, in crowded assemblies, find their heads

surrounded by warm and moist vapors, reeking with offensive odors,

while their feet are chilled, though near the “hot-air register.”

A library, whose walls were 12 feet high, and whose floor--18 by

15--contained 270 square feet, was constantly warmed by a “Latrobe

heater,” placed in the chimney at one end of the room. The pot

holding the coal was raised one foot above the level of the floor,

which was covered by a woollen carpet. Immediately under the

library was a kitchen, whose temperature was kept at about 72° F.

Three thermometers were placed thus: No. 1, standing on the carpet

near the centre of the library floor; No. 2, three feet, and No.

3, six feet, above it. At the expiration of half an hour, No. 1

indicated 62°; No. 2, 66°; and No. 3, 72°. Numbers 1 and 3 were

then placed side by side with No. 2, three feet above the floor.

At the expiration of fifteen minutes, all three indicated the same

temperature of 66°. The low temperature of the inferior stratum

of air was certainly not due to that of the room beneath it, for

that was above 70°. It was only the heavier, colder air of the room

itself, and of adjacent apartments warmed in the same way, slightly

affected by contact with the stratum of warmer air above it.

Such slight differences of temperature in small apartments could

not greatly affect the transmission of “the _pulse of sound_.”

But in larger and loftier rooms, like churches and public halls,

corresponding differences of temperature would, and do, produce air

_strata_ widely different in density and elasticity, and occasion

serious acoustic defects. But the acoustic requirement is not

satisfied by uniformly elastic _air_ alone; for its _pulses_ are

reflected, and unity--distinctness--of sound, is lost in echoes or

reverberations, from windows, columns, floors, and ceilings.

To know the difficulties to be encountered is always a step towards

their alleviation; and these are sufficiently apparent throughout

the little volume before us. They are, _First_, _inelastic

air_--which cannot transmit its pulses to the ear. _Second_, strata

and amorphous volumes, of unequal densities, which transmit the

_air-pulses_ with unequal force; so that they produce _distinct

sounds_ and _indefinite murmurs_ at equal distances from the

initial pulse. _Third_, _reflecting surfaces_--the floor, the

ceiling, walls, columns, and furniture of the _auditorium_; which

variously reflect the waves caused by air-pulses, and produce

effects analogous to the eddies and whirlpools made by conflicting

currents of running water.

The _first_ and _second_ of these difficulties are clearly within

the province of “heat and ventilation;” and any means by which

a constant tidal flow--_not a current_--of wholesome air, _from

floor to ceiling_, may be produced, and by which the _un_wholesome,

inelastic, heavier _gases_ generated in crowded assemblies shall be

prevented from accumulating but be _forced_ to give place to the

purer air, will practically solve the problem which they present.

The _third_ difficulty is purely architectural. While _surfaces_

reflect what are called _pulses of sound_, and so multiply their

effects, they also create conflicting waves, which partially

neutralize each other, or else strike the ear in irregular

succession, to destroy the unity and harmony of sound. We cannot

have buildings free from the _inconveniences_ of walls, floors,

and ceilings; but we can regulate and utilize surfaces to give

aid in the transmission of _air-pulses_ in _one direction_, and

greatly diminish the reflecting power of those that would give back

conflicting waves of air. A sounding-board or arch, whose lower

surface should be a semi-paraboloid, so placed that a line drawn

from its highest points, and parallel to its axis, would pierce

the opposite wall four feet above the floor, while the axis itself

should attain the same height at a distance of forty feet from the

_focus_, would be an example of what we mean by utilizing surfaces

to transmit air-pulses _in one direction_. The employment of an

inelastic substance, like coarse _felt_, between the _furring_ of

a wall and the _lathing_, would undoubtedly tend to destroy its

ability to reflect the “_pulse of sound_.” And hollow cast-iron

columns, _filled with clay_, would hardly _vibrate_ from a pulse of

air.

In one of the Protestant churches of our city, we were shown

a sounding-board, whose authors seemed to have halted between

the acoustic merits of the paraboloid and the graceful shape of

the pilgrim’s scallop-shell. We were told that “it helps the

voice of the preacher.” There seemed to be too much of it for

ornament, if its principle be wrong or inefficient, and too little

for usefulness if right. Many attempts to improve the acoustic

properties of halls designed for public lectures are failures

through faulty execution of correct designs.

We once saw the working-plans of a lecture-room, where the line

of intersection of the end wall with the floor of the stage or

platform was a _parabola_, the arch above and behind the lecturer’s

desk being a _semi-paraboloid_, springing from the wall at the

height of the speaker’s voice. Thus, it was supposed that the

_pulses_ reflected from the walls and arch would proceed in

parallel lines or “waves of sound,” because the _initial pulse_

would always be given at the _focus_ of the reflector.

The place of every joist in the cylindrical wall was carefully

marked, and the dimensions and place of each rib of the

paraboloidal arch accurately given. But in executing the design,

the builder discovered a _mistake_!--“the floor of the stage would

not be a true circular segment!” So he “_corrected_ it”--with

stunning effect upon the lecturer, and to the utter confusion of

his audience. And the design was pronounced _a failure_.

In looking through the work before us, we almost unconsciously

began to say: “This is nothing new; we have seen this, and more

than this, before.” And in the same sense, we suppose it might as

well be said that _nothing_ is essentially new.

We have lately seen a notice of an invention for tracing patterns

on glass by means of a _jet_ of sand. Of course, it is nothing

new. The wind has been doing the same trick with the sand of the

sea-shore for ages. We have seen it long ago, and often. Doubtless,

the same effect has been noticed by many others. A thought of

the possible utility of a process whose result was seen may have

flitted through many minds, and, like the outline of a passing

cloud, have been forgotten as it passed. But honestly, we never

thought of tracing lace patterns on glass by any such process. And

while new combinations of well-known truths give new and useful

results, we hope they may never cease to be made.

Mr. Saeltzer’s book is full of good hints. But that is not its

chief merit. It recognizes the inseparable connection of sound and

ventilation, and insists upon observance of the laws which govern

them. As he is so evidently alive to the sanitary and acoustic

defects in public buildings, we shall be disappointed if his

little volume does not prove to be the preface to more specific,

practical directions for their removal. He has put his finger upon

the principal cause of failures. The laws of light, and heat, and

sound are sufficiently understood to render their phenomena as

controllable as time, space, and velocity in mechanics. The more

intelligent efforts are therefore directed not to the discovery of

new principles involved, but to utilize what knowledge we possess.

And when the effort is made at the right point and in the right

direction, we can heartily say, Go on and conquer. The world is

full of wonderful monuments signalizing defeat. Let us see just one

crowned with victory.

As yet, modern ecclesiastical architecture, especially, is but the

imperfect reproduction of ancient and mediæval models. It is the

heathen temple or the Gothic minster, or, more recently, an attempt

to vary the monotony with Byzantine forms of old basilicas, without

their grandeur. In decoration, we have crude, unmeaning imitations

of Moorish tracery, weak in imagery of form and symbolism, without

those glowing contrasts and harmonies of colors which are to

architecture as rhythm to poetry of sound. We know the cause and

history of this poverty in constructive and decorative art. History

tells us how men became so spiritual, in their own conceit, that

symbolism was held to be a sin; and how, by losing the sign, the

thing signified was forgotten or denied. But it seems almost

unaccountable that the world should be teeming with _philosophers_,

to whom the laws of nature, even their least tangible phenomena,

seem familiar as things of daily use, while great temples are so

constructed that they who have ears to hear _cannot_ hear.

FOOTNOTE:

[52] _A Treatise on Acoustics in Connection with Ventilation;

and an Account of the Modern and Ancient Methods of Heating and

Ventilation._ By Alexander Saeltzer, Architect. New York: D. Van

Nostrand, Publisher. 1872.

ODD STORIES.

I.

THE LADDER OF LIFE.

There are a great many rounds in the ladder of life, though simple

youths have always fancied that a few gallant steps would take

them to the summit of riches and power. Now, the top round of this

ladder is not the presidency of any railroad or country, nor even

the possession of renowned genius; for it oddly happens that when

one sits down upon it, then, be he ever so high up in life, he has

really begun to descend. Those who put velvet cushions to their

particular rounds, and squat at ease with a view of blocking the

rise of other good folks, do not know they are going down the other

side of the ladder; but such is the fact. Many thrifty men have,

in their own mind, gone far up its life-steps when, verily, they

were descending them fast; and poor people without number have in

all men’s eyes been travelling downward, though in truth they have

journeyed higher by descent than others could by rising. So many

slippery and delusive ways has this magical ladder that we may say

it is as various as men’s minds. One may slip through its rungs out

of the common way of ascent, and find himself going down when he

ought to be going up; and vain toilers have ever fancied that they

were mounting to the clouds when everybody else must have seen they

were still at the same old rounds. Ambitious heroes have made the

same mistake, if, indeed, the particular ladder which they have

imagined to themselves has not itself been sliding down all the

while they have been seeking vain glory by its steps.

The ladder of life is an infinite ladder. It is full of

indirections to suit the abilities, and of attractions to please

the tastes, of climbers. You may work at a forge, or sail the

sea, or trade in money and merchandise, or hear operas, or write

romances, or take part in politics, or wander over mountains, or

go to church, while living thereon; but you must go up or go down,

and either way will have some sort of climbing and toiling to do.

Everywhere on the ladder is trouble, save in careful steps; and

since human progress is so illusory, many honest persons rather

fear to fall than aspire too eagerly, or felicitate themselves

on precarious elevations. Prudence forbids us to say at what

real round of the ladder are all our bankers, brokers, showmen,

advertisers, and other millionaires; but it is certain that good

little children, and simple citizens, and poor geniuses, and

suffering men and women have gone higher up than the world knows.

Indeed, they have gone quite out of sight, for there is a place

on the great ladder which few men know, and where only saints can

see the angels ascending and descending. Moreover, the ladder of

life reaches from the pit to the stars, so that they who climb up

or climb down, as it were, may see a firmament at either end: the

good, their lights and joys; the evil, their chimeras and fire of

darkness.

II.

OBED’S SONS.

Obed, the young man, came to Father Isaac for his blessing, who

thus said to him with few words: “Thou shalt have five sons, and to

the first shall be given might, to the second cunning, to the third

beauty, to the fourth knowledge, to the fifth patience, and to all

in accord wisdom: but God giveth naught for nothing.” And as Father

Isaac had promised, so was it fulfilled in prayer. The first of the

sons of Obed became a mighty hunter; the second excelled in craft’s

of all kinds; the third was of a comely figure, well to look upon;

the fourth was learned in wise traditions; the fifth was patient,

as none other of the family of Obed had been before him. Now, the

five sons ill-agreed in their husbandry in the field of their

fathers, and they went their several ways, some near, some far,

to seek their fortunes, leaving the last and youngest to be the

staff of their sire. Then poverty fell upon the house of Obed, and

infirmity upon the limbs of the patient man; and, dying, his father

blessed him, saying: “The Lord bless thy patience that it fail not.”

At this time, the fame of him that slew lions with his arms, and

men with his right hand, was very great; but a devil entered into

him, so that he did no work, and fell to great sloth, and men

scorned him, and he lifted up his voice and cried: “Oh! that I had

the cunning of my brother, that my hands might know their work; and

the beauty of my brother, that maids should not turn from me; and

the knowledge and patience of my brethren, that I might with wisdom

bide my time.”

From all sides was he sought that had the gift of cunning; but

being greedy in his craft, and seeking not knowledge, nor patience,

he lost his cunning, and cried with a face in which there was no

beauty: “Wisdom was not given me, nor patience, neither comeliness

nor might, and so have I been abandoned to devices of misery.”

Rejoicing in his fair proportions, the third son of Obed danced

before the daughters of his tribe, but, taken in the wiles of

flattery and of pleasure, he became as a drunken man whose face is

a warning, and whose life is a scandal, and he lamented: “Oh! that

I had the cunning or patience or might of my brethren, then should

none withstand me, or I be overthrown.”

And he to whom it was given to know much in many tongues, and to

counsel with scholars, lost the kindly ways of men, seeking vain

and dark sciences, till he exclaimed in the bitterness of his

heart: “Knowledge is given me without wisdom: henceforth must I

seek counsel in patience, and observe the prudence of my brethren.”

And he set out for the house of his fathers.

Now had the infirm brother tilled the fields of his brethren,

and taught the laborers thereof the arts of handiwork, and when

the sons of Obed returned to the house of their sire, one after

another, the first averred that he was strong, the second that he

was cunning, the third that he was comely, the fourth that he had

knowledge. But Father Isaac, the shepherd of his flock, hearing

them, said: “Yea, for he hath one virtue which maketh many: the

staff of thy brother hath devoured thy rods.”

“Wherefore, then, lov’d Isaac,” spake the eldest, “are we robbed of

our gifts, and wit, and might, and beauty gone from us, leave us in

sorrow of heart?”

“Told I not thy sire Obed,” said the patriarch, “that the Lord of

lords gave naught for naught. Have ye earned your wages--have ye

paid back your gifts? He that had might, why was he not taught of

knowledge and invention, and, being skilled, why learned he not the

patience of toil? He that had beauty, why sought he not counsel of

strength and skill, that judgment might be his? He of knowledge,

why sought he not help of patience and craft? Each had his virtue

to purchase a share in the virtues of the rest, and to win gifts to

his gift, that God might be praised. But only goodness bringeth fit

wisdom, and wisdom dwelleth not in discord.”

Then the sons of Obed, answering, asked: “Why hath one virtue, as

thou sayest, devoured ours?”

“For that thou hast thrown thine own to the dogs, my sons, and

patience hath picked them up. He that suffereth much with patience

winneth much with wisdom.”

“Even so, Father Isaac, but have we not, too, suffered?”

“Yea, my children, that so God may teach thee wisdom, and thy gifts

abound tenfold. He that hath much, let him save it by bounty: he

that hath little, let him increase it with patience: he that hath

won, let him divide the victory. Share ye each other’s virtues,

that each may possess the gifts of all.”

THE THREE PLEDGES.

Three students sat together

In a villa on the Rhine,

And pledged the beauteous river

In draughts of sparkling wine.

One was bold and haughty,

Count Otto was his name:

His dark eyes flashed and smouldered:

From Nuremberg he came.

And one was too fond-hearted

For aught but love and song;

With hair too brightly golden

To wear its lustre long.

His hands were white and shapely

As any maid’s might be;

Count Adelbert of Munich,

A joyous youth was he.

And one was grave and quiet,

With such a winning smile

That, meeting all its brightness,

Sad hearts grew light the while.

And as they sat together,

Three trav’llers by the Rhine,

And pledged the noble river

In draughts of golden wine,

With lays of olden minstrels

They whiled the hours away,

Till twilight gently sealed them

With the sign of parting day.

Then silence fell upon them,

And the distant boatman’s song

Returned in softened echoes

The gleaming waves along;

And through the latticed windows

The hush of evening stole,

And the solemn spell of silence

Fast fettered soul to soul.

Dream on, O happy-hearted!

The future holds no truth,

No amaranthine jewel,

Like the rainbow tints of youth.

Dream on, O happy-hearted!

The hour will soon be gone,

And darkness fall too swiftly.

Dream on, young hearts, dream on!

* * * * *

This is the proudest hour

Of all the golden twelve,

That seek the mystic caverns

Where gray gnomes dig and delve.

“The beauty of the morning

Is but the birth of day,

And the glory of the noontide

Doth pass as soon away.

“But twilight holds the fulness,

The meed of every one,

And drops the radiant circlet

Before her god, the sun.

“This is the proudest hour

Of all the golden twelve--

Now combs the Nix her tresses,

Now rests his spade the elve.

“And I drink to the proudest maiden

That treads this German-land;

No other love shall my heart own,

No other queen my hand.

“And I’ll pledge her three times over,

This haughty queen of mine,

In the brightest flowing nectar

That ever kissed the Rhine.”

Thus spake the bold Count Otto,

And held his goblet up,

And three times overflowing

Each student drained his cup.

“This is the fairest hour,

For the sunset clouds unfold

To the purple sea of twilight

Their red-tipped sails of gold.

“And the hecatombs of sweetness

That all the day have risen

In the bosom of the flowers

Unbar their shining prison.

“This is the fairest hour,

The hour of eventide,

And I drink to the fairest maiden

That dwells the Rhine beside.

“And I pledge her three times over,

Though her only dower should be

The heaven-born gift of beauty,

And a faithful love for me.”

Thus spake Adelbert, smiling,

And held his goblet up,

And three times overflowing

Each student drained his cup.

Then paused the twain in wond’ring,

What Ludwig’s toast might be;

For their comrade sat in silence,

And never word spake he.

“How now? Why thus, brave Ludwig,

Sitt’st thou in pensive mood?

Dost choose to dwell unmated,

In loveless solitude?”

He smiled, and then looked downward

As he answered, glass in hand,

“Nay, nay; but, if I pledge her,

Ye will not understand.”

“Where dwells she, then?” cried Otto,

“This peerless love of thine?

Mayhap some fabled Lurline

That sings beneath the Rhine?

“Thou’rt smiling--haste, then, pledge her!”

And the brimming glasses rung

As Ludwig dropped the music

That trembled on his tongue.

“This is the holiest hour

Of all the twenty-four,

For the rush of day hath passed us,

And the tide returns no more.

“And the waves of toil and traffic,

By dark argosies trod,

Are lost through circling eddies

In the mightiness of God.

“This is the holiest hour

When purest thoughts have birth,

And I drink to the holiest maiden

That ever dwelt on earth.

“Her vesture falleth around her

In folds of changeless white,

And her holiness outshineth

The jewels of the night.

“She weareth a mantle of sadness,

Her sorrows are her fame:

She long hath been my chosen,

But I will not name her name.

“Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,

All spotless as thou art,

But with my life’s devotion,

With the fulness of my heart.

“Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,

Nor one libation pour;

Thou hold’st the bond that seals me,

Thine own for evermore.”

This with white brow uncovered,

’Neath the floating twilight skies;

And angels might have marvelled

At the beauty of his eyes.

Then he turned his goblet downward,

And waved the flask aside

His comrades would have proffered

To pledge such wondrous bride.

“Friend, thou hast spoken strangely,

But thou wert ever strange;

Mayhap this matchless maiden

Hath power thy mood to change.”

Thus Adelbert spake, smiling,

And shook his golden hair:

“_I_ ask nor saint nor angel,

But maiden fond and fair.

“Then let us pledge each other,

Since thy passion is too deep,

With comrades tried and trusty,

Its sacredness to keep.

“What maiden like thy vision

In all our fatherland?”

“Ah! said I not,” cried Ludwig,

“Ye would not understand?”

“Come, let us pledge each other,”

Said Otto, glass in hand--

“A right good draught of friendship

That all may understand.”

Then their glasses clashed together,

“Firm may our fealty be!”

And Ludwig’s voice of music

Rang loudest of the three.

* * * * *

Seven times hath autumn gathered

The vintage of the Rhine,

Since the students pledged each other

In draughts of golden wine.

In a grand and lofty castle,

The Danube’s stream beside,

Count Otto dwells in splendor,

The lord of acres wide.

He has won the proudest maiden

In all that German-land,

And countless hosts of yeomen

Obey his high command.

But the haughty brow is clouded,

And his eye is full of care,

For the trace of many a heart-storm

Hath left its impress there.

Love had sought Adelbert,

Young Beauty’s flow’ret blown,

And the tendrils of its blossoms

About his heart had grown.

And joy had wrapped them softly

In robes of radiant sheen,

Till Death bent down, relentless,

And sapped their living green.

Hush! a mourner sits in silence

Within a darkened room,

Where the fairest flower of summer

Lies withered in her bloom.

While those who move about him

With footsteps sad and slow,

Whisper to each other,

But leave him to his woe.

And down in the quiet churchyard,

Where nodding grasses wave,

The children gather, silent,

And the sexton digs a grave.

Solemnly tolls the church-bell,

It counteth twenty-five--

O God! the flowers wither,

And the old, old branches thrive.

Solemnly tolls the church-bell,

Slowly winds the train

Adown the rocky hillside,

Along the grassy plain;

Sadly pass the bearers

Into the churchyard old,

Brightly falls the sunlight

In glittering lines of gold;

Tearfully pause the mourners

Above the broken sod,

And Ludwig waits beside it,

A humble priest of God.

NEWMAN ON MIRACLES.[53]

These essays are here reprinted from the original editions of each,

with only the addition of a few bracketed notes, and with some

slight emendation of the wording of a few sentences of the text of

a merely literary character. For many years, Dr. Newman has been

a public man in the English theological world, so much so that,

as he himself expressed it, “he is obliged to think aloud.” His

writings have passed into the domain of English literature, and

are public property. It is not now in his power to withdraw any

portion of them, much as he might desire to do so. Under existing

circumstances, he has judged it the better course--or, at least,

the lesser evil--that they should be republished under his own eye,

with such corrections in bracketed notes as will indicate what he

would now correct or retract.

These two essays mark very distinctly two stages in the career

through which, as he fully explains in his _Apologia_, Dr. Newman

has passed.

The first one, written to defend the miracles recorded in the

Holy Scriptures against the attacks of Hume, Gibbon, and other

infidels, dates from 1825-26, while he was yet young, and a

staunch Protestant, somewhat imbued with evangelical feelings,

especially in the matter of _Popery_. Hence, while ably conducting

the exposition and defence of the Scripture miracles, he omits

no opportunity of hitting at the other miracles recorded to have

occurred in the Catholic Church since the days of the apostles. In

fact, he had, as he tells us elsewhere, read the work of Middleton

on _The Miracles of the Early Church_, and had imbibed his spirit.

He was guided also by Bishop Douglas, whose _Criterion_ he often

quotes.

Seventeen years of continuous study and mature thought produced

their fruit in his clear and candid mind. In 1842-43, he wrote the

second essay as a preface or introduction to a portion of Fleury’s

_Ecclesiastical History_, then being published in an English

translation.

Though still a Protestant, he had entirely changed his views

on these ecclesiastical miracles. So much so, that this essay

may be read as his own confutation of what he had said against

them in his earlier essay. In the present volume, the bracketed

foot-notes subjoined to that essay are, for the most part, mere

references to the paragraphs of the second essay, in which the

immature errors of the first are corrected. With the traditional

prejudices of Protestantism then strong in him, he had looked on

these ecclesiastical miracles as rivals, and as, in some way,

antagonistic to the miracles of Scripture which he was upholding;

and he had striven to find points of difference as well in their

internal character as in the evidence needed to prove them. All

this he fully meets in the second essay. In the second, third, and

fourth chapters of it, treating of “The Antecedent Probability

of Ecclesiastical Miracles,” of their internal character, and

of the evidence in support of their credibility, he shows how

the admission of Scripture miracles utterly does away with the

ground taken by some against the possibility or probability of

ecclesiastical miracles, how the two classes agree in their chief

and essential characteristics, and how, in fact, they rather merge

into one general class of events, under the moral order of divine

Providence, established for man’s salvation--an order distinct from

and superior to the physical order of nature. Nothing can be more

lucid than his replies to the objections of Douglas, Warburton,

Middleton, and other Protestant writers on this subject. He shows,

with the utmost clearness, how all that they urge against these

ecclesiastical miracles in the Catholic Church can be turned by

unbelievers, with equal plausibility, and in the same sophistical

spirit, against the miracles of the apostles themselves.

Dr. Newman, in both dissertations, frankly admits--what indeed

cannot be denied--that not a few of the Scripture miracles are

to be believed by us simply because they have been recorded by

divinely inspired writers. We have no other knowledge of them, no

other evidence of their having occurred, than that we read them

on the inspired page. Such miracles are for us matters of faith,

not proofs in evidence. They are themselves proved by Scripture.

Whatever they were to those who witnessed the occurrence, they

are not now for us historical evidence in support of divine

revelation. Writing as a Protestant, Dr. Newman did not advert to

another important truth lying further back which Protestant writers

generally ignore. Our knowledge of the inspiration and divine

authority of the Scriptures as we have them--distinguished, that

is, from the numerous other gospels, acts, epistles, apocalypses,

and other pretended sacred writings, more or less current among

and accepted by the sectaries of the early Christian ages--depends

entirely on the decision of the Catholic Church, made after the

death of the apostles. Hence, the value of the Scripture testimony

as to these miracles, and our duty to recognize and accept it as

divinely inspired, and therefore unerring, depend, in the last

analysis, on the divine authority and character of the Catholic

Church--of that same church which has always claimed that God

continues to work miracles within her fold. To say that she errs

on this latter point leaves room, to say the least, for the

imputation or the suspicion that she may have erred in the other

decision likewise; and so those Scripture miracles which lack,

as most of them do, other corroborative testimony, would stand

without sufficient proof. On the contrary, for the ecclesiastical

miracles, because they occurred nearer our own times, there might

still remain, as in many cases there does remain, ample historical

evidence from contemporary witnesses.

After devoting four chapters to a thorough discussion of the

subject of ecclesiastical miracles in general, Dr. Newman proceeds,

in the fifth and last chapter, to sum up and discuss the evidences

we still have, in nine special cases, held to be miraculous

interventions, in the early ages of the church. For a clear and

orderly presentation of the evidence, the logical application of

the principles established in the earlier chapters, and the happy

and often overwhelming retorting of their own propositions on

Douglas, Leslie, and other anti-Catholic writers, each one of these

cases deserves and will amply repay a special study.

Here, as in his other volumes, Dr. Newman displays that

intellectual acumen and that plain common sense which are as

characteristic of his writings as is the singular mastery over the

English language which has caused him to be recognized as one of

the classical writers of our day.

Valuable as this volume is to the careful student for its erudition

and acute reasoning, and for the aid it gives in the polemical

controversies that rise from time to time with Protestants, it is

chiefly valuable, in our eyes, as a well-reasoned and, as it were,

practical refutation of that rationalistic or materialistic system

of false philosophy which is taught in some of our colleges, and is

being spread through the land, and which either leaves God out of

sight altogether, or at most acknowledges him only as the Creator

and founder of the physical order. Dr. Newman, in discussing what

some would term the philosophy of miracles, sets forth strongly and

clearly the necessity of recognizing and taking into account the

moral order, established by God, equally with the physical order,

and superior to it in rank. The world is under both. To leave

either out is to take only a partial view. To exclude the moral

order from our consideration is to err at the very commencement of

our course, and our progress will be but from error to error. The

action of both orders may, and often does, coincide--would have

always coincided had not sin brought in jarring and confusion. But

in point of fact, they are sometimes found in opposition. A wise

and good sovereign dies immaturely, leaving his sceptre to a wicked

and unscrupulous successor; a good father dies early in life, and

his orphans are left to grow up in ignorance and vice; a just

and benevolent man dies or is ruined, and debts are left unpaid,

and a stream of charity fails at the fount. And if we class the

evil actions of men as belonging to this physical order, and the

rationalists refuse to class them otherwise, do they not present a

continual opposition between the physical and the moral orders? And

if the physical order so asserts itself, should we not reasonably

look for corresponding, if not greater, manifestations in the moral

order?

Divine revelation itself is a fact in the moral order entirely

beyond and above the physical order of nature--by its nature, a

miracle. It can be proved only by miracles; and miracles are the

appropriate accompaniment of its continuance as a dispensation of

divine Providence. Hence, in the church--the kingdom of heaven--in

which God specially reigns and rules, and in which the moral

order is endowed with supernatural force, and interworks with the

physical order of nature, we should as readily and as reasonably

look for miracles, as, if we may be allowed a trivial comparison,

we should expect, when examining a piece of complicated machinery,

to find that one set of wheels will control and at times arrest the

ordinary action of other wheels, and interpose some result due to

their own special action in the general series of results. Not to

take account of the moral and supernatural order in God’s ruling

the world is not to recognize the highest and greatest of his acts.

The rationalist is like a deaf man before an exquisite musical

clock. His eye may follow the hands as they move round the dial;

but he has closed his ears to the sweet melodies that float around

him.

FOOTNOTE:

[53] _Two Essays on Scripture Miracles and on Ecclesiastical_.

By John Henry Newman, formerly Fellow of Oriel College. Second

edition. London: Pickering. 1870. New York: Sold by the Catholic

Publication Society. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 396.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS, AT NAPLES. An

Historical and Critical Examination of the Miracle. New York:

The Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

This is a republication of several very able and interesting

articles which have lately appeared on this subject in THE CATHOLIC

WORLD. Their appearance in the present form cannot but be welcomed

by all well-disposed persons, whether they be desirous to ascertain

the truth or anxious to have the means for defending it. Catholics,

who are accustomed to hear this miracle, as well as the many others

which have occurred in the church from the earliest times, coolly

dismissed by their Protestant acquaintances as undoubted impostures

or superstitions, will find in this account all that is needed to

silence, if not to convince, their opponents, and to enable them

to assert their own faith; while the fair and candid non-Catholic

will find in it an array of facts and of reasoning which cannot

fail to produce a deep impression on his mind, and which may serve

as a basis for his conversion to the faith. But we would not advise

anyone who is determined in any event to remain a Protestant or

an infidel to have anything to do with it. The failure to find

any false but plausible theory to account for certain phenomena

which do not agree with one’s preconceived ideas sometimes leads

to a very unpleasant and dangerous frame of mind--that in which

it impugns the known truth. The book contains seventy-nine pages,

and is illustrated by an engraving representing the celebrated

reliquary in which the blood of the saint is contained. It is the

only complete and exhaustive treatise on the subject in the English

language.

* * * * *

AMERICANISMS: The English of the New World. By M. Schele De Vere,

LL.D. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1872.

This elegantly printed book has a real and solid value. It shows

how the English language has been enriched by additions from

various sources in the New World, while, at the same time, it

indicates the deterioration and corruption to which it has been

exposed by knocking about in a new country. Both these topics

are important, and we commend them to the careful attention of

all who wish to acquire a true knowledge of the art of speaking

and writing English. We object decidedly to the definition of _A

Hickory Catholic_, on p. 58, as one who “is free from bigotry and

asceticism.” This is a vulgar cant phrase, unworthy of a scholar. A

hickory Catholic is a person who makes his principles bend to his

passions and interests. He believes that he is bound to go to Mass

on Sundays and to the Sacraments at Easter, but neglects to do so,

because he is lazy, or fond of drinking too much, or licentious, or

unwilling to make restitution, or stupidly careless about his soul;

hoping to sneak into heaven by an old age or death-bed repentance.

We have noticed nothing else worthy of censure in Professor De

Vere’s book, and we can recommend it without hesitation as most

valuable to all who are engaged in teaching the English language

or endeavoring to learn it. It is, moreover, extremely amusing and

entertaining, as well as instructive. Would that those who have the

naming of places would study it attentively, and strictly follow

its suggestions! Think of _Ovid_, _Livy_, _Greece_, _Virgil_, for

names of villages in a country rich in glorious Indian names!

Not content with imposing absurd or unmeaning or vulgar names

on places which had none before, those which have already most

tasteful and appropriate ones are frequently rebaptized. For

instance, in Fairfield Co., Connecticut, Saugatuck has been changed

to Southport, and Green’s Farms to Westport. What a name is New

York for a great state and a great city! What a change from Lake

St. Sacrament, or even Horicon to Lake _George_! We wish that

some of those who have leisure and inclination to take up this

matter in earnest would do so, and try to effect a reformation. We

notice also, with satisfaction, the condemnation of that wretched

interloper and vagabond of a word, _donate_. Humbly, and with tears

in our eyes, we entreat of our venerable presidents of colleges and

of all in literary authority to sentence and banish _donate_, or he

will some fine day bring into college his still shabbier and more

beggarly cousin, _orate_, and a whole troop of poor relations, who

will _locate_ themselves, for all coming time. English has been

and can be enriched from new sources, as Professor De Vere amply

proves; but let us watch carefully that it do not become corrupted

and be not made vulgar.

* * * * *

ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY. By L’Abbé Dubois. London: J. C.

Newby. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

It is encouraging to see books of this kind published in the

English language. We know not how to make any extracts from this

volume, for every page of it is filled with good sense, practical

advice, and the true spirit of the priesthood. Could we realize our

wishes, we would place in the hands of every priest and candidate

preparing for ordination a copy. It would be most wholesome for

daily spiritual reading and meditation. The author reveals his

object in writing the book in the following passage in the preface,

p. viii.:

“To rekindle in the bosom of the priesthood the ardor of that

zeal which should be its animating principle; to call to

remembrance those noblest virtues without which it languishes,

and with which it works miracles; further, to bring that zeal

into practice by showing how the priest ought to act in the

various circumstances of daily life, and in his intercourse with

the various persons with whom he is perpetually brought into

contact; such, in short, is the plan I have adopted. God grant

that I may have carried it into execution in such a way as to

procure abundantly his glory and the salvation of souls!”

One evidence that he has not been unsuccessful in attaining his

object, is that this translation is made from the fifth French

edition.

* * * * *

THE BOOK OF PSALMS. Translated from the Latin Vulgate. Being a

Revised Edition of the Douay Version. London: Burns, Oates

& Co. 16mo, pp. 193. New York: The Catholic Publication

Society, 9 Warren Street.

“This English version of the Book of Psalms,” says the Most Rev.

Dr. Manning in the preface, “may be regarded as one more of the

many gifts bequeathed to us by my learned and lamented predecessor

[Cardinal Wiseman]. One-half, at least, of the psalms were revised

by his own hand.” Critics will regret that there is nothing

to enable them to distinguish the precise psalms on which the

illustrious cardinal brought his great Biblical learning and his

pure English taste to the task of revision.

The term “Douay Version” in the title is used in the loose way

which his eminence himself opposed, and the basis is not the Douay,

but Dr. Challoner’s text.

This edition is made in a cheap popular form, and is intended to

diffuse more generally among the faithful the psalms as a manual of

prayer. They are the great storehouse from which the church draws

her offices, and supply the pious with ejaculations, short and

fervent prayers, which are of wonderful value. No greater boon has

been added recently, for, though there is no lack of pocket Bibles,

they are unhandy, and the type too small for those who wish the

psalms alone.

To meet this want a new translation was issued in 1700, in a neat

little volume, the version being by John Caryl, a friend of Pope,

and faithful adherent of the Stuarts. His _Psalms_ is a very

uncommon work, though highly esteemed.

We had thus Gregory Martin’s version in the original Douay,

Caryl’s, Bishop Challoner’s, and Archbishop Kenrick’s, and we

have now a version due in part at least to Cardinal Wiseman. It

is a little volume that will reward study among those who wish to

compare the versions, and as a convenient, well-printed manual

commends itself to the pious.

“In the Book of Psalms,” says his grace, Dr. Manning, “the Spirit

of Praise himself has inscribed the notes and the words of

thanksgiving to be learned here, and to be continued before the

eternal throne. For this use and aid I commend the present volume

to the piety of the faithful.”

Some common errors have, we see, been retained in this edition,

which we hope to see corrected, such as the omission of “angry”

before enemies in Ps. xvii. 48; “and,” in Ps. xliii. 12; “in form,”

Ps. xliv. 4.

* * * * *

A JOURNEY AROUND MY ROOM. By Count Xavier de Maistre. New York:

Hurd & Houghton.

This work, so full of the author’s delicate humor and sentimental

reverie, is the very thing for a winter evening, when one feels

like giving himself up to dream away a few hours.

The author was a younger brother of the perhaps better known Count

Joseph de Maistre, French Ambassador at the Russian Court in

the early part of this century, and one of the ablest defenders

of the Papacy. He was the author of the famous _Du Pape_ and the

philosopher of the _Soirees de St. Petersbourg_. Count Joseph

was likewise an intimate friend of Madame Swetchine’s, whose

interesting life has been published by “The Catholic Publication

Society,” and was instrumental in the conversion of that remarkable

woman to the Catholic Church.

The De Maistres belonged to the _haute noblesse_ de Savoy. Count

Xavier, as well as his brothers, became an exile during the first

French Revolution. He went to Russia, where he married. After an

absence of twenty-five years he returned to his own country.

Lamartine addressed him one of his _Harmonies Poëtiques_ after his

return, saluting him thus:

“Voyageur fatigué qui reviens sur nos plages

Demander à tes champs leurs antiques ombrages,

A ton cœur ses premiers amours!”

He also calls Count Xavier the Sterne of Savoy, but without his

affectation, and declares him equal to Rousseau, but without his

declamatory style. “He is a familiar _genie_, a fireside talker, a

cricket chirping on the rural hearth.”

The writings of Xavier de Maistre were among the favorite volumes

that composed Eugénie de Guérin’s library, and we can imagine a

certain sympathy in their intellectual natures. The _Lépreux_ in

particular appealed to her sympathetic nature, and the thought of

meeting its author filled her with delight. When this meeting took

place at Paris, Count Xavier had just lost his children, and was so

depressed in consequence that it was not equal to her expectations.

But Lamartine speaks of seeing him a few years after, and

describes him as “an old man of fourscore years, gracious in

manner, and with no signs of decay of body or feebleness of mind.

Airiness of sentiment, a mild sensibility, a half-serious,

half-indulgent smile at human affairs, a tolerance--the result of

his intelligence--of all human opinions: such was the man.

“His sonorous voice had a far-off sound like an echo of the past,

and was well adapted to the reminiscenses of his previous life,

which he loved to tell.

“His _Leper of the City of Aosta_ is, in the literature of the

heart, equal to Paul and Virginia; the _Journey around my Room_ is

only a pleasantry. The _Leper_ is a tear, but a tear that flows for

ever!”

Lamartine, in his _Confidences_, gives a pleasing picture of

the De Maistre family, and likens a summer passed among its

illustrious members in Savoy to the conversations of Boccaccio

at his country-seat near Florence. They used to assemble beneath

a clump of pines at the foot of Mont du Chat, overlooking the

Arcadian valley of Chambery, so redolent of St. Francis de Sales,

another genius not less poetical, and with no less delicacy of

sentiment, but loftier than Xavier de Maistre; and sometimes they

came together on a terrace over-arched by vine-hung elms before the

Château de Servolex, the residence of Madame de Vigny, De Maistre’s

sister.

Count Joseph de Maistre, like a modern Plato, was the centre of

this family group. His stature was lofty, his features fine and

manly, his forehead broad and high, and, crowning all, floated his

thin, silvery hair. His mouth was indicative of the delicate humor

that characterized the family. His brothers regarded him with great

respect, and used to gather around him to listen to the experiences

of his exile. Even the Canon de Maistre, afterwards Bishop of

Aosta, who looked like a Socrates, with features that had been

softened and sanctified by the influences of Christianity, would

hasten to close the breviary he had been reading in a secluded

alley, and join the group.

And now and then came sweet interludes of soft Scythian airs

through the open window of the château, which Mademoiselle de

Maistre, a pensive, talented girl, was playing on the piano.

The writings of Count Xavier de Maistre, though not at all

dogmatic, belong to Catholic literature. They are among the sweet

blossoms that have unfolded under the pure light of Catholic

influences, and with a delicacy of aroma not to be found in the

forced hot-house plants of the world. We love to inhale their odor,

and would not be the last to welcome the appearance of _The Journey

around my Room_.

* * * * *

THE HISTORY OF GREECE. By Professor Dr. Ernest Curtius.

Translated by Adolphus William Ward, M.A. Vols. I. and II.

New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1871.

Dr. Ernest Curtius is impartial, and metes out strict justice to

all whom he summons to the tribunal of history. Neither Spartan

valor nor Athenian grace influences his judgment. He passes from

the Eurotas Valley to the Acropolis without leaving in his train

a single notion which would weigh in his decision on the men and

things in Attica. And this impartiality is a rare gift in the

writers of Grecian history, be they ancient or modern. Almost all

take sides. Mitford holds the Spartan oligarchy to be the height

of perfection in government, and makes it the standard by which

the democracy of Athens is to be judged. The result is that in his

pages the fair features of Athens are caricatured and distorted,

while the stern features of Sparta are so flattered that not even

Lycurgus would recognize them. On the other hand, Thirlwall, and

many more besides, have not been able to escape the fascination of

Athenian wit and elegance, and throughout their histories Athens

is unduly favored. Dr. Curtius judges not of governments and

institutions in the abstract, but he judges of them with reference

to the peoples for whom they were intended, and thus has avoided

the error into which so many have fallen.

There are in the volumes before us two points which are

particularly well handled. These are the origin of the Greek

people, and the development of their religion. Mr. Mommsen, in his

_History of Rome_, absurdly tells us that the ancient peoples of

Italy were indigenous to the soil. This he does, doubtless, either

to show his independence of revelation, or to save himself the

trouble of further investigation, perhaps with both ends in view.

Dr. Curtius is neither so disregardless of truth nor so saving

of labor. By the aid of ethnography, philology, and historical

research, he demonstrates that the Greeks and the Latins also

belonged to the great Aryan family. He traces them back to their

old homes in the Phrygian highlands, where, before their migrations

westward, they occupied positions adjoining. The Latin tribes

were the first to leave Asia Minor, then followed the Greeks in

successive waves of migration through the Hellespont and Propontis.

The learned professor discusses at length the origin and

development of the Greek Pantheon, and the conclusion arrived at

is most satisfactory. He proves that the Greek tribes in their

primitive simplicity worshipped the one only God--“The Zeus, who

dwelt in light inaccessible.” Gradually the primitive traditions

began to wane, and the “Zeus who dwelt in light inaccessible”

became the “Zeus who dwelt in sacred light over the oak-tops of the

Lycæan mountain,” still formless and unapproachable. But this Zeus

was too near the earth to remain long formless and unapproachable.

His worshippers soon began to approach him under different names,

then under different forms, and, finally, they divided him up into

the different gods of their Pantheon, so that the first and best

known became the “Unknown God.”

We have now pointed out some of the excellences of Dr. Curtius’

history, but it has its defects, as every human work has, and one

of these we deem it our duty to point out. Its chief defect is its

diffuseness; for diffuse it really is in many places. And because

it is diffuse it is often monotonous and even prosaic. On the

whole, however, the style is good, and abounds in elegant passages,

which are well rendered by the translator. This defect is indeed

the only one which justifies us in doubting whether the _History_

will become popular, and receive the appreciation which it deserves.

* * * * *

FASHION: THE POWER THAT INFLUENCES THE WORLD. By George P. Fox.

New York: The American News Company. 1872.

The author of this work seems to have been “born with a divine idea

of cloth.” According to him, fashionable dress is a preservative

of morals. Easy and graceful garments are incompatible with deeds

of violence. No one who ever honored the author with his patronage

was ever convicted of a crime. We are as morally bound to offer a

pleasing exterior to our friends as a smiling face. In Carlyle’s

language, “Man’s earthly interests (to say the least) are all

hooked and buttoned together by clothes. Society is founded on

cloth.” The pen was once considered mightier than the sword, but

shears are now in the ascendency. “Dress makes the man, and want of

it the fellow.” Dress is a duty we owe ourselves, and inattention

to it indicates a want of respect to others. Man’s chief duty is to

sacrifice to the graces. Our author is the high-priest of fashion.

He makes dress almost a sacrament--as Hazlitt says, “an outward and

visible sign of the inward harmony of the soul.” _Non possumus_

does not seem to be in his code. There is no physical defect he

cannot remedy. Witness the unhappy man in New York, with a long

neck, low shoulders, and sallow complexion, at last able to hold

up his head in society; the unfortunate British nobleman, whose

attenuated and shapeless limbs are made to correspond more fully to

our idea of sturdy John Bull; and President Fillmore’s life-long

ambition for a pair of well-fitting pantaloons at length realized.

Bow legs and knock-knees are all remedied. The old proverb of the

Béarnais is verified: “_Habillez un bâton, il aura l’air d’un

baron_.” A book that brings hope to all is a public benefaction.

No Jonathan need despair of cutting a figure in the world after

this, and he _should_ not. Dress, its color, style, and fit, are

all matters of momentous interest (being so interwoven with our

morals), as well as manners and the carriage of the body, which are

not overlooked in this volume. As to the latter, everybody knows a

stoop in the shoulders sinks a man in public and private estimation.

The _Saturday Review_ calls our author a Transcendental Tailor, a

title he evidently merits. The _devise_ he assumed when he entered

the _lists_ was _Faire sans dire_, which Daniel Webster did him

the honor of quoting in an address before the New York Historical

Society, as well as wearing his transcendent--we almost said

transcendental--garments, both living and dead, for the blue coat

with a velvet collar and gold-wove cloth buttons that shrouded the

immortal statesman are almost a matter of history, and have been

sworn to in the most solemn manner before the mayor of New York.

But to go back to our _devise_. The author forgot it when he began

to write. He must now make it: _Faire et dire_. However, he handles

the pen almost as skilfully as the shears, and throws quite a

glamour of poetry over the most common duties of the toilet. He

ought to be a capital hand at a _hem-a-stitch_, as Rogers said of

Béranger. He gives some excellent advice about dress (gentlemen’s,

of course) and etiquette, but some of the chapters seem rather

foreign to the subject. We cordially recommend the book to Mr. and

Mrs. Veneering as they endeavor to adjust themselves at the glass

of fashion, and to whosoever is entirely _wrapped up_ in cloth.

We have been particularly interested in the published

correspondence at the end of the volume of the various dignitaries

in the political and literary world who sought the efficient

co-operation of our Prince of Tailors. If dress is really an

“emanation” of the soul (as well as from Mr. Fox’s “emporium”), and

indicative of character, it is well to know that Mr. Fillmore’s

ill-fitting garments might be owing to a judgment awry; the

attenuated limbs of the British minister, which nothing had been

able to hide, to a paucity of understanding; and the long neck of

our New York friend, which had to be muffled, to an overreaching

disposition. Who can tell?

Dress is certainly of the utmost importance to those who are

conscious of no other recommendation. Diderot saw no difference

between a man and his dog but the dress, and it would sometimes be

hard to give a person his proper grade in the animal world without

reference to his material garments, for it really does not do in

our social world to follow Carlyle’s advice to look fixedly on

clothes till they became transparent. It would lead to a fearful

revolution in society.

Still, there are some, like Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, who “go in neck

and crop for fashion,” who can bear such a clairvoyant eye. Mrs.

Boffin was “a Highflier for Fashion,” but we entirely overlook

that low evening dress of black sable which she does credit to

(“her make is such”), in consideration of her large heart, and the

affectionate readiness to salute her lord to the great detriment of

her great black velvet hat and plumes.

Our author is really a phœnix sprung from the ashes of Beau

Brummel.

“Kind Heaven has sent us another professor,

Who follows the steps of his great predecessor.”

As we read, we share the sensation he produced at the Presidential

_levée_ at Washington, clad in a blue coat out of the very web that

furnished Mr. Webster’s last suit. The meeting of the President

of the United States of America, serenely conscious of his new

clothes, and the President of Fashion, who so successfully cut

them, reminds us of another meeting there which Irving compared to

“two kings of Brentford smelling at one rose.”

We cannot close without expressing our gratitude in particular

for the fine suit of black our Prince of Tailors presented Father

Mathew of blessed and abstemious memory.

* * * * *

THE BOOK OF THE FOUNDATIONS OF ST. TERESA OF JESUS, OF THE ORDER

OF OUR LADY OF CARMEL. Written by herself. Translated from

the Spanish by David Lewis. London: Burns, Oates & Co. New

York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This volume contains, besides the work indicated in the title-page,

_Annals of the Saint’s Life_, by Don Vicente de La Fuente, _The

Carmelite Rule_ and _Constitutions_, and _The Visitation of

Nunneries_, and _Maxims_ of St. Teresa herself. The principal work

is also more complete than any previous edition in English.

Those who are familiar with the wonderful story of St. Teresa’s

history will need no assurance that the spirit which animated

her life also pervades her works. Indeed, the two are almost

inseparable, her writings evidently being a faithful transcript of

her whole history. Notwithstanding the signal favors she received

from heaven, she seemed always oppressed with the idea of her own

unworthiness. The prologue to the _Foundations_ furnishes many

valuable lessons to religious as well as those whose sphere of duty

lies in the world. St. Teresa knew how to exert the utmost zeal

and energy in the service of religion, with entire submission to

her ecclesiastical superiors. The case of St. Teresa, moreover, is

evidence of the way the church honors real reformers--by proposing

them to the veneration of the faithful as canonized saints. As

an indication of her humility, even the main work in this volume

was undertaken, not to gratify any personal feeling, but in

obedience to the command of her confessor. It contains a history

of the religious houses, male and female, she established. In the

face of great difficulties and discouragements, she persevered

in her purpose, until the reform was recognized at Rome, and the

Carmelite Order was divided into two branches, one under the milder

observance, and her own under the stricter or primitive observance.

The lives of the saints present marvels exceeding in interest

the dreams of poetry and romance, and we cannot do better than

commend to those who jeopardize their innocence in the perusal of

sensational figments of the imagination, to betake themselves to

the more edifying and truly interesting lives and writings of the

saints.

* * * * *

SERMONS ON ECCLESIASTICAL SUBJECTS. By Henry Edward, Archbishop

of Westminster. Vol. I. American Edition. New York: The

Catholic Publication Society. 1872.

Each new volume from Archbishop Manning is a precious addition to

Catholic literature. The present collection of sermons has all the

usual characteristics of the author, both as a preacher and as a

writer. Great as many other sermons undoubtedly are, those of Dr.

Manning possess a charm all their own. The oldest theme is never

stale in his hands. His logic is always of the keenest, while his

style is as clear and musical as a brook.

Of the sermons before us, we commend two especially. The first,

on “The Church, the Spirit, and the Word”; and the sixth, “The

Blessed Sacrament the Centre of Immutable Truth.” The thirteenth

will also be found of peculiar interest for American readers. It

was preached in St. Joseph’s College, Nov. 17, 1871. Its subject:

“The Negro Mission.”

* * * * *

AN ESSAY ON THE DRUIDS, THE ANCIENT CHURCHES, AND THE ROUND

TOWERS OF IRELAND. By the Rev. Richard Smiddy. Dublin: W. B.

Kelly. 1871. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This is a very neat little publication, well-bound and handsomely

printed. Those who have not leisure or opportunity to read Petrie’s

elaborate book on the Round Towers or the works issued by the

Archæological Society will find in Mr. Smiddy’s essay much valuable

information regarding Irish antiquities, though in some of his

views and theories he differs materially from preceding writers on

the same class of subjects.

* * * * *

SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY AND THE SOCIAL. By an Epicure. New York:

De Witt C. Lent & Co. 8vo, pp. 526. 1872.

The author of this book, if author in the proper sense he may be

called, has acted discreetly in withholding his name from the

public, for, though a work not specially opposed to morality or

truth, it is as little likely to increase the fame of the compiler

or secure the approbation of the judicious as any of the many

modern publications that teem from our metropolitan press, and

depend almost altogether on the beauty of their illustrations

and mechanical taste for public patronage. We have a very high

appreciation of the shrewdness and foresight of publishers as a

class, but upon a cursory glance at the appearance of the book,

and on a comparison of it with its homogeneous contents, we were

inclined to think the firm of Lent & Co. was an exception until

we noticed in a brief preface that thirty thousand copies of the

original, of which the book before us is said to be an enlarged and

improved edition, have been sold. This may or may not be a piece of

exaggeration on the part of the publishers: if it be not, then we

are sorry for the lack of sense and judgment on the part of so many

of our fellow-beings. The work is compiled, not written, pretty

much as it is said “leading articles” in remote Western journals

are produced, by the efficient aid of the scissors and mucilage,

and its general contents would be more in place in the columns of

those second or third hand journals, under the stereotyped headings

of “Facts and Fancies” or “Mirth and Fun,” than in the imposing

garb of a well-bound book. From cover to cover it is nothing

but a compilation of old stories, thread-bare jokes, worn-out

puns, stupid epitaphs, and references to historical and literary

personages which are neither new nor original, and scarcely

_apropos_ to the subject they are intended to make interesting.

There is some attempt at arrangement in the display of this useless

learning, and here and there a pleasant little bit of chat, but

the whole composition is so disjointed and puerile that the effect

produced on the mind of the reader is anything but pleasurable.

There is no discretion apparent in the selection of extracts and

quotations, and no dignity in the tone of the entire work that

would entitle it to the praise of even comparatively illiterate

persons, though the generally good character of the engravings

and its attractive exterior may secure some purchasers. Besides,

its title gives no idea of its contents, and we hope not to be

considered unkind when we offer the suggestion that, if the author

should ever inflict another edition on a patient public, he will

change it. _Hash_ would be much more expressive and germain to the

matter, _salad_ being much too palatable a dish to be treated with

such contumely.

* * * * *

A REMEMBRANCE OF THE LIVING TO PRAY FOR THE DEAD. By James

Mumford, Priest of the Society of Jesus. Reprinted from the

Edition of 1661. With Appendix on the Heroic Act. By John

Morris, Priest of the same Society. London: Burns, Oates &

Co. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1871.

Those who have read Father Mumford’s _Catholic Scripturist_ or

_Question of Questions_ will need no assurance from us of the

excellence of the present treatise. Those who are yet strangers

to this old writer will find a peculiar charm in the work, if, at

least, they have any liking for terseness, directness, and unction.

Father Mumford is somewhat quaint; but that only adds to his style.

Good works on Purgatory are not plentiful. This is one of the very

best. It particularly inculcates, too, a duty we seldom appreciate

sufficiently.

* * * * *

LITTLE PRUDY’S FLYAWAY SERIES. Aunt Madge’s Story. By Sophie May,

author of “Little Prudy’s Stories,” “Dotty Dimple Stories,”

etc. Illustrated. Boston: Lee & Shepard. New York: Lee,

Shepard & Dillingham. 1872.

This is a delightful little story for children, but this is saying

nothing new, for Sophie May’s stories always are. As Aunt Madge was

not one of the “tremendous good” children, her story will, perhaps,

have a special interest for the little ones.

P. F. CUNNINGHAM has in press and will soon publish _Marion

Howard_, a story of much interest.

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

From CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., New York: A Commentary on the Holy

Scriptures. By J. P. Lange, D.D. Translated, enlarged,

and edited by P. Schaff, D.D. Vol. IV. Containing Joshua,

Judges, and Ruth. 8vo, pp. iv., 188, 261, 53.--Lectures on

Science and Religion. By Max Müller, M.A. 12mo, pp. iv.,

300.--Systematic Theology. By C. Hodge, D.D. Vol. II. 8vo,

pp. 732.

From CARLTON & LANAHAN, New York: Three Score Years and Beyond.

By Rev. W. H. De Puy, D.D. 8vo, pp. 512.--Jesus Christ. By E.

de Pressensé, D.D. 12mo, pp. 312.--Pillars of the Temple.

By Rev. W. C. Smith. 12mo, pp. 366.--Light on the Pathway of

Holiness. By Rev. L. D. McCabe, D.D. 18mo, pp. 114.--The Land

of the Veda. By Rev. W. Butler, D.D.

From D. APPLETON & CO., New York: Ballads of Good Deeds. By H.

Abbey. 18mo, pp. 129.

From P. DONAHOE, Boston: The Fourfold Sovereignty of God. By