Many people of experience will smile at such language, and declare

these are imaginary sacrifices that, under the influence of

passion, the young are very willing to make, but which, luckily,

are but rarely put to the test. We admit it, and, without stopping

any longer to consider the improbable future which Fleurange thus

invoked, we can also bear witness that in view of these imaginary

trials she bravely prepared herself to make the sacrifice actually

before her. And these same people of experience will acknowledge

this was the most difficult of all. First, because it was real and

not imaginary, and also because it is always easier to make great

sacrifices for the sake of love than to renounce love itself,

which renders them so light and sometimes so sweet!

Yes, she must no longer hesitate; she must once more break the

rejoined thread of her life--and what a painful rending of the

heartstrings this time! She must go away, and never to return.

After what had just occurred, there was no longer any possible

illusion or security. By remaining, she would be false to

every obligation, gratitude, and her position with regard to

the princess, imposed upon her. Yes, she must go, but how--on

what pretext? Alas! and her _brothers_--must she renounce the

sweet satisfaction of aiding them, a joy the generosity of the

princess had so kindly promoted? This last remembrance confirmed

her resolution. Certainly, after so many benefits, she must

not in return cause her any mortification and grief, no, not

even displeasure and anxiety. She must leave at whatever cost,

and without allowing the princess to suspect the motive of her

departure; and yet she must obtain her consent. This was the great

difficulty, for she foresaw a lively resistance.

“What shall I do?--what shall I do?” repeated poor Fleurange with

perplexity. “O my God, my God! thou wilt aid me, for what I seek is

the means of accomplishing thy will: what I desire is to know it.”

While the young girl was thus thinking, struggling, and praying,

the hours flew. Once she left her seat in the window, but, feeling

unable to sleep, only exchanged her evening dress for a morning

one, then, without observing the lateness of the hour, returned to

her seat, and again took up the thread of her reflections. Suddenly

she heard steps in the corridor leading to the private staircase,

and in a moment there was a sharp knock at her door. It instantly

opened. It was Barbara.

“What!” she said with an air of surprise. “You still up at this

late hour?”

“Yes,” said Fleurange, “I was not sleepy, and--”

Barbara interrupted her:

“So much the better, for the princess is ill and wants you

immediately. Come, quick, quick, mademoiselle, for you know I am so

frightened when she has these attacks that I lose my wits.”

Fleurange was at the head of the stairs before Barbara finished

speaking, and, in a minute more, at the princess’ bedside. It

was evidently one of the severe and painful attacks to which she

was subject--and the first since her return. Fleurange at once

bethought herself of Dr. Leblanc’s minute directions, and her whole

manner was transformed. Instead of waiting and obeying, she at once

resumed the direction: every one obeyed her, and her quiet firmness

soon calmed the fright which prevailed among all the servants of

the house when illness, and illness under so frightful a form,

invaded the luxurious rooms to which they were accustomed. George

himself was not exempt. He was the first to hasten to his mother’s

bedside, and now he was supporting her head, which was thrown back,

and endeavoring to hold her hands, which quivered convulsively,

but, unaccustomed to such a spectacle, he was trembling in spite of

himself. His habitual courage seemed here of no avail.

Fleurange perceived it, and motioned for him to give her his place,

or rather, she took it without his being able to prevent her. He

remained motionless beside her, while with wonderful courage and

skill she was mastering the fearful paroxysm.

“Speak to her again,” said George. “When she hears your voice, or

you place your hand on hers, she grows calmer at once.”

“Be quiet,” replied Fleurange, “and leave her to me. Do not remain

here, I beg of you.”

At this injunction, George left the bedside, but not the chamber.

He remained in an obscure corner, leaning against the wall,

watching his mother’s altered face by the light of the shaded lamp.

All traces of remaining beauty, preserved by the most skilful arts

of the toilet, had suddenly disappeared. In an hour she had grown

ten years older. Frightful convulsions contracted her features, and

her eyes, staring wildly around, seemed to be regarding with an air

of reproach all the objects accumulated for her comfort, but now so

powerless to aid her.

This spectacle made George shudder. He was regarded not only as a

man of acknowledged bravery, but as one whose courage was almost

rash. He had braved death a thousand times without sufficient

motive, and confronted perils from the very love of danger itself.

But this kind of courage has nothing in common with that which

enables the eye to look calmly on suffering and death--not of an

heroic kind which rouses our enthusiasm, but such as we witness on

all beds of sickness, and which awaits us!

Thus beheld, the spectacle excited George’s horror. He turned away

with the repugnance of a nature delicate and noble, but perverted

by selfish indulgence, and which at all times was more capable

of brilliant proofs of devotedness than of obscure sacrifices.

Notwithstanding his tender affection for his mother, it is very

probable he would not long have endured the painful impression

he received, if the dim light which obscured everything had not

enabled him to discern the movements and features of her who so

efficaciously replaced him at the bedside. He therefore remained

where he was, contemplating Fleurange’s calm and simple attitude

with admiration. She had already dismissed several women whose

services were superfluous, and by degrees re-established order

and tranquillity around her. Barbara was still going to and fro,

bustling about and giving proofs of her good-will, but unable to

disguise the terror she could never overcome when she saw her

mistress a prey to these severe attacks. On this account, she did

not feel in the least displeased at Fleurange’s intervention, and

it was with secret joy she now heard the order for her to retire.

“It is nearly four o’clock,” said Fleurange, looking at the

magnificent clock opposite. “She is a little calmer: go and lie

down, Barbara.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“I? I shall remain here. I shall not stir till seven o’clock. Then

the physician will return. After his visit I shall go to bed, and

you can take my place.”

This calm and precise order was not one which Barbara wished to

hear the second time. She hastened to place an arm-chair near the

young girl, and a table with the remedies she might need, and went

out without suspecting Fleurange was not entirely alone with her

sick mistress.

George hesitated for an instant: to leave Fleurange to watch

alone seemed almost cruel; to remain unbeknown to her, almost

treacherous. He therefore decided to leave the obscure corner he

occupied, and softly approached the bed.

Fleurange, hearing his footsteps, turned quickly around, and began

to tremble. The slight noise he made was sufficient to awaken the

patient, which caused a renewal of her sufferings, and the spasm

from which she had but just rallied became more violent than ever.

For some moments George’s presence and aid were not useless, but

while she preserved her coolness he lost his, and seemed unable to

endure the sight of the suffering he could not lessen.

“Mother! my poor mother!” he cried with anguish, “look at me! give

me one look!”

“Try to be calm,” whispered Fleurange, and she added, almost in

his ear: “Do not say a word, not one--there must be calmness, and

absolute silence.”

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” murmured the sick woman with agitation.

Fleurange put her arm under her mistress’ head, and supported it

with one hand, while she pressed her icy hands with the other.

“O Gabrielle! do not leave me! never leave me,” continued the

princess in an unnatural tone.

Fleurange buried her face in the pillow against which she was

leaning, while another voice whispered beside her: “Oh! no, never.”

After a moment she raised her head. “Leave us now, Monsieur le

Comte. I beg you to go.”

There was an irresistible authority in her tone, but George

hesitated an instant. She repeated, “I beg you to go,” and he

obeyed without reply as if she had uttered a command.

When he left the sick-room, he felt relieved like one to whom

restraint--even the most trifling--is insupportable. Feeling the

need of fresh air, he passed through the salon and went out on the

terrace.

It was already daylight. He walked a few steps, inhaling the

perfume of the flowers with which the terrace was filled, then

stopped a long time, leaning on the balustrade with his arms

folded, looking at the clear sky growing radiant under the first

touches of Aurora. Without asking himself the reason, he was eager

to shake off the effects of the spectacle he had just witnessed.

And yet George had a great deal of heart, whether this word

signifies tenderness or courage. It would have been extremely

unjust to doubt it, but he felt a constant need of finding

in exterior objects the gratification of his faculty of

enjoyment--developed to the utmost degree of delicacy, which made

him equally susceptible of contrary impressions. This faculty was

neither low nor vulgar in its tendency. What attracted George was

genuine beauty, which alone gave a charm to the interests of the

world. Vice under an ignoble aspect was as repugnant to him as

ugliness. In his eyes, the aspect, the only aspect, of sickness,

pain, and death was repulsive. He was absolutely ignorant of the

mysterious and divine power which sometimes transforms them to the

spiritual eye and makes it look beyond the exterior circumstances

of life. Such freedom, such independence of external influences,

were unknown to him who attached so much importance to liberty and

independence! And when it is thus, there is in the soul, however

generous, a hidden germ of weakness and egoism which we are

surprised to see suddenly manifested at a later period, even in

those who display the most lofty sentiments and give proofs of the

most impetuous courage.

XXIII.

The following days were marked by the progress, the crisis, and

finally by the decline of the princess’ malady. The effect of

care and suitable remedies was soon manifest and convalescence

established. But this was the most trying time for those in

attendance, and a time when Fleurange’s presence was more

necessary than ever. She had directed everything from the first

with intelligent devotedness. They had all yielded without any

difficulty to her authority--even the invalid herself, incapable

of resisting her. But the latter now resumed, with her strength,

the exercise of an obstinate and whimsical disposition. It was

precisely during a similar phase of her previous illness that

her young companion acquired the favor she enjoyed. Fleurange

felt it would have been a thousand times easier to have left her

when she was nearly unconscious, than at a time when she was so

indispensable that her services were in constant requisition. She

alone could relieve her from the exertion of writing a letter or

receiving a visit. She alone knew how to arrange her books and

flowers, and the thousand trifles that surrounded her, in a way

to please her critical eye and capricious taste. And, above all,

it was owing to her that the evenings passed away without _ennui_

while the princess was forbidden by the physician to receive

any company except her most intimate friends. This was the time

Fleurange was called upon to read. There was a charm in her voice

and accent which the cultivated taste of the princess never wearied

of.

“Really, Gabrielle,” said she, one evening, after the young girl

had ended one of the passages she had selected--“really, it is an

exquisite pleasure to hear you read. Come, George, attend to what

we are doing, if you please. Lay aside that review in which you are

so absorbed, and come nearer. She has just read me Dante’s sonnet,

‘Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare

La Donna mia,’[105]

in a way really worth listening to.”

There was a moment’s silence. A large screen veiled the light from

the princess’ eyes, which were still weak. Fleurange was seated on

the other side of this rampart. She blushed, for she was quite well

aware it was not on the book, in which he pretended to be absorbed,

the young man’s eyes were fastened while she was reading the sonnet

she had just finished.

“I have not been as inattentive as you suppose, mother,” said

George at length. “Besides, these lines would attract my attention

under any circumstances:

‘E da per gli occhi una dolcezza al core

Ch’ intender non la puo chi non la prova.’”[106]

George had approached the table, and the expression of his eyes did

not allow Fleurange to mistake the application of these lines.

Alas! for a month she had been forced to accept--let us use the

right word--to enjoy the presence of him whom she had resolved

to fly from, and been obliged for the time to lay aside all

consideration of her own position in view of the duties which had

devolved on her towards the princess. But her resolution had not

for an instant faltered. Every day the sacrifice would doubtless

be more painful, but consequently the more necessary. What she

only waited for now was the propitious moment, and the means of

accomplishing it.

The Princess Catherine was now really convalescent, and able

to bear the displeasure Fleurange felt obliged to cause her.

Therefore, the same evening the little scene we have just

related took place, she resolved not to yield another day to the

considerations that had hitherto restrained her. To remain any

longer where she was would henceforth be deliberate treachery.

What she had nearly decided upon was to confide everything to Dr.

Leblanc, who was now fulfilling a promise made the year before

at the Old Mansion and visiting her friends at Heidelberg. He

understood her position with respect to the princess better than

any one else, and would know how to aid her in giving it up. He,

better than any one, could arrange everything for her return among

her relatives without betraying the motive she was so anxious to

conceal. But it was painful to decide on speaking of George even to

him. The letter was commenced but not yet finished, and the hour of

delay was passing.

She laid the book on the table and was absorbed in silent

reflection. The princess was dwelling on the thoughts suggested by

the reading, and her son, as he answered her at random, sought to

read the expression of the downcast eyes that so carefully avoided

his.

At that moment an unexpected message surprised them all. The

princess’ valet de chambre, who was the porter, wished to inform

Mademoiselle Gabrielle there was a young gentleman in the hall who

requested to see her.

“A young gentleman?” exclaimed the princess and her son at the same

time, and with no less astonishment than Fleurange.

“A young gentleman?” repeated she. “Did you ask his name?” Yes, the

valet de chambre had asked, but had forgotten, and stammered out

some name as unintelligible as unknown to Fleurange. She rose. “I

will see who it can be,” said she.

George had already arisen, and the princess exclaimed: “Gabrielle

must not go down alone at this hour. Rogues often find their way

in, in this manner, at night.--Last evening, before dark, an

unknown person entered a shop, and while the owner’s back was

turned--” The princess became unnecessarily nervous over this

slight incident.

“If you will allow me,” said George, “I will ascertain who it is.

Trust to me, and await here the information I will bring you.”

Fleurange made no objection. She knew no one and expected no one,

and was sure there was some mistake.

George was not gone more than ten minutes from the room. When he

reappeared, his face was lit up with an expression of joy.

“It is really a young gentleman,” he said, “and it was really you

he asked for, mademoiselle. And I, for my part, was also happy to

shake hands with Julian Steinberg. It was he. He has just arrived

at Florence with his wife.”

“Julian!--Julian and Clara!” cried Fleurange, overjoyed. She sprang

up at once, forgetting the princess and George, and everything

except the unexpected pleasure of seeing these beloved faces again.

Count George stopped her: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,

Steinberg only wished to know when his wife could see you. I took

the liberty of telling him that my carriage, which is at the door,

would take you at once to the hotel where they are stopping, and he

has gone to tell her she will have the pleasure of seeing you this

very evening.”

“Oh! how kind you are,” cried Fleurange, beside herself. “How many

thanks I owe you!”

But she bethought herself that the princess did not like

anything of which she did not take the initiative, and under

no circumstances did she ever forget herself. Before the shade

that began to gather on her brow could be perceived, Fleurange

approached her.

“Monsieur le Comte is very kind,” said she; “but I should do better

to wait till morning, should I not, princess? It is only nine

o’clock, and you need me at least an hour longer.”

The princess was already partly mollified by these words, and

completely so by the grace with which her son protested he should

be angry if she did not clearly prove to him that she thought him

capable of replacing Mademoiselle Gabrielle at least for an hour.

“Come, mother, you can endure to hear me read in my turn, can you

not? I readily acknowledge my powers are not equal to what we have

just had. But, if the contrast is disagreeable to you, it will not

be the first time we have passed an hour together to our mutual

satisfaction, and that I have been able to make my conversation

acceptable to you.”

These words, uttered with a caressing grace as he knelt at his

mother’s side, appealed directly to the weakest point in her

maternal heart. The princess idolized her son. He was the joy and

pride of her life. But though full of deference and affection,

he was constantly eluding her. This woman, so imperious towards

all others, felt she had scarcely any authority over her son,

and endeavored to acquire an ascendency over him by all the

persuasiveness and skill she possessed, as if this ascendency were

not her natural right. Since George returned last he had been more

reserved than usual. Hitherto he had been able to frustrate all

her efforts to obtain his entire confidence, to which he sometimes

yielded, and which amply atoned for the long intervals of reserve

so painful to her.

On this occasion she caressingly passed her hand over her son’s

beautiful hair, and smilingly replied: “Naughty boy, you know

well what to depend upon.” Then turning to Fleurange: “Go. I am

quite willing you should go and welcome your cousin. I can for

the present do without you. Go, but come back in an hour. I shall

expect you at ten,” she added, looking at the clock.

The permission was not very graciously accorded, but Fleurange did

not profit by it the less eagerly. She did not leave the room,

however, without an involuntary look of gratitude at him who had so

well divined her wish, and so successfully seconded it.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[104] This allusion refers to a playful superstition practised in

Russia on New Year’s Eve. It consists in pouring melted wax into a

basin of cold water, and drawing predictions from the figures thus

produced.

[105]

“So gentle and so modest doth appear

My Lady.”

--_Vita Nuova_, Charles Eliot Norton’s Translation.

[106]

“She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes

Which none can understand who doth not prove.”

--_Ibid._

HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

FOURTH AND LAST ARTICLE.

THE MIDDLE AGES.

It has been asserted by women in the present day that the state

needs salvation and reform, and that through their use of the

political franchise this end will be mainly accomplished. Perhaps

they think that no state was ever in such danger before, and that

they themselves are the pioneers of an order of things entirely

new, under unprecedented circumstances. They should study history

to see whether they really are without predecessors. What would

they say to Genevieve, the shepherdess of Nanterre, the heroine

of the sixth century, the woman of whom St. Germanus said,

while giving her the veil of virginity and the honorary title

of deaconess, “This woman will one day be a joy and an example

even to men”? What would they say to her bravery and daring when,

during the siege of Paris by the barbarian and heathen Franks

(it was before their conversion by Queen Clotildis), Genevieve

alone encouraged the affrighted peasantry, and promised relief

to the threatened city? She had supplies transported by means

of river-boats to the besieged, and for ten years, while the

ever-renewed alarms of desultory attacks from the Franks continued,

she succeeded in sparing Paris the horrors of a famine. When the

barbarian chief, Childeric, at last entered the town, Genevieve

interceded so successfully in behalf of the inhabitants that none

of them were molested.

Every one knows the history of Joan of Arc, over whom more

passionate recriminations have been flung at each other by rival

historians than any other woman, save Mary, Queen of Scots,

has provoked. The general and unbiassed verdict of the greater

portion of the public in general has coincided with the national

decision of patriotic Frenchmen. As a heroine, her name will go

down to all ages, and she has earned her fame well, but how? Do

any of her biographers say she was bold and unwomanly, a fast and

dashing beauty, or a reckless adventuress? No; for they tell us

she was modest in her demeanor, fond of being with and talking to

little children, very sparing of her own comfort, but lavish of

her poor means for others, ready and willing to keep the flocks,

and to help her family in tilling the soil. Divinely warned of her

coming mission, she was yet most reluctant to put herself forward,

and required much pressing from her spiritual superiors to induce

her to act upon the heaven-sent suggestions. It would take us too

long to follow her through her unparalleled career; but one thing

strikes us as foremost in all the vicissitudes of her successful

military life--her extreme gravity and majesty, shielding her

love of chastity. All the doctors of the University of Poitiers

concurred, at the express desire of King Charles VII. of France,

in a strict examination of her previous life and character, and it

was chiefly her spotless reputation of virtue that inclined them to

believe in her mission. During her camp life she never neglected

her daily religious duties; the oldest and gravest veterans were

her only companions and advisers, and after nightfall she never,

on any pretext, consented to converse with a man. Before she had

taken command of the army the French had been invariably beaten by

the English in every encounter; after her accession to the supreme

command, her countrymen were as invariably victorious. Her enemies

laughed at the girl-general, but, strong in her faith, Joan of

Arc overcame the scoffers. When she had taken Orleans, her first

order was that all immoral women who had surreptitiously followed

in the ranks of her soldiers should be summarily dismissed, as it

was only to punish such licentiousness that God had allowed those

great misfortunes to come upon France. Between Orleans and Rheims

there were several towns and forts to be wrested from the English;

Joan intrepidly attacked and reduced them, while Rheims itself

surrendered without a blow. The young virgin follows the king to

the cathedral, where he is crowned and anointed, and in a few days,

so great is the moral influence of her undaunted and triumphant

patriotism, that many other towns, and Paris itself, submit to the

legitimate authority of Charles VII., and France is saved. On the

principles of modern strategists, a patent of nobility, an alliance

with the crown, a grant of broad estates, would have been hardly

sufficient for the ambitious saviour of her country; but Joan of

Arc, hardly was the king reinstated in his realm, begged leave to

retire into her former solitude, insisting with mournful eagerness

that “her mission was over.” She neither coveted nor asked any

reward; such as were offered she refused. Against her own better

judgment, but according to the king’s command, she continued to

lead his armies, though she was no longer buoyed up by her former

joyous confidence in the promises divinely made to her. God has

tried her by the severe test of adversity, and she showed herself

as eagle-spirited under her reverses as she had been in her

prosperity. Betrayed by her own countrymen into the hands of her

enemies, she suffered incredible indignities, but never raised

her voice in self-defense, save when her honor was questioned or

attacked. Solicitous only for her precious treasure of consecrated

virginity, she looked death fearlessly in the face, and mounted

the scaffold calling in a firm voice on God and his saints. She

would be called by no title save “La Pucelle,” that is, “Joan

the Virgin.” An aide-de-camp, John of Aulon, who was constantly

near her during her campaigns, often said that he believed no

purer woman breathed than Joan of Arc. Ventura draws attention to

her extraordinary activity and bodily endurance, her long fasts

and severe abnegation. He says that she was a phenomenon, but

that, although her rare combination of qualities seemed almost a

miracle in any single human being, yet such qualities are quite

reconcilable in perfect womanhood. He says she was “brave as a

warrior, and tender as a mother; wise as an old man, learned as a

doctor, and simple as a child; pure as an angel, and redoubtable as

a great conqueror.”[107]

Many historians thought it worth their while to treat in

detail of her life and career: Fleury and Rohrbacher, in their

_Ecclesiastical History_; Lebrun Charmette, in his _Life of Joan

of Arc_; Jules Quicherat, in his work on her trial, condemnation,

and rehabilitation; Guido Görres, in his German life of her;

Voltaire, in his cowardly _Maid of Orleans_. She has been made

into a representative character, and stood in Voltaire’s eyes for

the Catholic Church and the Catholic tradition concerning woman.

Görres mentions the eulogium pronounced upon her by an envoy of the

Bishop of Spires, who plainly calls her the messenger of heaven and

saviour of France.

It has been noticed that France during the middle ages was the most

civilized of nations. It was because the spirit of chivalry had

made greater progress among the French, and the spirit of chivalry

sprang from the deeper source of religious enthusiasm. The spirit

that dictated the crusades was the same that exalted woman; the

respect for woman and the duty of a knight to protect the sex, even

those of it who were unknown to him or those whom the fortune of

war had placed in his power, were lessons learned in childhood and

inculcated at the same time as fidelity to his religion and loyalty

to his sovereign. In every woman a knight recognized a queen: the

elder were to him the image of his mother, the younger of his

sister; in every female form he reverently saw the similitude of

the great Virgin, “whose Son shall be called Emanuel--God with us.”

And in order that such should be the attitude of man towards woman,

woman was educated in a manner that should make her _deserve_ such

homage.

Think not, sisters of our utilitarian age, that our ancestresses

were ignorant and foolish women, swayed by the dictates of cunning

priests, and kept as toys to beguile the idle hours of rough

warriors. Their education, unlike our modern uniform regulations,

was varied and suited to their talents; some cultivated learning,

others the arts, many were skilful in medicine, especially in the

use of herbs, and the treatment of wounds. The fairy embroidery

that we hear so much extolled was not their only accomplishment:

they could spin for all useful household purposes, and work for

the poor of their neighborhood, which home manufacture was a great

saving of both time and money. They were often elegant poets, and

indeed frequently carried off prizes in rhyming contests. The “Jeux

Floraux” of Toulouse, one of the great mediæval institutions of

Provence, were established by a learned and accomplished lady of

noble lineage, Clémence Isaure, herself a poetess of no little

merit. The prize, we believe, was generally a golden violet, and

was awarded every year to the successful competitor, whether man

or woman. Tournaments owe all their romance to the presence and

influence of woman, without which they would have fallen to the

level of the brutal Roman games of old. The beneficial influence

exerted by the women of the old feudal families, who always

remained on their own estates and cultivated relations of mutual

kindliness with their poorer neighbors and vassals, resulted

in the unique spectacle of the Vendean insurrection, in which

peasants and nobles were leagued together against the misguided

satellites of “Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.” Elsewhere,

throughout France, women had become court puppets, and lived in

Paris as absentees from their property, where iniquitous agents

oppressed their tenants in their name; court favor and patronage,

a rivalry of frivolous gossip and scandalous adventures, had

displaced in their imaginations the noble but obscure triumphs of

the Lady of the Manor surrounded by her “children,” as she terms

her dependants; corruption, first sown by the influence of the

German Reformation, then fostered by the growing infidelity of

the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, had insinuated itself

into the world of women, and through them had spread to the whole

system of society. The last spark of the spirit of chivalry shone

out in the determined stand made by the Breton peasantry against

the invasion of principles that held nothing sacred and taught

no authority save that of force. But what a grand testimony to

the influence of woman was the downfall and disorganization that

followed the French Revolution, and under the ruins of which they

are still half-buried! When woman wishes to take up again her

ancient crown, her true, “divine right,” she has but to stretch her

hand across the chasm of ’89 and the great breach of the sixteenth

century, and resume, with the sacred respect of home duties and

the reverence towards consecrated and voluntary chastity, the

sceptre of undisputed sway so triumphantly wielded by Joan of Arc,

Catharine of Sienna, Hedwige of Poland, and Mathilda of Tuscany.

Among the religious of various orders to whom the Christian world

looks up with well-merited veneration is the Blessed Juliana,

a Hospitaller nun of the diocese of Liege. It was through the

revelations made to her in prayer, and through her repeated

entreaties, that the feast of Corpus Christi was first instituted,

one of the most essentially Catholic feasts of the calendar. In

1266, it was first celebrated at Liege, but its observance was

discontinued in consequence of the machinations of a hostile

clique. In 1264, Pope Urban IV. solemnly approved and instituted

it, and commanded the great doctor Thomas Aquinas to compose an

office for it. This office is the same used by the church to-day.

Juliana herself was dead, but her friend and companion, Eva, had

not failed to continue her work, and the Pope himself did not

disdain to send her a special copy of the Bull of Institution,

with a letter in which he refers the accomplishment of the great

work to her and her deceased friend. Ventura gives us lists of

holy prelates whose mothers formed and educated them to virtue

and sanctity, but mentions especially the aid afforded Boniface,

the Apostle of Germany, by his female co-laborers. Lioba, the

chief of these, was a noble Saxon lady, and was educated at

Winburn, in England. Eadburge, an abbess, sent Boniface many

presents of clothes and other necessaries for his expedition to

Germany, and also, says Ventura, many manuscript copies of the

Bible to distribute them among his neophytes. Lioba was well

versed in Latin, and could write verses in that language. Boniface

begged her superiors to let her go to Germany, to establish,

says Butler, “sanctuaries and nurseries of religion for persons

of her sex in the infant Church of Germany.” Prudent, zealous,

and learned, she soon founded house after house of fervent

nuns, and spread the blessings of education over the hitherto

barbarian lands she visited. “Kings and princes,” continues

Butler, “respected and honored her.... Charlemagne often sent for

her to his court of Aix-la-Chapelle, and treated her with the

highest veneration. His queen, Hildegardis, took her advice in

the most weighty concerns.... St. Boniface, a little before his

mission into Friesland and his martyrdom there, recommended her

in the most earnest manner to St. Lullus and his monks at Fulda,

entreating them to have care of her with respect and honor.” She

died in extreme old age in the year 779. “Her education,” says

Ventura, “embraced civil and canon law, theology and philosophy,

natural sciences and literature, and, in some measure, the art of

government.” Rohrbacher says “that it would have been desirable

had all the clergy of Germany possessed the knowledge of St.

Lioba, for many of them were ignorant to the point of not knowing

how to administer the sacrament of baptism.” Three centuries

later, Hildegardis, a noble German lady, vindicated the claims

of her sex to the most sublime of gifts. Intellectually endowed

and gifted with great firmness of character, she became the

mother and foundress of the monastery of St. Rupert, in the Rhine

provinces, where kings and statesmen repaired to her for advice

and instruction. The revelations received by her, after being most

rigorously examined by a council assembled at Treves, were solemnly

approved by Pope Eugene III., assisted by St. Bernard. Rohrbacher

calls her “the St. Bernard among women.” Her correspondence was

immense, and her writings have been collected and published with

care. In the thirteenth century, Gertrude and Mechtildis, of noble

Saxon descent, claim our attention. They were sisters, and both

governed immense monasteries. Alban Butler says of the former: “In

her youth she studied Latin, as it was then customary for all nuns

to do; she wrote and conversed in that language, and was versed

in sacred literature.... How much soever she gave herself up to

contemplation, she neglected not the duties of Martha, and was

very solicitous in attending to the necessities of every one....

Her short book of _Divine Insinuations_ is perhaps the most useful

production, next to the writings of St. Teresa, with which any

female saint _ever enriched_ the church.” Her prayers to the Sacred

Heart show how this characteristic devotion, afterwards perfected

and made public by another holy woman, Mary Margaret Alacocque,

first presented itself to a woman’s mind, and found a home in a

woman’s heart.

It may be gratifying to many women to learn that the city and

University of Oxford have for patroness, and in mediæval times

honored as such, the Saxon maiden, Frideswide, whose church and

monastery, after having undergone many vicissitudes, are now known

as Christ Church College. Ursula, the virgin martyr of Cologne, is,

according to Butler, “patroness of the famous College of Sorbonne,

and titular saint of that church. Several religious establishments

have been erected, under her name and patronage, for the virtuous

education of young ladies. St. Ursula, who was the mistress and

guide to heaven to many holy maidens whom she animated to the

heroic practice of virtue, is regarded as a model and patroness

by those who undertake to train up youth in the sentiments and

practice of piety and religion.” The Ursuline institutes for the

education of girls are renowned throughout Europe, and even to

this day are powerful auxiliaries of the church in the training of

youth. Later ages have not been behind in emulating the sixteenth

century, which, seven hundred years after the death of Ursula, so

nobly commemorated her triumphs in the institution of the Ursuline

Order. The Nuns of the Visitation, and still later those of the

Sacred Heart, have continued the work of Christian education up to

the present day.

The beginning of the twelfth century leads us to Delphina and her

husband Elzear, both of Provençal descent, and holding high office

at the court of Naples and Sicily. Butler says of them that “no

coldness for so much as one moment ever interrupted the harmony or

damped the affections of this holy couple. The countess [Delphina]

was sensible that the devotions of a married woman ought to be

ordered in a different manner from those of a religious person....

The care with which she looked into the economy of her house was

a sensible proof of the interior order in which she kept her own

soul. Nothing was more admirable than her attention to all her

domestics, and her prudent application to the preservation of

domestic peace.”[108] These two devoted followers of Christ were

always ready to assist and protect the poor; they lived together

in perpetual virginity, and gave themselves up entirely to their

self-imposed duties of charity. King Robert of Sicily showed his

esteem of Elzear by making him his son’s governor. In this office

he exercised his influence as irreproachably as he had done in

other positions, and the counsels of his wife were ever at hand

to assist and cheer him. At his death his widow retired into a

monastery.

Another remarkable woman of the middle ages was Catharine of

Genoa, who towards the latter end of the fifteenth century became

a model for her sex in each of the states of life to which women

are called. As a virgin, a wife, and a widow, her life was perfect

in its sincere subordination to the will of God. Her marriage was

unhappy, and she suffered much from her husband’s brutality, his

extravagance and licentiousness. She trusted to a higher power

than the civil courts for her vindication and reward, and after

her husband’s death gave herself up to active works of mercy. She

devoted herself to the care of the sick in the great hospital

of Genoa. Of this house, says Butler, she lived many years the

mother superior. Her charity could not be confined to the bounds

of her own hospital; she extended her care and solicitude to

all distressed sick persons over the whole city, and employed

proper persons with indefatigable industry to discover, visit,

and relieve such objects. Here we see a woman governing and

managing a most important national institution, guarding its

temporal interests, and watching over its spiritual relations

with the utmost care and most delicate discrimination; showing a

talent for government which would do good credit to the best men,

and preserving withal the greatest humility and modesty both of

thought and demeanor. Does the church deny the sex any legitimate

opening for its energies? Judge for yourselves, sisters, and answer

impartially. Does she not, on the contrary, enable it to do that

which, outside her, is next to impossible? Cannot a woman wearing

the distinctive badge of one of her orders pass unmolested where

no other woman however pure, however earnest, could go without at

least risk of insult; and does she not invest with the dignity

of an organized association efforts which, made singly, would be

barely removed from Quixotism?

We have long delayed speaking of Catharine of Sienna, the St.

Teresa of mediæval times, one of the most energetic and wonderful

women the world ever produced. Ventura calls her a “missionary and

apostle,” and Butler says that her influence was so great that no

one ever approached her who went not away better. She was only

eighteen, when, after suffering the hardships of her humble home

during her childhood, she took the veil in the Third Order of St.

Dominic. The most hardened sinners could not withstand the force of

her exhortations; thousands flocked from distant places to hear or

only see her, and were converted by her words or example. At the

earnest suit of the citizens of Pisa, she went to their town, and

it is related that the confessions of those she reclaimed from evil

courses were so numerous that the priests of the town had much

trouble to attend to them. The Florentines and Perugians having,

in 1375, leagued together against the Holy See, the Pope, Gregory

XI., who at that time was living at Avignon, sent an army into

Italy and interdicted the rebellious principalities. The country

fell into such intolerable confusion that, to end the chaotic state

of things, the Florentines submitted to the Pope. They first sent

for St. Catharine, who was met at the city gates by the chiefs of

the magistrates. The negotiations were entrusted to her, and the

ambassadors who followed her to Avignon received orders to sign and

confirm whatever decision she should make. The Pope and cardinals

received her at Avignon with great marks of distinction; and the

Pontiff said after his conference with her: “I put the affair

entirely into your hands, only I recommend you the honor of the

church.” The heads of the church were seemingly not afraid to trust

the gravest issues in a _woman’s_ hands!

Catharine exerted all her powers of persuasion to induce Gregory

XI. to return to Rome, and after her departure wrote urgent letters

to him on this subject. Twice, both at Avignon and at Sienna,

learned prelates and doctors disputed with her, vainly trying to

find her wanting either in learning, in sincerity, or in humility.

They were obliged to confess themselves in the wrong. She had

many disciples, both men and women, one of whom, Stephen, the son

of a senator of Sienna, became her secretary and afterwards a

Carthusian monk. The Pope commissioned her to go to Florence, and

try once more to pacify the troubles which the insincerity of the

government of that state was always rekindling. “She lived some

time in that factious place,” says Butler, “... and showed herself

always most undaunted, even when swords were drawn against her.” At

length she effected the long-wished-for reconciliation, though not

under Gregory, but his successor, Urban VI. Some of his discourses

have been collected, and compose the treatise _On Providence_.

When Urban VI. had been elected, there followed a great schism,

during which anti-popes usurped the chair of Peter, and the whole

Italian peninsula was violently distracted. She wrote to several

countries and princes in Urban’s favor, and also to the Pope

himself, entreating him to restrain his somewhat hasty disposition

for the sake of the peace of the church. Many treatises and other

writings of hers are still extant. She died at the early age of

thirty-three in 1380, in Rome, where Urban had called her to help

and advise him. She predicted the schism and other calamities,

and whether this gift be ascribed, as reverent believers would

wish, to the favor of God who allowed her a prophetic vision of

the future, or, as the hard-headed philosophy of modern times

would dictate, to the superior discrimination of an extraordinary

woman, it is equally an honor to her and a title to especial and

enthusiastic remembrance. Another woman concurred in the work of

St. Catharine of Sienna, Bridget of Sweden, to whom we have already

referred. She too prophesied the coming disasters of the church;

she too pressed Gregory XI. to go back to Rome. Catharine was once

commanded to harangue the Sacred College, in order to procure peace

and unity among them. “This unique example,” says Ventura, “showed

the powers of eloquence and the depth of the wisdom of this young

Christian heroine.” As a means to reunite Christendom and perhaps

avert what she prophetically foresaw, she urged upon Gregory XI.

the advisability of inaugurating a new crusade, and, when told

in amazement that first the Christians themselves would have to

be reconciled, answered with consummate tact and prudence: “Holy

Father, the expedition will be so popular that in itself it will

unite them. Few men are so depraved as to be unwilling to serve God

by means to which they are passionately attached. To separate the

burning brands is virtually to quench the fire.”

She traced a plan of pacification as the basis of the policy she

wished the Pope to adopt, urging the necessity of peace, and adds,

“Let it not be a supine, weakling peace, but, on the contrary, an

active, organizing state of things, in which bad and mercenary

pastors will be summarily punished and all scandals swept away.”

The vigorous foresight of this woman is a greater marvel than

her holiness. In her we have a noble example of the heights of

intellect to which the grace of God can lead a woman’s nature, and

we might almost close our argument with this crowning figure of the

moral Joan of Arc of Italy. Yet, lest we be met with the objection

that all this greatness is part of a lost system, and that a new

dispensation has superseded the church’s championship of the sex,

we must, in justice to our own times, recall a few of those facts

which since the Renaissance have repeatedly testified to the

recognized influence of woman in political and social spheres.

Take, for instance, Isabella of Castile, the protectress and friend

of Christopher Columbus, the great queen to whom Spain first owed

the proud position of mistress of the seas and queen of the New

World.

Columbus had offered his services to several kings and governments;

it was a _woman_ who alone treated his projects as sublime

realities and had faith in the future he prophesied. When he

returned from his first expedition, it was she who received

him with greater honors than those rendered to the old Spanish

nobility; it was she who upheld him in his new speculations

and furnished him the means to prosecute further discoveries.

Long before he had gained her favor, it was again a woman whose

intelligent appreciation had encouraged him in weary labors, his

mother-in-law, Madame Peristiello, herself the widow of a famous

navigator, the discoverer of the Islands of Madeira and Porto Santo.

Isabella governed her hereditary dominions of Castile herself,

while her husband, Ferdinand of Aragon, administered his own; but

not long after their marriage, so persuaded was he of her superior

talents for government, that he gave up his kingdom to her care.

The final expulsion of the Moors from Catholic Spain was her

conception, was carried out by her personal influence, and owed

its success mainly to her inspiring presence among the Christian

besiegers of Granada. The great Captain Gonsalvus of Cordova,

who seconded her most admirably in her gigantic undertaking, was

sought out and patronized by her on account of the genius she

discovered in him; the great legislator, Cardinal Ximenes, owed

his elevation to her, and was forced by her to accept the great

dignities which were to enable him to reform and aggrandize the

country. Fernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, was likewise

her special _protégé_, and indeed no better proof could be had of

the omnipotence of her personal influence in Spain than the fact

that after her death these great men were either forgotten or,

worse still, persecuted. Without the queen’s knowledge, Ferdinand

had listened to the detractors of Columbus, and degraded him from

his post of viceroy over the newly discovered lands in America.

Isabella indignantly interfered and had him reinstalled in his

dignities, but when, shortly after, his protectress died, he was

again imprisoned, and fell the victim to Ferdinand’s ingratitude.

As to Gonsalvus of Cordova, he then, after the queen’s death, was

disgraced, and sent, under a pretext of hypocritical regard, to

occupy the post of a viceroy at Naples.

One of Isabella’s biographers, Desormeaux, says that “_to_ the

graces of her sex the queen of Castile added the greatness of a

_hero_, the profound and able policy of a _minister_, the views

of a _legislator_, the brilliant qualities of a _conqueror_, the

honesty of a _good citizen_, and the uprightness of a perfect

_magistrate_.” Ventura quotes this with these italics. Rohrbacher

calls her a _true king_, drawing attention to her indefatigable

zeal in seeing to all affairs herself, and in constantly

encouraging her troops by her presence on horseback among them.

He repeats her praises in almost the same words as Desormeaux.

Innocent VIII. granted her the formal title of “Most Catholic

Majesty”; Cardinal Ximenes said that the world would never see

again a sovereign so inflexibly just; Peter of Anghiera, the

professor of the palace-school for the youth of the nobility,

lamented her as “the refuge of the good, the sword raised against

the guilty, the mirror of rigid virtue.”

Placed at the beginning of modern times, on the threshold of the

church’s momentary eclipse, and of the decadence of public morality

all over Europe, she stands out in bold relief a champion of the

church, which, in proud gratitude to her sex, has been her champion

in return.

St. Teresa, whom all ages and creeds agree in accepting as an

extraordinarily gifted woman, was another of the shining lights of

Spain at this time. She too was a Castilian; her influence was no

less widely spread than that of Isabella, and, if anything, it has

lasted longer and more visibly. One of the greatest orders of the

church acknowledges her as its reformation, and, for all practical

purposes, even as its foundress. The Carmelite Friars speak of

her as “our holy mother,” as the ancient Benedictines speak of

Benedict as “our father.” The writings of St. Teresa are among

the most important spiritual treasures of the church. Her health

was for many years a grievous trial to her, and her temptations,

as recounted by herself, seem to have been neither light nor few.

In the reform so urgently needed among the lax followers of the

Order of Carmel, she was systematically opposed by many influential

persons and superiors of her own as well as of the opposite sex.

After a sort of novitiate of twenty years of unceasing efforts to

attune her soul to the practice of mental prayer, she began her

agitation in favor of reform under disappointing circumstances,

but, triumphing with time over many of her opponents, at last

procured the assistance of powerful colleagues. Many of these were

women. In 1562, she was established in a convent where the reform

was first practised. Butler says, “The perfection and discretion of

her rule eclipsed all former reformations of her order.” She next

founded two monasteries for men according to the reform. At Medina

del Campo, at Pastrana, at Durveo, she founded communities of men;

at Valladolid, Avila, Salamanca, Alva, of women. It is impossible

to enumerate her many other foundations. When her co-laborers,

the priests Gratian, Marian, and others, gave up all for lost on

account of the ceaseless opposition they encountered, she alone

remained firm and hopeful, saying, “We shall suffer, but the order

will stand.” She also said that the cross was “the secure and

beaten road” to lead their souls to God. Women are proverbially

called weak, and said to be unwilling to forego luxuries or court

trials; yet how Teresa vindicated her sex in her heroic resolve to

“let justice be done, though the heavens fall”! Her contemporary,

Bishop Yepez, tells us that her deportment was not less agreeable

than edifying, that her prudence and address were admirable, and

speaks no less of her gracefulness, dignity, and charms than of

the gravity, modesty, and discretion of her conversation and

carriage. Truly a most _womanly_ woman, who could take upon her

man’s responsibility without forfeiting the beautiful attributes of

her sex. Like in this to the Catholic Church, Catholic womanhood

has _all_ that is claimed by women outside the church, and not only

that, but she adds far more, just as the church holds whatever

truth is held by the different sects, and infinitely more beside.

Teresa died in 1582, having lived to see sixteen convents of

Carmelite nuns, and fourteen of friars, founded and successfully

organized. The impress of her noble work is undying; she had the

talents of the unhappy Luther, but dedicated them to a worthier

cause, and, now that the same number of centuries have passed over

their respective graves, the woman’s name is universally honored

even by her conscientious opponents, while the man’s is execrated

in many a community whose original constitution was derived from

his teachings.

In the same century as Teresa lived another great reformer and

Christian agitator, St. Cajetan, of Thienna, who owed to his

admirable mother his enthusiasm and ardent zeal for holy things.

He showed by his foundations how highly he esteemed woman’s virtue

and integrity; one of his chief aims being to establish refuges

for fallen women, and asylums for those whose honor was endangered

through poverty and destitution. But one of his greatest works

would never have been accomplished if a noble and wealthy woman had

not generously taken its fulfilment upon herself: namely, what is

called in Catholic Europe the “_Mont de Piété_,” an untranslatable

and most touching synonym for our more repulsive pawn-shops. These

institutions were established to counterbalance the shameful system

of usury in vogue at the time, and were so controlled by the state

that the needy masses should be benefited by them instead of

being duped. To the Countess of Porto is Italy indebted for these

much-needed reforms. Mother Ursula Benincasa, the foundress of an

order called the Theatine Hermits, was, according to Ventura, the

bulwark of orthodoxy in the kingdom of Naples. She was the first to

unmask the heresiarchs Bernardin Ochino and Peter Vermillo, who had

begun to preach Protestantism under the cloak of reform. St. Philip

Neri examined her and encouraged her in her labors, and the city of

Naples reveres her as its protectress.

One of the best known and best loved saints of modern times

is St. Francis of Sales. One of his most popular works is his

_Introduction to a Devout Life_--the most useful, readable, and

intelligible manual of devotion ever written for persons living in

the world. Yet this would never have been written save for a woman,

to whom were addressed the letters from which it was subsequently

compiled. He treats in this work almost exclusively of the duties

of women, and chiefly of women of the higher classes--those of whom

it is said by too many, in their excessive severity, that they are

debarred by the circumstances of their life from real Christian

work. St. Francis’ _Treatise on Divine Love_, a longer work, is

modelled much on the same plan. The woman whose soul he thought

worthy of inspiring these efforts was Madame Jeanne Françoise de

Chantal, the grandmother of another gifted and well-known woman,

the charming Madame de Sévigné. Her domestic life, during the

years of her happy and holy marriage, was a model of severity and

order. Regular hours were assigned for everything in her household,

every duty and employment discharged with, great order, and the

spiritual and moral welfare of her servants attended to with the

minutest solicitude. Butler says that order is an indispensable

part of virtue; and what is more worshipped (in theory!) among our

modern women-reformers than this very quality! But here we have it

exhibited in a saint: is it the less attractive for that? When her

husband was absent, she refrained from visiting and entertainments,

and was at all times conspicuous for shunning, as far as the

duties of her position would allow, all useless and frivolous

occupations. Again, we have Butler commending her for this, and

adding that “to make a round of amusements and idle visits the

business of life, is to degrade the dignity of a rational being

and to sink beneath the very brutes.” Is this not the language

held by the modern advocates of a reform among women? Thus we see

that, in everything to which reason points, the church not only

stands up for the rights of woman, but also that her ministers and

exponents have even forestalled the “newly discovered movement,”

both by word and example, many centuries ago. Jeanne Françoise

de Chantal lost her husband after several years of marriage, and

gave herself up to the care and education of her children. To this

task, which she superintended with the gravest diligence, she

applied herself for several years, until her eldest daughter’s

marriage. Then she entered the religious life, leaving her son

under the guardianship of her father, but retaining herself the

privilege of still superintending his studies. Her Congregation of

the Visitation soon after became a regularly constituted order,

and she and some companions, under the auspices of St. Francis of

Sales, took their solemn vows at Annecy, in 1610. In the same year,

she stayed for several months at Dijon, arranging family affairs

and watching over her son’s studies. She also founded convents in

nine or ten prominent towns in France, and, between 1619 and 1622,

governed the convent in Paris, where she at first met with and

overcame serious difficulties. Her son, whose marriage had been her

special care and work, was killed in 1627, in the religious wars

then desolating France, and her daughter-in-law and son-in-law (the

husband of her eldest daughter) died not long after. Her fortitude

under these trials was worthy of the Roman and Spartan matrons of

old, and her tenderness for those more bereaved than herself, a

model of Christian grace. Her aptitude for directing souls was very

remarkable, and her bravery in tending the body in sickness no less

so. During the pestilence at Annecy her efforts were ceaseless,

and her prayers for its cessation full of fervent belief. In 1638,

the Duchess of Savoy sent for her to Turin to found a Convent

of the Visitation, and treated her (to her great mortification)

with the greatest honor. The same happened in Paris, where a royal

mandate had also summoned her. It is impossible to calculate the

influence this energetic woman has had upon the modern destinies

of Catholic Europe, both during her busy and fruitful life and

since her death, when the houses of her order have multiplied to an

enormous extent, and for some time monopolized almost entirely the

education of the upper classes of women. If they no longer hold the

first place among such institutions, another order, no less useful

and especially designed for this one end, has successfully taken up

their work, the Congregation of the Sacred Heart.

The seventeenth century gave birth to another institution even

more perfect than that inaugurated by the Baroness de Chantal,

that of the Sisters of Charity. This is perhaps the only Catholic

foundation against which the malice of the church’s opponents--of

all shades of belief and unbelief--has never dared to raise its

voice. Not the most improbable tale of scandal has been hurled

at these women; not the remotest trace of a sneer has ever been

pointed at them; infidels on their death-bed, philanthropists

who scouted the Catholic ideal, soldiers on the field of battle,

physicians whom they outdo in zeal in the worst hospitals--all are

agreed on the unimaginable and gigantic heroism of the Sisters of

Charity. They alone, of all nuns, are allowed to walk the streets

of London without the least concealment of their distinctive

dress, and all over the world there is not a queen whose royal

robes are more respected than the simple peasant-like costume of

the daughters of St. Vincent of Paul. Louise de Marillac was the

saint’s first great helper in this noble work. Their rule is one

that might serve women of the world, so entirely spiritual and

interior is its nature. “Let them have,” it says, “the houses of

the sick for their monastery, the rooms of the poor for their cell,

the parish church for their conventual chapel, for grating the fear

of God, and holy modesty for their veil.” The Countess of Soigny,

who assisted St. Vincent in his missions among the agricultural

poor in 1616; Madame de Goussault, who suggested to him the

formation of an organized body of ladies to attend regularly on

the sick of the present hospital in Paris, the Hôtel Dieu; Madame

de Polaillon, who herself supplemented his labors by visiting

the sick, and teaching the ignorant country population herself,

under the disguise of a peasant woman, and who finally took upon

herself to found, under his direction, the Institute of Mercy for

the reformation of abandoned women; the Queen-Regent, Anne of

Austria, who nominated him to a post of great moral influence, and

consulted him in all ecclesiastical affairs; Mesdames de Marillac,

de Traversai, and de Miramion, who were the life and soul of his

immortal Foundling Institution--these and many others, of all

classes and all ages, were the real and earnest fellow-laborers to

whose zeal, under God, he owed the success of his many admirable

enterprises. Whatever amelioration the lot of man has undergone

has always been traceable either to a woman’s suggestion or at

least her practical co-operation. One woman, whose name should

not be forgotten in the catalogue of Vincent of Paul’s spiritual

lieutenants, is that of Marie de Gournay, the wife of a small

wine-seller, a most holy and discreet woman. M. Olier, a priest of

that age, has left us her panegyric in glowing terms: “All the

good which is done at this time passes, so to speak, through her

hands; all the great undertakings of our day are somehow referable

to her. Although her birth and position are obscure, yet she is

the counsel and the light of the most illustrious persons in

Paris.” He then names the great ladies of the court who ask her

advice in spiritual matters, and adds: “There are no apostolic men,

no missionaries, who fail to go to her for instruction. Father

Eudes, a famous preacher, consults her frequently. The General of

the Oratorians does the same. Mademoiselle Manse, whom God has

inspired to go out to Canada to help in the propagation of the

faith there, undertook this work only after receiving Marie de

Gournay’s approbation. She it is who directs M. de Coudray, who

is working for the Levant missions and the defence of the church

against the Turks.... A certain counsellor of state takes her

advice in all things, and has worked in consequence much to the

benefit of the church. The chancellor of the kingdom, according to

her persuasions, is very zealous in the extirpation of heresy and

the defence of the church. I pass over many names as illustrious as

these, the position of their bearers precluding me from mentioning

them.” M. Olier’s own conversion was due to her predictions and

timely warnings, and through his vocation her influence was greatly

spread in the work of reforming the ecclesiastical seminaries of

France. The historian Rohrbacher only mentions her as a power

on the side of religious reform. The College of Vaugirard and

the Seminary of St. Sulpice, now the two foremost educational

institutes of Paris, were the fruits of her prayers and counsels.

The end of the reign of Louis XIV. was remarkable for the happy

and beneficial rule of a woman, his wife, Madame de Maintenon,

whose rigid virtue and wise influence were boons no less prized

by the nation than by the sovereign. Before her marriage with the

king, she was the queen’s true and loyal friend, and exercised the

influence she even then possessed over Louis XIV. wholly in his

consort’s favor. She never would accept gifts from him, and indeed

told him plainly that he had not the right to give her anything.

The great institution in which she was interested, and which owed

its foundation to her, was the Free School of St. Cyr, for the

daughters of poor gentlemen. It was in this school that many of the

heroines of the French Revolution were educated. Fénelon avowed

that he looked to her as the king’s conscience. Racine wrote at

her suggestion his masterpiece, _Athalie_, and broke through the

senseless tradition which deified and consecrated in poetry crimes

which, told in prose, would have made any modest _man_ or woman

blush. Fénelon’s determined stand against the king’s encroachments

on religious liberties left him without a friend in the fickle

court of Versailles; Madame de Maintenon boldly ranged herself on

his side and exerted all her influence in his favor.

We have come so near to the days of our fathers that we must stop,

as on the confines of well-known and well-worn subjects. The heroic

and _manly_ character of Maria Theresa, the fortitude of Louise de

France, the Carmelite nun, the calm bravery of Marie Antoinette

and Madame Elizabeth, are facts too well known to need repetition.

Perhaps it may not be so with the origin of the Propagation of

the Faith, which was begun at Lyons in 1822 by a few humble

working-women, instinct with the spirit of Martha, and undeterred

by the first obscurity of their good works. We might mention women

who have influenced literature and made a name that will never be

forgotten--Eugénie de Guérin, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, Countess

Ida Hahn-Hahn, and many others; especially of late the charming

authoress of the _Récit d’une Sœur_. Is it necessary to speak of

the numberless convents where girls of all classes are thoroughly

educated, and in which the teachers, were they men, would shine

as college tutors and holders of professional chairs? In fact, if

we had time and space to go through the modern world, as we have

explored the ages of our ancestors, we should find no less vitality

among women, no less determined championship of the sex on the part

of the church. Let us end by a tribute to one of the noblest works

of charity ever undertaken, that of the Little Sisters of the Poor,

the earthly guardian angels who live in such evangelical poverty

that, when they have _begged_ the _remains_ of rich men’s tables to

feed their infirm and aged charges, they humbly and cheerfully make

their own scanty meal from the _refuse_ of these very remains. In

days when luxury has _created_ wants destructive to human strength

and health, let us honor above all these heroines of charity who

live as the angels, and almost make us forget that their bodies are

still under the law of the flesh and require fleshly sustenance.

With this picture of the very _ne plus ultra_ of charity, let us

close our catalogue of woman’s perfections in the kingdom of grace,

knowing well that we leave many an act of heroism unrecorded, many

a sacrifice “hidden with Christ in God.”

We have seen what the church has done for woman: we have seen

what woman has done for and in the church. It is at the sex’s

option to continue this mission. The cultivation of its highest

faculties is a duty it owes to the church and society. Mothers

will be doubly mothers if they develop their sons’ moral nature,

as they are bound to do, through the education of their own; the

wife is solemnly bound to become truly her husband’s “helper, like

unto himself”; daughters and sisters have a work to do in their

homes far above the preparation of a meal or the smoothing over of

domestic troubles; all women, of whatever age, class, or mental

calibre, have their _vote_ to give in the great election that will

decide the victory of the church or the world. If women vote for

vice, the world of men will be bad; if for virtue, society may be

regenerated: theirs is the casting vote, the decisive move. Let it

be upward, sisters--let it be God-ward!

FOOTNOTES:

[107] _Donna Cattolica_, p. 295.

[108] _Lives of the Saints._

MISS ETHERIDGE.

While I was spending a summer in a pleasant town in Connecticut,

I became very much interested in an invalid lady, who used to be

drawn past my window in one of those small vehicles which seem both

chair and carriage. The lady did not look ill by any means. She

sat erect, and gazed about her with a lively air, betokening good

health and spirits. She was always richly dressed, and wore her

silks, velvets, and laces with the air of one well used to such

raiment. Many of those meeting her bowed with deference, which she

returned with courteous grace and a high-bred manner. Sometimes she

would stop her little carriage while a friend chatted with her, and

seemed always to make herself very agreeable, as I judged from the

pleased faces of her listeners. Frequently I would see ladies and

gentlemen walking by the side of her carriage as her maid slowly

pushed it along. I met her very often in my walks, and sometimes

I strolled a little way behind, observing this stately dame, so

afflicted and yet so favored apparently by fortune and misfortune.

She was a very handsome woman of about fifty years of age. Her

silver-gray hair was abundant and beautiful, crowning her with a

dignity beyond the power of any artificial adornment to bestow. The

carriage of her head was proud and erect. Her features were clear

cut and handsome, and the delicate tint of her complexion seemed

almost to belong to youth. She appeared to me like a fine picture

of a court dame in some bygone time, because, with all the air of

style investing her, she was not dressed in the fashion of the day.

In this was shown a fine, nice taste; whatever was her infirmity,

it seemed to place her so removed from the frivolity of her sex

that an affectation of fashion in her attire would have been

unbecoming.

Being so much interested in this lady, I made inquiries, and soon

learned much of her former history. She was a Miss Etheridge,

afflicted with incurable rheumatism, of that kind which renders the

victim almost helpless. She could not stand on her feet or change

her position without the help of others. She could only imperfectly

use her hands, and yet her health was good and her intellect

vigorous. She had been, only a few years before, an active,

energetic woman, remarkably self-reliant and helpful to others. She

had been a beauty and belle in her girlhood, and always a woman

commanding the homage and respect of all who knew her.

But now, what a sad ending of a favored life! “Bound with chains,”

she said to me, for, waving ceremony in view of her great

affliction, I called upon her and cultivated an acquaintance which

I never regretted. Debarred as she was from all occupation, she was

very fond of society. Her hands, once very beautiful, as former

portraits showed, were now so distorted and weakened as to be

unable to hold any but the lightest books or pamphlets for reading,

and that not very long at a time. So, in her luxurious apartments,

surrounded by every alleviation that wealth could bestow, this lady

passed many lonely hours and days--hours of intense weariness of

both body and mind. Sitting in her massive, high-backed chair, she

looked like a fine picture and showed no sign of her infirmity; yet

how her poor limbs ached from the mere lack of change of posture,

only those similarly affected can tell. An intimacy sprang up

between us so easily that I was often present at times when her

attendants moved and dressed her; and then it was that I became

aware of the extent of torture to which she was subjected by the

mere moving of a limb. Much of her time she passed lying in her

bed, from an intense dread of the severe ordeal of being moved. I

have passed hours sitting by her bedside, reading to her and in

conversation with her, and by this means came to know much of her

state of mind and religious feeling.

I admired the fortitude and patience with which she bore her

burden, yet it did seem to me quite as much Spartan endurance as

Christian meekness or acceptance of the will of God. Hers was

a heroic nature, with some pious yearnings uncultivated. She

chafed like a caged lioness, but was too proud to whine or repine

in any cowardly fashion. She was an Episcopalian of the firm,

old-fashioned type that eschews both Ritualism and Evangelicalism.

To be as the bishops and clergymen of her family, who had supplied

the church of her affections for generations with clerical stock,

seemed to her just the right medium, and in clinging to this

standard she simply starved her soul. She knew me to be a Catholic,

a “Roman Catholic”--for she also claimed to be a Catholic, an

“Anglican Catholic,” as I also had once done. I, being a recent

convert, felt enthusiastic even while timid on this subject.

I had passed through the ordeal of estrangement from friends,

been exposed to misunderstanding of my motives and all the whips

and stings to which those who take this step are subjected, too

recently not to be very sensitive about laying myself open to the

charge of endeavoring to proselyte another. I loved Miss Etheridge

and her society too well to risk her displeasure, or by speaking

overmuch of my own faith to give any handle for her relatives

to turn against us. She, on her part, was too truly polite to

ever make any unpleasant allusions to the subject. And yet how

much I longed for her to know what a sure trust and support she

_could_ have if she only _would_! When I heard her involuntary

moans, my prayers went up for the intercession of the Mother of

Sorrows, again, and yet again. And I knew all the time that _that_

intercession she rejected with scorn. Nothing I could have said

to her would have been so unwelcome as a prayer to the Blessed

Virgin in her behalf. Yet I did ask that tender intercession, and I

believe the All-Pitying Woman above was touched with compassion for

the proud, suffering woman who would not ask her aid.

On one occasion, when our conversation had drifted along to the

subject of the next life, she remarked that to _her_ the bliss to

be desired was to be “unchained--‘delivered from the body of this

death.’”

“My dear friend,” said I, “if you die before I do, my regrets will

be tempered by the thought that your ‘earthly clogs’ are cast off.”

“Ah! if there is a purgatory,” she often said, “I am enduring mine

here. What has been my sin more than another’s, that this should be

thrust upon me!” And at these times the tone of her voice and the

expression of her face showed the impatient, unchastened fire of

the haughty, rebellious spirit.

But had she none of the consolations of religion? Protestants are

not pagans. No, indeed. This lady had her books of devotion in

profusion. Her elegant Book of Common Prayer and her Bible lay

always at hand. Other books also were on her table--“Counsel for

the Sick-Room,” and kindred works, of which she contemptuously

remarked that they were written by persons in good health, who

found it very easy to bear patiently the pains and crosses of

other people, but who might possibly not be such fine Christian

philosophers if they had to endure all this themselves.

In her palmy days of health and strength she had been a communicant

in the Episcopal Church, and now, when, according to the teaching

of that church, she needed still more the nourishment for her

soul’s health, she declined availing herself of the privilege.

This always seemed to me very strange, knowing full well as I

did what her church taught her, and what in all consistency she

should do. But on this topic my lips were closed. Her pastor was

a timid young man, who visited her at intervals, but who was

afraid to urge anything upon her which she seemed not to wish. I

found from her own and others’ conversation concerning him that he

regarded his highest duty to his flock to be that of preaching to

them, and their highest duty to come to church and listen to him.

To give him as little trouble as possible, and leave him as much

time to himself as they could, was to make themselves agreeable

parishioners. He delighted in having certain enthusiastic and

well-disposed ladies conduct Sunday-schools, societies, charities,

visiting of the sick, and all other troublesome matters; thereby

relieving him of all need to bother himself and take his thoughts

from the fine sermons which he delighted to elaborate in his study.

His wife and children claimed much of his attention, and through

them society had its demands on him. In short, he liked to be very

comfortable, and much money “donated” by good and kind people went

to put him and his family in the enjoyment of ease and refinement,

which money might, I often thought, have helped to build schools

and charities. I, however, cared for the success of this reverend

gentleman’s ministrations only as they affected my friend Miss

Etheridge. I think he regarded me with distrust and disfavor. He

always spoke of me as a _pervert_ and _Romanist_, but as he was a

thorough gentleman, and as Miss Etheridge was a lady who always had

her own way accorded her, no unpleasant collision ever occurred

between us. I was one who never listened to his preaching, and

therefore was uninteresting to him, except as I might influence one

of his fold. Seeing no signs of this dire result of my intimacy,

he accepted it passively as one of the circumstances which he must

submit to, if not approve.

One day I was returning from Miss Etheridge’s house, when I met two

Sisters of Charity, just about entering a poor, low dwelling not

far from the rich one I had just left. Having a slight acquaintance

with the sisters, I stopped to exchange a few words with them, and

to ask what was their mission of mercy in this abode.

“Oh! we are going in to see poor Mrs. McGowan,” said one of them.

“Her time passes very tediously at the best, and she likes to have

us come and read to her. Will you go in and see her?”

“What is the matter with her, sister?” I asked, as I turned in at

the gate, responding to the invitation.

“Chronic rheumatism,” said Sister Francina--“the saddest case!

so helpless and so lonely as she is! She has had it five years,

growing worse all the time.”

And now we were at the door of this victim of the terrible tyrant

whose power I had witnessed in the house of her rich neighbor. I

need not say how interested I was at once.

Poor, ignorant, Irish, and childless was Mrs. McGowan--but a

Catholic. Very mean were all her surroundings, but very decent and

cleanly. She was a woman but little older than Miss Etheridge, and

in some respects not unlike her. Education and high breeding and

polish were lacking, but some look in her face and complexion, and

especially in the poor twisted hands, constantly reminded me of my

friend. Here the silver-gray hair was almost covered by the hideous

wide-frilled cap which elderly Irish women consider so decorous.

Her plain dark cotton gown presented a contrast to the rich massive

folds of Miss Etheridge’s heavy silk robe. No high, carved,

cushioned chair supported her, but she sat on the side of her bed,

with her hands patiently folded in her lap. Miss Etheridge always

had her maid within call.

Bright-eyed, rosy Maggie Maloney I see her now, tenderly brushing

a fly from her mistress’ forehead, or fanning her, or handing

her books, a handkerchief, glass of water, or whatever else was

required. But here, from morning till night sat poor Mrs. McGowan,

depending for all such little offices on the kindness of her humble

neighbors and their children. Her husband was a poor mechanic, who

left her every morning after assisting her to dress, and lifting

her from her bed to the seat by the bedside. After this, a kind

woman, her nearest neighbor, performed all the services necessary

for her.

And so her weary hours passed. Equally helpless with Miss

Etheridge, how very different were her surroundings! No fine

pictures upon which to rest her weary eyes hung upon these walls.

Here only a low ceiling and bare walls, with one small window from

which she gazed, seeing what she might of the passers-by. No maid

to obey her slightest demand; no exquisite music-boxes, to the low,

sweet tinkling notes of which she might listen; no birds, pictures,

books, flowers, fine furniture, hangings, and carpets contributed

what they might to soften _her_ hard lot. Poor Mrs. McGowan had

none of these. Bare, cold, hard, and pitiless seemed her position,

and yet she appeared to me the happier woman of the two. A serene

contentment and cheerful acceptance of God’s will seemed to sustain

her. Miss Etheridge was surrounded by relatives who vied with each

other in their attentions to her, and were devoured by jealousy

of each other as her favor inclined capriciously, sometimes to

one, sometimes to another. Indeed, I often thought this lady

could not really tell between them all what was done for love

of her and what for interested motives, she having a fortune to

bestow as she pleased. Mrs. McGowan also had her relatives, but

they were hard-working people, nieces and cousins who lived at

service, and who came to see her at intervals of time and stayed

as long as they could be spared. Stout men would lend their strong

arms occasionally to carry her to some other part of her little

dwelling. This was all the change of scene she had been able to

obtain for years.

The similarity and dissimilarity in the lot of these two women

chained my attention. My interest in the one increased my interest

in the other, and I was thus led to compare their different ways of

bearing their sufferings.

I could not help seeing that Mrs. McGowan was the happier of

the two, despite her poverty. Why was this? I could not think

it entirely proceeded from a more cheerful temperament, because

Miss Etheridge was far from being a morose or despondent woman.

But Mrs. McGowan performed to the best of her ability all her

religious duties. Regularly her parish priest came to her to hear

her confession and administer to her the Blessed Sacrament. To all

of us comes a time in our lives when we feel the need of something

more than our own or any human support, and such aid from above

this humble sufferer accepted in simple, childlike faith and

trust, while her proud sister-in-need disdained to receive it. No

wonder that one was stronger to bear her heavy affliction than the

other. Of what avail was Miss Etheridge’s superior education and

cultivation to loosen or lighten her “chains”? They clasped her

quite as closely and pitilessly as those of her ignorant neighbor.

And while Christ himself was the soul’s health of the one, only a

cold, bare formula of religious observance was offered to the other.

I longed to bring Miss Etheridge to the sense of this, so plain

to myself. But hesitating always in my sensitiveness as to how

my motives might be construed, I mused long upon the best way of

introducing the subject. I at last concluded to get her to pass

Mrs. McGowan’s door in my company. This was very naturally and

easily accomplished, and I, walking by her side, told her of Mrs.

McGowan, and pointed out her little dwelling. Mrs. Etheridge was

interested at once, and, stopping her carriage by the gate, I

went in, and told Mrs. McGowan to look out of the window at her

guest. She already knew of Miss Etheridge and her affliction,

and, with the keen, quick sympathy of her race, responded at once

to the demand upon her. I felt the tears come up to my eyes so

involuntarily and uncontrollably, that I stepped back so that Miss

Etheridge might not perceive my agitation. It was touching to see

these two, so far removed in social position, so near in a common

suffering, talking of their feelings to each other. Miss Etheridge

never forgot her dignity for an instant, and Mrs. McGowan, who had

been a servant in her youth, did not presume, but acknowledged by

her manner her appreciation of the superiority of her visitor, and

yet with delicate tact tendered her pity and sympathy. Through the

open window her voice came kindly, and her face looked cheerfully

to Miss Etheridge, who was able to perceive also how homely and

mean were all the surroundings of her fellow-sufferer.

“You are better cared for than I am, ma’am, and likely you will

last longer; but sure, my pains would be as great in a palace as

they are here. It is the Lord’s will, and I must be content.”

“May the good Lord help you, and me too,” said Miss Etheridge.

Her proud face softened with a tender pity, and her voice had

a tremulous vibration in it, as of some hidden chord in her

heart stirred now, perhaps, for the first time. She seemed very

thoughtful and silent on our way back, and I thought she was more

patient with her attendants as she was lifted out of her carriage

and placed in her usual chair.

After this she sent or carried to Mrs. McGowan many presents of

little delicacies and comforts, and the gratitude which the poor

woman freely expressed seemed to please Miss Etheridge more than

anything else. It became a hobby with her to contrive some new

comfort and pleasure for Mrs. McGowan.

“Ah! ma’am,” said the poor soul, “an’ what can the likes of me do

for you? I have nothing to give you but my prayers,” which I doubt

not she did give in no scant measure. I often thought that she

enlisted powerful intercessions in behalf of Miss Etheridge which

that lady would not have secured for herself.

One day, as we stopped by the little window, the sweet face of

Sister Francina looked out at us. I glanced quickly at Miss

Etheridge, but that high-bred lady showed no prejudice, whatever

she might feel. She was looking kindly and courteously, bowing

her head to the sister, even before I could speak the words of

introduction. The sister, led on by Miss Etheridge’s cordial

manner, and her sincere interest in one of whom she had heard so

much, held quite a sprightly conversation with us. She spoke of

the frequency of her visits to Mrs. McGowan, and praised the poor

woman’s uniform patience and cheerfulness and piety.

A few days after this, I was astonished by Miss Etheridge asking

me if it would be against rule for Sister Francina to visit her. I

replied, “As you are an invalid, I think not.” Then Miss Etheridge

asked me if I thought I could not induce her to come. “I will try,”

I replied.

“I wish it,” she said--“I wish it very much. I think I may have the

few comforts I can enjoy, and I _will_.”

This was uttered in a tone of such decision and defiance that

I almost felt that I myself was supposed to oppose her in the

matter. But the tone was really against the bitter opposition

she knew she was courting, both for herself and me, from her

anxious and affectionate relatives. The having of her own way

and asserting herself on any subject, only added a spice to her

enjoyment of what she attained, but it placed me in an awkward

position toward her family. I knew that it would seem to them that

I had urged this visit of Sister Francina, or at least brought it

about by more direct means than was really the case. True, I was

the instrument, but Miss Etheridge used me more voluntarily than

they would believe. I did not like to be regarded in the light in

which I was sure I would be viewed--as an undermining and scheming

emissary of Rome. But, on the other hand, I did not like to be

cowardly in refusing to procure for Miss Etheridge so very innocent

a pleasure. If she were merely whimsical in her wish to have the

sister visit her, still, why not let her be indulged? It was the

sister’s mission to visit the afflicted, and here was an appeal to

her charity, and to mine too. So I plucked up my courage, which was

backed up by my affection for Miss Etheridge, and soon brought

Sister Francina to her. It was as we anticipated. The family were

up in arms about this visit. One would have supposed that I had

brought a wolf, or “roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour,” to

Miss Etheridge, instead of meek, gentle, innocent Sister Francina,

strong only in her holy faith. But if no one else was brave, Miss

Etheridge certainly was. She expressed herself so pleased at the

sister’s visit, that she asked it as a personal favor and charity

to herself that the sister would come often. With great delicacy,

the sister was urged to accept a generous gift for the mission

in which she was engaged. And Sister Francina did come; not very

often--Miss Etheridge and her family could not think she presumed

upon the encouragement she received--but still often enough to

endear herself to Miss Etheridge more and more. The family were

rampant, but powerless. Still Miss Etheridge chose to have me walk

by her carriage. Still she would go and talk to Mrs. McGowan, and,

doing so, she met at last Father B----. He was going in at the gate

just as we, from an opposite direction, came around the corner of

the house. I knew him at once, and told Miss Etheridge, asking if

we should go on, which I supposed she would prefer. I was surprised

at her expressing her intention to stop. She had in her lap a

basket of fruit which she wished to leave for Mrs. McGowan, and,

“if the priest would not object to her, she certainly would not

shun him.”

Father B---- was a convert himself from the Anglican ranks. He bore

about him all the genial _bonhomie_, the polished bearing, and

gentle dignity which is characteristic of that class of Protestant

clergy. Miss Etheridge had never been personally acquainted with

him, but, having heard him preach in the bygone days when she

went to church and his eloquence charmed Protestant audiences,

she retained still a curiosity, if nothing more, concerning him.

This at least was no stern-browed ascetic with the odor of a

sanctity she could not appreciate about him, but a kindly, social

gentleman, with many little points of sympathy whereon to begin an

acquaintance. Father B----, seeing no repulse, readily responded

to Miss Etheridge’s overtures of good-will. She certainly found

her mind disabused of many previous notions of this priest at

least. On the whole, I felt glad of the meeting. It thawed some

remaining reserve on our part in discussing the differences

between us in faith. I told her frankly how I had been led, step

by step, into the fold wherein I now rejoiced to be. How my first

dissatisfaction in the Episcopal Church had arisen from witnessing

the utter inability of the pastor to withstand lay interference in

matters which belonged exclusively to the clergy. How two wardens

in open enmity still partook of the sacrament, in defiance of the

rubric which bears upon the case, and which the rector never dared

to enforce. How I had heard such various teaching and explaining

of the creed, services, articles of religion, and everything

appertaining to the whole system, that it seemed to me like the

confusion of tongues “worse confounded.” That the desire to embrace

in the Anglican fold such opposing elements as Calvinism on the

one hand, and pure, “primitive,” and mediæval Christianity on the

other--to be Ritualistic and Evangelical at the same time, worked

such mischief and rebellion that I had longed for some authority,

some utterance which had the ring of the true metal, and some fold

wherein I might be _at rest_.

Miss Etheridge listened very patiently, very thoughtfully. I

hardly expected so little opposition to all I said. She granted

the force of my objections, but wondered at my being able to

acquiesce in all which I had now accepted. I replied that perhaps

what I had accepted would not seem to her so very unreasonable

if she came to examine and understand it as I did; that nothing

dispelled prejudice like an acquaintance with and analysis of the

objectionable subjects; that the effect was frequently like that

produced by examining some supposed spectre which has frightened

us in the dark, and which we find to be only an innocent optical

illusion.

After this, I refrained from obtruding any more of my religious

views upon Miss Etheridge, until one day when she asked me to read

_Morte d’Arthur_ to her, and I came upon the passage:

“Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.”

I remarked that Tennyson had, with a poet’s insight, spoken like

a true Catholic. Miss Etheridge denied that it was Tennyson’s own

belief advanced, but only that of King Arthur, the words being put

into his mouth by the poet as fitting for him, the same as any

writer would make any Catholic speak, or as he might put very evil

words into the mouth of a blasphemer.

“True,” I said; “but while an author must make his characters

speak according to their supposed faith, he is not obliged to

give such forcible words to them in opposition to his own private

belief. He is hardly likely to do so. He may screen himself behind

his characters, or he may betray himself through them. We may guess

at his own leanings more or less accurately, and he may contradict

himself. Here certainly the poet seems in favor of prayers for the

dead.”

“But is it prayer for the _dead_ Arthur, after all?” said she. “Was

he not only going away ‘to the island-valley of Avilion?’”

“Tennyson has named the poem _Morte d’Arthur_, and it is so

accepted and understood,” I replied.

She acquiesced in this, but still opposed with true Protestant

unbelief and persistency the idea that any good could come from

prayers for the dead.

I told her that, even while I had been a Protestant, this had

always seemed to me a tender and affectionate practice of Catholics

to try to reach and help those on the other side of the grave, and

that, even if it were unavailing, it was at least harmless, and I

could never understand why it should be denounced as wicked. That

it benefited the souls of those who prayed, at least, if not those

for whom they prayed.

“My dear Miss Etheridge,” said I, “is the thought that I might pray

for the repose of your soul after your death offensive to you now

in life?”

She was silent only a moment. That she could be the object of such

prayer was probably then presented to her mind for the first time,

and startled her somewhat. Then she said:

“Why, no; certainly not. I cannot but regard it as a kind and

loving thing to do, even if a useless one.”

“But you would not do as much for me,” I rejoined.

“Ah,” she said evasively, “you will not be neglected; be sure of

that.”

Only about a week after this we heard that Mrs. McGowan was ill.

The blinds were closed at her window, and Father B---- and the

sisters went oftener than usual to see her. I too went back and

forth, and brought Miss Etheridge tidings of how Mrs. McGowan bore

her sufferings; of all that was done for her spiritual and bodily

comfort, of all that was hoped and all that was feared, and at last

of her death.

This affected Miss Etheridge more than one could have supposed

possible. It was touching to witness her sadness. That this proud

lady, so widely separated in everything but the same infirmity

from this poor Irishwoman, should truly grieve for her awakened

in me a greater admiration for Miss Etheridge’s noble heart than

I had before entertained. She seemed restless and anxious to be

doing something still for the poor woman. She asked me if I did not

think it could be managed that she could see Mrs. McGowan once more

before her burial.

I told her it could without difficulty, and so it was done.

Respectfully the crowd parted for her little carriage as it made

its way through the humble assemblage which is sure to be around

the house of death among the Irish. Willing arms carried her to the

side of the coffin, whereon her own gifts--a cross and crown of

beautiful flowers--had been placed.

In silent dignity she gazed at the face and hands of the

dead--curiously at the lighted candles and emblems of the faith

of the departed, and at the habit which covered the body, now

straightened in the rigidity of death.

She was very composed, and soon signified her desire to be conveyed

to her carriage, and in silence she returned to her home. I thought

Miss Etheridge showed, in this act of going to pay the last mark

of respect to her humble friend, true heroism and charity. She was

a mark of curious observation to a crowd of people with whom she

had no sympathy, and her helplessness and peculiar infirmity made

her more sensitive to the notice and notoriety which she knew her

going would bring upon her; and yet she had the courage to brave

such results. Only a true lady, lifted above all vulgar fears and

considerations, would have done this. No _mean_ soul would have

desired so to do.

“The chains have fallen off her now,” she said to me. “I wonder

if she remembers and thinks of me. You think of her as being in a

different state from that which I have been taught to believe as

that of the departed; but we will not argue about it now. I only

want to do for her yet--something which I do believe she would,

poor soul, have done for me, had I gone first. It pleases me to do

what she would in life have liked to think would be done for her,

whether availing or unavailing.”

And with this apologetic remark, Miss Etheridge actually placed in

my hand a large sum of money to convey to Father B---- for Masses

to be said for the repose of the soul of Mrs. McGowan. I was truly

astonished. Was this the fruit of our reading of _Morte d’Arthur_?

If so, I blessed the day we did it. But I was afraid of being

hopeful overmuch, Miss Etheridge might never advance beyond this

liberal yielding of a stubborn prejudice. It was the last thing she

could do for her poor friend, and her generous soul took pleasure

in doing it. I was afraid that this was all; and for a time it

seemed to be all.

The summer passed into autumn, and I was recalled to my city home.

I parted with Miss Etheridge with great regret, and the more so

because she could not write to me, save by the hand of another. I

promised to write to her, and she said that I should get tidings of

her from time to time in some way. “According to my message shall

my scribe be,” she said, and so we parted.

I did write from time to time, and I had a brief note now and

then, written by Miss Etheridge’s business agent, telling me of

her continued good health, but increasing infirmity. But during

Easter-tide I received a longer missive, written in the delicate

penmanship of Sister Francina. “According to my message shall my

scribe be,” she had said to me, and now I knew her meaning, for the

message was that she was a Catholic.

As I folded up the letter, the words came to my mind:

“These through great affliction came.”

DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY.

NO. VI.

PRIVATE DUTIES--CONTINUED.

The life of that class which in fashionable parlance is called

“society” in the capitals and great towns of Europe, and especially

in Paris, the capital of the _beau monde_, is the most opposite

to the ideal of the Christian life that can exist without being

essentially criminal. The same remark applies, of course, to the

imitation of it among ourselves. We have implied that it is not

essentially criminal. Not that it is possible to doubt the vast

amount of moral evil existing in its bosom, but that this evil

is not in the very nature of the mode of life intended, in such

a way that all those who are engaged in it must necessarily live

in sin. The nature or essence of this mode of life consists in

making the pursuit of social and other pleasures, in themselves

innocent and lawful, a regular and habitual occupation, instead

of an occasional relaxation. It is possible to do this, without

grievously neglecting those duties which are of positive obligation

in one’s state of life, and without neglecting the precepts of

religion. It is, nevertheless, difficult to do it for a long time.

It is a dangerous kind of life to lead. And precisely because it

is dangerous, the church is indulgent to those who are involved

in it, allows them to receive the sacraments with the greatest

liberality, and encourages them to approach these sources of grace

frequently, in order that they may be preserved from sin. Some,

especially women under the authority of parents or husbands who are

worldly minded and imperious, are involved in such a life against

their own inclination, others are kept in it by their own levity

and weakness of character and the force of habit and fashion. The

former ought to receive the sacraments as frequently as possible,

in order that they may triumph over the obstacles in the way of

attaining that degree of perfection to which they aspire. The

latter ought to do the same, in order that they may live in the

state of grace and save their souls. This is a doctrine which

gives scandal to rigorists and Pharisees, and frequently the

persons who are inwardly the most corrupt are the most rigoristic

in their opinions. But the Catholic Church, which has cast out the

Jansenistic leaven as a detestable and deadly poison, cares not for

Pharisaic scandal, and does care for the soul of the imperfect and

the sinner, whom she acknowledges for her children.

Indulgent as the church is to those who are weak and imperfect

Christians, or who even fall often into sin, provided they are

always trying to rise out of it again, she never ceases to hold up

her ideal of the Christian life in all its perfection before her

children, and to admonish and persuade them by the most powerful

motives to copy it in their actions. All those who really aim at

being good Christians are uneasy in a worldly life, and generally

withdraw from it, to a great extent, when they become sobered by

age and experience. Those who are fervent have a great dislike for

it, and have always done their utmost to emancipate themselves

from its servitude and frivolity. It is a dangerous kind of life,

and one which becomes wearisome and insipid after a time even

to those who have no taste for anything better. To pass all the

months which are spent in town, with the exception of a few weeks

in Lent, in a round of balls, parties, visits, and theatre-going,

and to dawdle away the summer in the inanities and _ennui_ of

a fashionable watering-place, is to make existence as flat and

unprofitable as it can well be--to exhaust its flavor as well as

waste its substance. The satire of Thackeray is only simple truth,

and it is enough to direct to the page of the novelist for a full

illustration of the moral we wish to point, without referring

the jaded votaries of fashion to any more tedious species of

literature. It is necessary to distinguish among the fashions and

pleasures of the world those which are positively immoral from

those which are innocent in themselves, and only noxious when they

are inordinate and excessive. It is a matter of strict obligation

to shun the former altogether. Immodest dances and fashions of

dress, licentious plays, excess in eating and drinking, are sinful

in themselves, and lead to the grossest sins. It is a simple matter

of fact that society among the higher classes, in the nations

of Christendom, has been for a long time, and still is, deeply

affected by the moral corruption into which the pursuit of pleasure

as the occupation of life always tends to resolve itself. Paris,

the modern Babylon, has led the way, and the world has followed

Paris. This corruption is the chief cause of the miseries with

which society has been scourged and is now threatened. From the

court of Louis XV. the first step was to the Place de Grève, the

second to the burning Tuileries. Petroleum, which will one day burn

up the world, is the oil which bubbles up in the bosom of a corrupt

Christian aristocracy, the product of the wickedness of the higher

classes in Christian society, who have turned away from a true

Catholic life to the life of pagans, or a life for this world only.

A _beau monde_, indeed, it is! It is against such a _beau monde_ as

this, with its whole complex of heresy and immorality, infidelity

and licentiousness, intellectual pride and low materialism,

outward splendor and inward contempt of all dignity or authority,

superficial gaiety and real, haggard misery, all closely affianced

and affiliated together, that Pius IX. has been perpetually

fulminating his condemnation. But we may go further back and

higher up than Pius IX. to St. Peter himself, and find the same

denunciation of heresy, revolt, and luxury, as allied vices,

expressed in much severer language than that of his successor. In

his second Encyclical Epistle, the Prince of the Apostles writes as

follows:

“The Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of temptation; but

to reserve the unjust unto the day of judgment to be tormented.

And especially those who _walk after the flesh_ in the lust of

uncleanness, and _despise governments_, audacious, pleasing

themselves, they _fear not to bring in sects_, blaspheming, ...

_as irrational beasts_, naturally tending to the snare, and

to destruction, blaspheming those things which they know not,

they shall perish in their corruption, receiving the reward of

injustice, _counting pleasure the delights of a day_, stains

and blemishes, _flowing in delicacies, rioting in their feasts

with you_, having eyes full of adultery, and of never-ceasing

sin: alluring unstable souls, having their heart exercised with

covetousness, sons of malediction; ... these are fountains

without water, and clouds tossed with whirlwinds, to whom the

mist of darkness is reserved. For, _speaking swelling words of

vanity_, they allure in desires of the flesh of riotousness

_those who had escaped a little from them who converse in error:

promising them liberty_, when they themselves are slaves of

corruption; for by whom a man is overcome, of the same also he is

the slave. For, if having fled from the pollution of the world

through the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, being

again entangled in them, they are overcome; _their latter state

is become unto them worse than the former_.”[109]

We may see this exemplified in Rome at the present moment, in

Victor Emanuel, Hyacinthe, Gavazzi, the Jews Arbib and Jacob Dina,

the venders of infidel and licentious prints, sectarian preachers,

chiefs of the Garibaldian faction, and courtesans, all knotted

together like a pyramid of rattlesnakes, to hiss against the Holy

Father, the representative on earth of Christ and God. And this is

the modern world, as opposed to the true Christian society, the

church. It is an apostasy worse than heathenism; “for it had been

better not to have known the way of justice, than, after having

known it, to have turned back from that holy commandment.” This

apostasy shows itself more glaringly in the Rome of Victor Emanuel

and his _buzzurri_ than elsewhere, but it is the same throughout

the modern world. And in this world Catholics must live, and live

either superior to it, or its slaves. If they are contaminated by

it, their moral corruption leads them directly to the loss of faith

as well as the loss of grace. The infidelity into which numbers of

the higher classes on the Continent of Europe have fallen during

the past century is notorious. We have had some of these degenerate

Catholics among ourselves, retaining the name of Catholic as a kind

of national and family heirloom, but denying and mocking at all

the mysteries of faith, resisting and thwarting the bishops and

priests who founded our American churches, and generally crying

out for a priest in their last moments, while their relatives

are chiefly anxious for the pomp of a requiem, a solemn funeral

procession, and a monument in consecrated ground. Love of the world

has made others, who have had a better education in their youth,

become apathetic and alienated from their fellow-Catholics and the

church, as they have grown rich. And some have openly apostatized,

in order to profess a _more genteel religion_. The inordinate love

of wealth, pleasure, and honor, brings the will into collision

with the practical, moral law of the church, and thus implants an

aversion to the Catholic religion and the spirit of revolt against

it. These dispositions prepare the way for the revolt of the

will, and through the will of the mind, against the doctrine and

authority of the church, and eventually for a total abjuration

of allegiance to God. The sinner is always called in the ancient

Scriptures _a fool_, because he prefers this world to the next,

creatures to the Creator; and “_the fool hath said in his heart,

there is no God_.” The only consistent alternative is, therefore,

the total abjuration of folly, complete subjection to the law of

wisdom, and the regulation of the whole life in conformity to its

dictates. The fashions and customs of the world, when they are

contrary to Catholic principles, must be wholly renounced and

despised. Nay, more. When they are absurd, ridiculous, contrary to

reason and good sense, one who has a proper respect for himself and

a just independence of character ought to neglect and disregard

them, unless doing so involves a greater inconvenience than that

caused by conformity. Those who profess to be governed by the law

of Christ ought to regulate their table, their household order,

their dress, their social customs, their pleasures and amusements,

and all the minor morals of life, by a Christian standard, and not

by the standard of a corrupt world. To be ashamed and afraid to

do this is disgraceful cowardice. It is for Christians to subdue

the world and compel it to conform, at least outwardly, to their

standard; not to submit to its galling and degrading servitude. If

this cannot be done, let them cut the world, in so far as their

relative duties and necessary obligations towards it will permit,

and form their own separate society; as they have frequently been

forced to do since Christianity was founded. It is necessary to

keep the law of Christ, it is necessary to be wholly conformed in

mind and conduct to the doctrine and spirit of the church, it is

necessary to merit the kingdom of heaven; but it is not necessary

to be fashionable or to please the world. Moreover, to be truly

honorable, it is necessary that one should esteem his Catholic

profession as his greatest glory, and not tarnish it by sentiments

or conduct unworthy of a Christian. Most of those Catholics in this

country who are now living in ease and affluence are descended from

ancestors who sacrificed everything and suffered untold hardships

for their faith; and what do they deserve if they dishonor the

blood of the martyrs by becoming the slaves of the wicked power

which persecuted them?

We desire now to apply all that we have said in a special manner

to the education of children--the most important of all the

private duties of heads of families. What we have to say on this

head applies in general to all parents in comparatively easy

circumstances, but in some particulars to those only who are

wealthy in the strict sense of the term. The weighty obligation

rests on all Catholic parents of bringing up their children in the

faith and in virtue, in view of the great end of life, which is to

glorify God here and to enjoy him hereafter in heaven. This is a

difficult task in itself, especially so in the present age and in

this country, and in some respects more difficult for those who

are rich than for any others, excepting, perhaps, the very poor.

The children of the rich in this country are generally brought

up in great self-indulgence, excessive liberty, and according to

a precocious method. They are prepared for a kind of life which

requires great wealth, and, at the same time, their prospects of

possessing it with permanent security are very precarious. We

might adduce many considerations going to show that it is almost

to be regarded as a calamity rather than an advantage to be born

of rich parents in this country. If we had accurate statistics,

they would, in our opinion, show that very few of the children

and descendants of wealthy families have remained in affluent or

even easy circumstances. The majority of those who are rich are

children of parents who were poor, or, at least, dependent on their

own exertions for a living. A great number of the children who

have been brought up with the expectation of inheriting a fortune

have become poor, and far too many have gone altogether to ruin.

The sons of the rich are exposed to the danger of being ruined by

the vices into which they easily fall, and by the indolent and

inefficient character they too frequently form, together with

the reverses of fortune which are not fatal to energetic men,

yet are ordinarily fatal to those whose habits are effeminate.

Their daughters are exposed to the same reverses of fortune,

to the miseries resulting from unhappy marriages, and to the

consequences which follow from personal habits of extravagance and

self-indulgence. Most of these miseries flow from a bad education,

and those which proceed from no such cause and are among the

inevitable evils of this earthly life, are made unbearable and

desperate by the effects of a bad education.

So far as temporal well-being is concerned, parents ought to aim at

preparing their children to take care of themselves after they are

grown up. All boys, no matter how rich their fathers may be, ought

to be prepared for some profession or business in which they can

make their own fortune, or, at least, a living, and they should be

compelled to take care of themselves when they become men, without

any more help from their fathers than is sufficient to place them

in the way of doing so. This is the only way to perpetuate wealth

in families, for, if children are trained up to live in leisure

on the fortunes which they are to inherit, the largest fortunes

will soon be lost by division and subdivision, even if they are

not scattered by dissipation or mismanagement. Daughters should be

educated in such a way that they can be their own housekeepers,

or even earn their living by their education and accomplishments,

if the reverses of their parents or the disasters of married life

bring them into straits and difficulties.

This result can only be secured by keeping children in the state

and under the discipline of childhood so long as they are children

in age. Obedience, industry, self-denial, simplicity of dress and

diet, moderation in amusements, and a strictly and purely Catholic

education--such are the only means of preparing children either for

a condition of wealth or for one of poverty. Our American children

who are reared in the families of the rich are generally brought

out of the nursery and the school-room too young: they are too

highly fed, too much indulged, have too many amusements, and are

_blasé_ before they are fully grown. Is it judicious for Christian

mothers to dress their little daughters like ballet-dancers for

their children’s parties? To send their sons with billets of

excuse from their lessons to school after taking them overnight

to the opera or theatre? What can be expected of children who are

allowed to sleep late, to eat daintily and excessively, to read

all kinds of trash, to dress extravagantly, spend money, go about

with liberty, and indulge in pleasures which keep them up late

at night? Such a life has a worse effect than merely to make the

character effeminate. It directly fosters the most morbid and

destructive propensities of the weak and fragile human nature,

and leads to vice and death. We do not speak of those cases where

parents lead their children to ruin by the direct influence of

impious or immoral conversation, or an example which is flagrantly

bad. There are some such who would seem to set to work with an

express purpose of corrupting and ruining their children. But our

present purpose is with those who may be supposed to read our

articles attentively and seriously, and who cannot, therefore, be

suspected of anything worse than weakness, or error of judgment. It

is against this weak following of the common fashion, the common

maxims, the common current of the world, that we warn those parents

who wish to be good Christians and to bring up their children well.

The highest and ultimate end of education is the attainment of

the chief good to which the soul is destined, and to which it

has received the right in baptism. The principal obligation of

Catholic parents is, therefore, the education of their children in

the principles and practices of the faith and law of the church.

And this leads us to speak of the obligation of the rich, the

educated, and all the influential laymen of the Catholic Church

in this country, to bestir themselves in the work of Catholic

education. Schools and colleges, purely and thoroughly Catholic,

and fully sufficient to give all the requisite kinds and degrees

of instruction which are needed by our youth, must be multiplied

and sustained. It is a fixed and settled doctrine of the church

that education is by divine right under the care and jurisdiction

of the hierarchy. Those who teach the contrary are unsound in

doctrine, and good Catholics are bound in conscience to give no

heed to their opinions on this point. It is, moreover, a point

also settled by the highest authority in the church, viz., that of

the bishops of those countries where mixed education is a subject

of practical moment, and of the Holy See, that mixed education is

dangerous. This is the judgment of the bishops of Germany, Ireland,

England, and the United States. As an instance, we cite the

language of the Irish bishops in a resolution passed unanimously at

Maynooth, August 18, 1869, in which they say:

“They reiterate their condemnation of the mixed system of

education, whether primary, intermediate, or university, as

grievously and intrinsically dangerous to the faith and morals

of Catholic youth; and they declare that to Catholics only,

and under the supreme control of the church in all things

appertaining to faith and morals, can the teaching of Catholics

be safely entrusted.”

The decrees of the Councils of Baltimore are of the same tenor, as

is likewise the official action of the bishops of England.

Pius IX., in his _Syllabus_ of Dec. 8, 1864, condemned the

proposition (No. 48):

“Catholics may approve that mode of education of youth which is

disjoined from the Catholic faith and the power of the church,

and which concerns itself exclusively, or at least primarily,

with the knowledge of natural things and the ends of earthly

social life.”

In accordance with this decree, the Holy See has repeatedly sent

instructions to the Irish and English bishops, directing them to

oppose mixed education, and has prohibited ecclesiastics from

holding any office in the Queen’s colleges of Ireland. We are

warranted, therefore in reiterating the declaration made by F.

O’Reilly, of whom the _Dublin Review_ says, “hardly a theologian

can be named in these islands whose name carries with it so much

weight”--that the view which Catholics do take or ought to take

of mixed schools is, that they are “objectionable, dangerous,

ineligible.”[110] In fact, nearly all the Catholics of rank and

wealth in England, the Duke of Norfolk included, have foregone the

advantages of the universities in obedience to this teaching. The

same is true in Ireland, and F. O’Reilly says that “the Catholics

of Ireland _as a body_ (including the upper and middle classes)

repudiate and condemn mixed education as at variance with their

religious principles, views, and opinions.”