The Assumption is the festival of Antwerp, and on that day the

grand church of Notre Dame is _en fête_; therefore, as the mother

rejoices, the children must be happy. The church is the largest and

richest in Belgium; seven aisles wide; the pillars are so numerous,

it looks like a forest; the style is simple, but very fine, pure

Gothic. The main altar was splendidly illuminated by hundreds of

wax candles, and all down the nave the most magnificent banners

were suspended from the columns, producing a superb relief. The

music was excellent, Haydn’s Imperial Mass, with orchestra and

organ and admirably trained voices. Near the main altar are the

_chefs-d’œuvre_ of Rubens--the Ascent and Descent from the Cross.

When we left the cathedral, we stood for a while contemplating

the grand tower, from the top of which on a clear day can be seen

Malines, Brussels, Bruges, and Ghent. The tower is a mass of the

most elaborate tracery, and the filigree carving is so delicate,

Charles V. said it should be put under glass, and Napoleon compared

it to Malines lace. There is a delicious carillon or chime of

ninety-nine bells, which ring every ten minutes, and are played

by machinery, put up in 1540; the great bell, named Charles after

its godfather, Charles V., requires sixteen men to ring it;

consequently, it is only used on great festivals; and as this was

the _Grande Kermesse_ of Antwerp, we heard it.

Near by the cathedral is the fountain cast in iron by Quentin

Matsys, one of the great Flemish painters, when he was a

blacksmith. The story is he fell in love with the daughter of an

artist, who would not consent to the marriage until the blacksmith

should also become an artist. So Quentin Matsys left the forge for

the pencil, and became one of the glories of his country. His tomb

is in the cathedral, his statue ornaments one of the great Places,

and his memory is ardently cherished by his native city.

We were in front of the Hôtel de Ville, a gloomy looking building,

built by the Duke of Alva in the gloomiest Spanish style, and saw

the procession pass. It was very fine; the banners of Antwerp are

unequalled in the northern part of Europe; they were the glories

of the procession. The statue of the Blessed Virgin was gorgeously

dressed in a mass of gold, lace, and precious stones. The banners

were sufficiently splendid in the beginning, but as the canopy over

the Blessed Sacrament appeared, they became more and more dazzling,

perfectly resplendent in the bright sun. The golden lamps borne

around the canopy added to the gorgeousness, the vestments of the

clergy corresponded; and as every one in the procession carried

a light, it was like a stream of fire quivering along the Place.

Files of soldiers made the outer line, and splendid military bands

played at intervals.

One of the events of this _Grande Kermesse_ was the unveiling of

the statue of Teniers, another great Flemish painter. Antwerp is

justly proud of her artist sons, and in her Places can be seen the

statues of Rubens, Vandyck, Quentin Matsys, and Teniers--children

whom the mother delights to honor; but greatest of all her glories

is the grand Cathedral of Notre Dame, which speaks for the faith of

the past that could raise such a glorious monument to the living

God.

LITTLE LOVE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE.”

“_Of such is the kingdom of heaven._”

The first evening-bell of the N---- State Prison had rung, and the

deputy-warden stood in the guard-room taking the ward keys from

their nail, and looking at his revolver. A guard watched from each

of the windows toward the yard, and at one of the narrow loopholes

beside the door stood a little figure on tiptoe peeping out, only

half her face reaching above the wood-work.

This was Minnie Raynor, the warden’s daughter--a child so happy and

so beautiful, that lips unused to fanciful talk called her fanciful

names; a child so sweet, too, that tender looks and thoughts ever

followed her. Rough men patted her nestling cheek, and called her

“darling”; to her father, she was “my angel”; but her mother went

to the heart of the matter, and called her “Little Love.”

The deputy went toward the door near which she stood. “O Minnie! is

it you?” he asked; “or is it a ray of sunshine that has come in at

the window?”

She laughed as she settled down from tiptoe, and turned her head;

and the level sunshine steeped her through--dimpled, delicate face,

luminous brown eyes, flaxen hair, and all her baby whiteness.

“May I go out with you?” she asked in a voice of childish sweetness.

“Certainly!” he answered “Please open the door for me; my hands are

full.”

She tried, in perfect good faith, to do as he bade her; and the men

watched, between amusement and admiration, those tiny rosy hands

that pulled ineffectually at iron bar and nail-studded oaken door.

“I can’t make it move,” she said at length; and, looking about,

perceived that they were laughing at her.

They went out on to the platform, and the door was closed behind

them.

“Now stand close to me while I ring the bell, and watch the men

file in, then we will go down to the prison,” the deputy said.

At the second bell, the convicts marched slowly out of the

different shops, joined in the yard, and passed by, on their way to

the prison, the stairs at the head of which stood the deputy and

Minnie Raynor.

The child looked in wonder at that long line of silent men, who

walked so close together, with interlocked steps, and never raised

their faces. There was something in it that provoked her to

mischief. Sorrow and sin she knew nothing of, and she had never

seen in those about her a gravity which her smiles could not

banish. Why should she not be a sunbeam to this cloud also?

There was a flit of white drapery at the deputy’s side, and a toss

of yellow-flaxen hair.

“Come back, and wait for me,” he said hastily, his eyes fixed on

the advancing line.

There was a trill of bird-toned laughter, and Minnie Raynor

scampered down the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her.

The officer dared not go after her, nor remove his eyes from

his charge, but he leaned a little, and tried to catch her. She

laughed, and fled on, leaving her blue sash in his hand, and,

reaching the outer door of the prison, stood looking at the

convicts as they passed by her.

Hundreds of men were there, each stained by some dark crime,

yet Minnie smiled into their faces, and saw nothing to fear or

dislike. And in every face, as she looked, dimly, as in troubled

waters, there shone back on her a faint and far-away reflection

of remembered childhood and innocence. Every hard face softened,

and met her glance with brightening eyes, and every heart blessed

her--the warden’s bonnie little daughter.

Near the end of the line was a man whose overseers never turned

their backs on him--of whom every officer in the prison was wary.

This man, William Jeffries, had been ten years under sentence

of death for wilful murder, and had passed that time in daily

expectation of the order for his execution.

If personal beauty had aught to do with virtue, one might say

that this sentence was an unjust one; for the convict was not

only strikingly handsome, but had an air of superiority. The

black hair was thrown carelessly back, and left fully exposed the

marble-white, exquisite features, whose expression, when he looked

down, was one of pride and melancholy. But when he raised those

full black eyes, the beholder shrank involuntarily from their hard

and brilliant regard. No smile ever was seen on those compressed,

haughty lips; they never spoke save when obliged to, and never

asked a favor. And it was well known that he watched, day and,

night, for any chance of escape, and cherished a deep, cold hate

for his keepers.

As he approached her, Minnie smiled up into his face, then started

forward, and, taking his hand, walked on with him, to the horror of

the guards and the malicious amusement of the convicts. For the man

himself, he merely submitted to the soft clasp of her fingers, and

kept his eyes downcast; but his face turned a deep red, which had

not faded when he reached his cell door.

There the overseer interfered, and drew Minnie away, just as she

was entering the cell.

“I want to go into his play-house, and see the pretty pictures on

the walls,” she said.

“You must not!” was the reply. “It is wicked to go in there. It’s

no place for you.”

Jeffries drew his cell-door to, and, as he stood holding it, gave

the overseer a glance. That glance blazed.

“Don’t stare at me!” the officer exclaimed.

The convict lowered his eyes.

Minnie walked on reluctantly to the end of the ward, and stood

there while the cell doors were locked; then, when she saw the

hands pushed through the gratings, she ran down the walk, full of

frolic, and caught one of them.

“You can’t get it away!” she cried, holding on to the white and

well-formed hand with her tiny fingers.

Had any of his keepers been in front of Jeffries’ cell then, they

would scarcely have recognized him. The bold eyes were soft and

humid, the pallid face faintly colored, and a smile of tender

sweetness trembled about the mouth.

Minnie leaned close against the grating, and looked through at

the pictures that lined the walls of the cell. Only the iron rods

separated her head from that guilty breast, some of her bright

locks pushed through and touched the convict’s sleeve, and her

tender hands still caressed that hand that had been stained with a

brother’s blood.

“Are they your pictures?” she asked.

He reached, and, taking the prettiest one from the wall, gave it to

her. Not even to her would he break the rule of silence.

“O Minnie! Minnie!” said the deputy chidingly, as he came down the

walks, after making his rounds. “Why did you run away from me?”

She displayed her picture with childish delight. “He gave it to

me,” she said, nodding toward the convict. “Isn’t he good?”

“He is very kind,” the officer replied. “Did you thank him?” “Well,

we must go now. You can come again some other time.”

“Good-bye!” Minnie called out to her new friend. “I shall come to

see you again very soon. And I want to kiss you now,” running back

again.

The deputy, with the child’s hand in his, hesitated, and looked

embarrassed. He made a point of being scrupulously civil to the

convicts, and was particularly careful not to offend this one; but

he shrank from allowing such a leave-taking.

“It won’t hurt her, sir,” said the prisoner, in an eager voice.

“She is too pure to take a stain.”

The child’s hand was released, the convict bent inside his cell,

and took the kiss she gave him through the bars; then Minnie went

into the house with her protector.

“I am not sure that I like it,” Mr. Raynor said, after he had heard

the story. He took the child in his arms. “I am not sure that I

shall let my angel go down to that place again.”

“But, father,” his wife said gently, “if our angel can do good

there, we ought not to refuse. I should not wish her to go

unguarded, nor, indeed, very often in any way; but she might go

down occasionally with one of us, or the deputy. As Jeffries says,

she is too pure to take a stain.”

The wife prevailed; and, thereafter, Minnie Raynor’s sweet face

often cheered the gloom of the prison. The convicts learned to

bless her small shadow as it fell across the work or book carried

close to the cell door for light. They would start and smile at

any sign of her coming--a laugh, a word, or the patter of light

feet on the stones. Those who were on the side of the prison next

the street thought themselves repaid if, after a day of toil and

silence, they caught a glimpse of the child in a window, or in

the garden of the warden’s house. They fabricated wonderful toys

for her in their leisure hours--balls that bounded marvellously,

ornaments carved from soupbones, and rattles that were a puzzle to

take apart or put together. In return, she gave them smiles and

thanks, and whatever dainty she could coax from her mother to carry

in.

But to no one was this fair vision so dear as to him on whom she

had first bestowed her preference; for on her he concentrated all

the softness which the others showed toward any one who noticed

them. She was the only one to whom he spoke, on whom he smiled;

and for her sake he would humble himself to any extent. He who had

before scorned to ask a favor, now begged for tools and materials

to make toys for the warden’s daughter. He showed jealousy when she

noticed any one else--he begged her constantly for assurances of

affection. On her he poured out all the suppressed tenderness of

his heart; for she was the only being who had ever come to him with

perfect trust--the only being who believed him good.

“I think you are real nice,” she would say, gazing at him

admiringly. “And you are pretty, too. I wish that you lived in our

house, so that I could see you all the time.”

Once, when she was missing from the prison several days, Jeffries

could scarcely taste his food, and at length, unable longer to

endure the suspense, he asked for her.

“Is anything the matter with the warden’s daughter, sir?”

“Is that any of your business?” the overseer demanded roughly.

The warden, unseen by him, was at his elbow, and reproved his

rudeness sharply.

“A civil question deserves a civil answer,” he said; “and you are

not lowered by speaking to one whom my daughter talks with. Minnie

is well, Jeffries, and I will tell her that you inquired. She has

been away on a visit.”

The longing for freedom had never left this man’s heart, and now a

new motive for desiring it was added. Minnie had confided to him

her desire to own a little gold watch with hands that went round

and round; and, even while listening to her, he had resolved that,

should he ever escape, he would buy and send to her the tiniest

and prettiest gold watch that could be found. He dreamed over this

plan, as other men dream over ambition or love. He fancied the

brown eyes dilating at sight of a package addressed to herself, the

dear little head advanced in eager curiosity as father and mother

broke the package open, her cry of delight and wonder when she saw

its contents, the dimpled hands that snatched at the gift, and the

sweet voice uttering thanks to the far-away “Mr. William,” as she

had chosen to call him.

Always, now, this golden thread ran through the dark and tragical

web of his retrospections and anticipations.

Thus more than six months passed away. The fall and winter were

over, and spring had come again; and those mysterious impulses of

new life which the reawakening of nature brings to the human heart

made this man’s confinement every day less tolerable to him. He

said to himself that he should go mad if it were longer continued.

The monotony and restraint were hard enough; but that constant

dread of the sword of justice, for ever suspended over him, was a

torture. Hanging would be better than such a life.

Early in the spring Jeffries had been moved from his cell on the

inner side of the block to one next the street, and through the

long window opposite his grating he could see the warden’s house,

its visitors coming and going, its pleasant, open windows, with

curtains blowing in and out, and, better than all else, he could

see little Minnie at her play in house or garden. He could see

her dance into the breakfast-room at morning, and run to kiss her

father, who would lift her to her place at the table. He knew that

she drank milk from a silver mug, and that she sometimes took a

lump of sugar from the sugar-bowl. He could see her mother lead her

away to bed at evening, and knew that she always took a pet kitten

with her, sometimes in her arms, sometimes chasing through the hall

after her. He could see her by day soberly hushing a doll to sleep,

bending absorbed over a picture-book, or romping in the garden.

Once she stumbled and fell there, and the convict, watching her,

sprang at his bars as though he would break them. He gazed an hour

after she was carried into the house, and let his supper grow cold

while he waited to assure himself that she was not much hurt. Being

satisfied at length, he ate his cold mush and molasses, and drank

his cold tea without milk, and lay down to dream of his idol.

There was good reason, for his being peculiarly anxious about his

little friend that night and indifferent about his supper, for he

meant to be a free man the next day or to seal his fate at once.

All his preparations were made. He had sewed another dark half

under the gray half of his suit, so that by ripping a few stitches

he could pull off the gray leg of his pantaloons, the gray side

of his cap and jacket, and appear in plain dark clothes, and he

had procured a guard-key and a slender iron bar two feet long, to

defend himself with if attacked.

Besides these preparations, he had been careful to make a good

impression on the minds of his keepers. He had been so quiet

and docile that for some time no search had been made, and no

suspicions entertained of his designs. Moreover, he had for the

first time since his condemnation begun to speak of trying to have

his sentence commuted to imprisonment for life, of course with the

appearance of hoping for ultimate pardon. No one would suspect him

of risking his life in trying to escape while he had any chance of

a commutation.

Jeffries had been for months at work on a doll-house, which he

meant as a surprise to the warden’s daughter, and also as a

_souvenir_, and a help in his escape. From the carriage-shop he had

begged fine wood, and, since no tool could be taken to the cells,

he had been allowed to shape the parts of his cottage in the same

shop. Every night, unknown to his keepers, he had bartered away his

supper to the convict in the next cell, receiving in return glue

to fasten his work together, a bit of glass to smooth the wood,

and oil to polish it. It was really a beautiful toy-house, for the

man had taste and ingenuity, and a heart to do his best. It was

finished with windows, doors, and balconies, and the rooms inside

were carpeted and curtained with silk and velvet, and had chairs

and tables so finely carved out of bones the convicts saved from

their dinners as to look like delicate ivory work. All his leisure

time for months had been given to perfecting this gift, and now it

was completed, and there remained only to present it.

It was a bright evening in May, and the chaplain was going his

rounds, changing the books, and speaking a kind word here and

there. Minnie, who had recovered from her fall, was with him, and

when they reached Jeffries’ cell, she went no farther. She seldom

got beyond that, and to-night it was impossible to do so; for the

prisoner now showed her his present, and promised that the next day

it should be given into her possession.

Minnie gazed in rapturous delight while he displayed its beauties

to her. She could scarcely wait till morning to inspect it more

closely, and she put her hands through the bars to touch it, and

make sure that it was real.

The chaplain admired and praised, then went on. “I see that I must

go alone, Minnie,” he said. “I cannot expect you to leave such an

attraction as that.”

“Will you remember me for this, darling?” the prisoner asked, when

the two were left to themselves.

“Oh! yes,” she answered fervently. “I will love you always. My

father says that you want to go home, and when the governor comes

here again, I’m going to ask him to let you. The governor is a

splendid man, and lets me coax him. But he pulls my hair. Though,”

she added, after a pause, “he pulls it real easy.”

“Do you love the governor better than you do me?” the convict asked

jealously, with a real pang at heart. What did that man, high in

wealth, rank, and happiness, want of this little girl? Jeffries

began to conceive a dislike for him, to think that even pardon

would be unwelcome from him.

“I love you best,” Minnie said thoughtfully, “and”--looking up

with serious eyes--“I’m saying prayers for you every night, and

asking God to save you. Mamma said I might.”

“To save me!” he repeated.

“Yes. What is save, Mr. William? Mamma said it is something good.”

“I--I don’t know,” he replied, both puzzled and embarrassed.

Religion was about the last subject he would have thought of; and

when the chaplain mentioned it professionally, the brilliant,

scornful eye of Jeffries had often checked the words upon his lips.

But that his darling and idol should pray for him, was a very

different thing.

Steps were heard returning. Jeffries hastily snatched the little

hands still stretched through the bars, kissed them passionately,

then turned away from the door.

“Come, little lady!” the chaplain called out.

“Good-bye, Mr. William!” Minnie said, with her face pressed close

to the grating.

He echoed her good-bye hoarsely, without looking round.

“Good-bye!” she said again, lingering, and wishing to see his face.

“I shall come soon again.”

He made no reply, and she was obliged to go. But no sooner had she

gone than he sprang to the door again, and listened hungrily for

the sound of her retreating footsteps, cursing the chaplain’s heavy

boots and empty talk. It was her last visit to him there, he knew.

The warden had gone away from home for a day or two, and the deputy

had entire charge. So completely had Jeffries’ appearance imposed

on him, he consented to allow him the privilege of presenting to

Minnie Raynor her playhouse with his own hands.

“He is so fond of her, and has taken such pains to make the

baby-house, it seems a pity he should not have the pleasure of

giving it to her,” he said. “It is best to encourage a man who is

trying to reform. Last year there wasn’t a worse man in the prison,

now there isn’t a better one, and it is all that child’s doing.

Mrs. Raynor is willing, and there is no reason why I should object.

I want Jeffries to see that I trust him.”

One of the guard drew his face down to a preternatural length,

and gave a low whistle. “The deputy’s soft,” he whispered to a

companion.

The deputy heard the whistle, though not the whisper, and his

spirit rose.

“Any one who knows better than I do, had better take my place,” he

said.

“I don’t profess to know more than you do in other things, sir,”

the guard answered. “But I’ve been in this prison ten years, and

I have learned something of the quirks and turns of convicts. I

believe that fellow cares no more for Minnie Raynor than I do for

the man in the moon. He is trying to curry favor with the warden,

to get a commutation, or get eased up so that he may cut and run.”

“We’ll see who is right,” the deputy said. “Meantime, I don’t mean

to give him a chance to cut and run.”

About ten o’clock in the forenoon, Jeffries was called out of his

shop, the toy-house was given him, and he was bidden go up-stairs

to meet the little lady who had come out for her present.

A great color rushed to his pallid face at this summons, and a

great breath swelled his breast. The hour has come! After ten years

of servitude and confinement, the green fields and the wide world

were before him, if he succeeded. If he failed, speedy death

would be his reward for the attempt. He well knew that if he were

prevented from going out, or arrested when he had once got out, the

order for his execution would be issued immediately. He had been

warned of that.

His heart beat hard and high as he stepped from the shop, but it

sank in his bosom as he glanced across the yard. There stood Minnie

at the head of the stairs, to be sure; but the deputy stood beside

her in an attitude that showed plainly he was on his guard, and the

door was locked behind them.

He had expected to be called into the guard-room, or, at least,

that Minnie would have stood in the open door. Moreover, besides

these precautions, his quick eye caught the gleam of a scarcely

covered rifle-barrel at one of the windows.

But he went up firmly, without any appearance of disappointment,

and presented his gift to the child, smiling on her involuntarily,

even at that bitter moment.

Minnie took her present with delight, and, being unable to hold it,

put it into the deputy’s hand. Then, before either of them divined

her intention, she flung her arms around the convict’s neck, and

gave him a loving kiss.

It was too much. In the despair of that moment, he cared little for

the curious eyes that watched him. Clasping the child in his arms,

he burst into tears.

There was a moment of silence. All were awed by such a display

of emotion in such a man. In that moment Jeffries had controlled

himself, put away the little hands that tenderly strove to wipe his

tears, and turned to descend the steps.

The guard inside unlocked the door, and the deputy was leading his

charge in. Jeffries was half-way down the stairs when the click

of the lock struck his ear, and stiffened his nerves like steel.

One bound, and he was within the door, pushing with main strength

against three men who struggled to close the lock before he could

enter. The strength of desperation was his, and he overcame them,

and entered the guard-room, caught Minnie Raynor in his arms, as a

shield, while he hastily pulled out the bar of iron suspended from

his waist, and fumbled for the guard-key which was to unlock the

last door that stood between him and liberty.

It was all the work of a minute. The child clung to his breast,

pale and trembling, and hid her face in affright from the muzzles

of fire-arms that sought to find him unguarded, and, holding her as

his defence, Jeffries reached the outward door.

An accident favored him, for it was the hour for changing guard on

the walls, and the relieved guard, coming up outside, opened the

door behind the fugitive. The surprise was too sudden. They could

not stop him. Still holding the child for a shield, Jeffries sprang

down the outer stairs, and found himself in the opened yard of the

warden’s house.

But the alarm-bell had been rung, and a command shouted across

the posts, and as the fugitive fled across the green to the gate,

he was confronted by one man, while two others followed close on

his steps. There was no help for it. This man in his path must be

disabled. He dropped the child from his arms, and raised the iron

bar at the same moment that his opponent, having apparently more

faith in the strength of the stock than the accuracy of his aim,

lifted the butt-end of his rifle for a blow.

“You shall not strike him!” cried Minnie Raynor, and flung herself

forward to shield her friend; and, at the same instant, both

blows fell. The guard aimed falsely, but the convict, striking

with fierce precision, would have hit his adversary but for that

loving interposition. Alas! the blow struck the fair temple of the

prisoner’s dearest and only friend.

Minnie Raynor dropped like a flower before the scythe of the mower.

All was confusion. The mother rushed shrieking from the house, men

came from the street, the guard from the prison. There was a moment

when he might have escaped, but Jeffries did not take advantage

of it. Throwing himself down by the child, he called upon her in

agony, kissed her pale lips, and chafed her chilling hands. “O my

God! my God!” he muttered.

They surrounded and bound him.

“I won’t try to run away, I swear I won’t!” he cried wildly. “Don’t

mind me; see to her. Go for a doctor. Do something for her quickly.

O God! O God! Open your eyes, my angel! I didn’t mean to hurt you.

I would rather stay here all my life, or be hanged to-day, than

hurt you, my darling!”

They tore him away from her, and carried him back to prison. There

they searched him, but found nothing but a lock of silken hair in

his breast, done up in a paper.

“She gave it to me,” he said piteously, but made no remonstrance

when they did not return it to him.

“Only see how she is, and tell me,” he begged. “You know I’ve got

to hang now, and you know that I wouldn’t have hurt a hair of

her head for my life. I didn’t mean to strike any one, except in

self-defence. You can’t blame me for trying to escape. It was only

natural. But tell me how she is.”

The deputy looked at him fixedly.

“The child never breathed after you struck her,” he said.

The eyes of the convict remained wide open, and fixed on the

speaker’s face. And, still with that gaze full of horror, he sank

at the officer’s feet.

He lay in the punishment-cell that night without sleeping,

apparently without sense. And he lay there all the next day in

darkness, quiet and silent, never tasting food.

The second morning, the warrant for his execution was read to him.

“I am glad of it!” was all his comment.

They put him back into his cell, no change being made in his fate

on account of the child’s death. One had but to look into his face

to see that his punishment was severe enough. One only request he

made; that, after his death, the little lock of hair which Minnie

had given him might be put into his breast, and buried with him.

Then he set himself to prepare for death.

“She wanted me to be saved, and I will not disappoint her, if I can

help it,” he said.

The chaplain of the prison and the warden’s family were

Protestants; but Jeffries hated the chaplain, and he recollected

having heard Minnie speak of a certain “splendid priest” in the

town, who had once given her a picture of a lady with a baby in her

arms, and a gold ring round her head. The child knew nothing of

creeds, and had clung as trustingly, perhaps more trustingly, to

the black-robed father, than to any of the clergymen who visited

her father’s house.

For this priest Jeffries sent.

“I know nothing of God, nor of religion, sir,” he said. “But I

have only a few days to live, and I want to repent, and make what

atonement I can. I can say sincerely that I am sorry I have not

lived a better life, and that I deserve all the punishment I have

had. If God should refuse to forgive me, I will not blame him. But

I think he will not. The God who made that little angel must be

better than I can even conceive.”

Looking through the window into the street, on that first day he

was returned to his cell, Jeffries saw the house that he had made

desolate. He saw the closed blinds, and the mournful faces of those

who came and went. He saw flowers brought. Later, carriages came,

and a crowd slowly gathered. Then he fell on his knees before the

grated door, and prayed. One glimpse, only one glimpse of the

casket that held her!

Presently there was a stir about the door, and four boys appeared,

bearing out the lost treasure. The cemetery was near, and these

boys were to bear the child to her resting-place there. Slowly and

tenderly they carried their burden, and not far away those eyes,

full of hopeless agony, strained to watch them.

The sill of the gate was a step higher than the garden walk, and as

the foremost boys mounted this step, the casket tilted a little,

and the eyes of the condemned man saw, through the glass lid, a

white little face turned sidewise, with its cheek in the palm of

a waxen hand, and sunny hair flowing around, the whole framed in

flowers.

As the sweet, pathetic vision passed, the convict fell on his face,

with loud and bitter weeping.

Three days after, Jeffries mounted the scaffold, humbled, penitent,

and hopeful.

“I am glad it is God’s will that I should die now,” he said.

“After what I have done, my life would be too terrible to me, and

would not profit any one else. But I do not consider this hanging

the punishment for my crime. No; my reward for having killed

willingly one I hated, was that I afterward destroyed unwillingly a

life dearer to me than my own. I forgive all who have injured me,

and ask pardon of all whom I have injured. And I bless God for the

little love on earth that made me believe in the Infinite Love in

heaven.”

They were his last words.

Perhaps the warden’s dear little girl would never, in a long and

beautiful life, have accomplished the good which was effected by

her early and pitiful death.

LETTERS OF HIS HOLINESS PIUS IX. APPROVING THE RULES OF THE “UNION

OF CHRISTIAN WOMEN.”

The following letters of the Sovereign Pontiff which we have taken

from the Boston _Pilot_ are published in the present number of

THE CATHOLIC WORLD, on account of their bearing upon the topics

discussed in the articles on the “Duties of the Rich.” We recommend

their perusal in a special manner to all Catholic ladies in the

United States.

* * * * *

PIUS IX., POPE, TO HIS DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, MARIE DE

GENTELLES:

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST--Health and Apostolic Benediction.

We congratulate you, dear daughter in Jesus Christ, upon the

success which God has been pleased to grant to your efforts against

extravagance in dress. Editions of your “Appeal” have multiplied;

you have seen it translated into several languages, and received by

Catholic women with such eagerness that persons of great prudence

and discernment have deemed it a duty to urge you to propose to

your sisters in the faith the establishment of an association

having for its aim a crusade against extravagance--that scourge of

society, that enemy of morality, of public and private economy.

Without doubt, if the wills and strength of many were united in the

firm bond of an association, the power of example would become much

greater, and its influence much more efficacious upon other women,

especially if those distinguished by fortune and social position

would subscribe to the project.

If this association succeed in establishing among women a taste for

moderate expenditure and a contempt for love of display, it would

not only serve to promote modesty, and prevent a waste of means

which might often be employed in assisting the poor, but it would

leave a great portion of the day free to be devoted to works of

piety, to the education of children, or to household duties.

The rules which you have laid down are well adapted to attain the

desired end, especially that which prescribes that every member of

the union shall fix in advance, and unalterably, the sum of her

expenses, and pay _ready money_ upon all occasions.

The task is indeed a delicate one. It will encounter great

obstacles in that love of show and desire to please so natural to

your sex. Still, he whose grace has already been powerful enough

to lead many of your companions to this difficult but withal most

noble work, can inspire others to follow the good example. This

is the success which, from our inmost heart, we presage for your

project. Meanwhile, as an auspice of the divine favor, and as a

pledge of our paternal kindness, we grant, with the most lively

tenderness, to you and all your pious associates in the good work,

our Apostolic Benediction.

Given at Rome, near St. Peter’s, Nov. 6, 1869, in the twenty-fourth

year of our Pontificate.

PIUS PP. IX.

* * * * *

PIUS IX., POPE, TO HIS BELOVED DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, MARIE DE

GENTELLES:

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST--Health and Apostolic Benediction.

The expressions of respect which you address to us, dear daughter

in Jesus Christ, in your name and in the name of your associates,

are received by us with the most lively satisfaction, the greater

that they are not limited to mere _expressions_ nor to _offers_ of

assistance by prayer, but they are doubly grateful from the zeal

you have employed in seeking to extirpate the evil of extravagance

in dress so common among your sex. You have also tried to promote

habits of simplicity, modesty, and piety among your sisters in the

faith. By this, much evil can be prevented--nay, more, your success

will be a most useful ally in the war we are now waging against

the powers of darkness. Therefore, for you and for the “Union of

Christian Women” devoted to this excellent work, we implore from

heaven perseverance in your undertaking, never-wearying progress,

and the efficacious assistance of divine grace. As a prelude of

these favors, and as a pledge of our paternal affection, we grant

most tenderly to you and all your pious companions the Apostolic

Benediction.

Given at Rome, near St. Peter’s, April 17, 1871, in the

twenty-fifth year of our Pontificate.

PIUS PP. IX.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

A CRITICAL DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE AND BRITISH AND

AMERICAN AUTHORS, LIVING AND DECEASED. From the earliest

accounts to the latter half of the Nineteenth Century.

Containing over forty-six thousand articles (authors),

with forty indexes of Subjects. By S. Austin Allibone.

Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1871.

It would be strange indeed if a dictionary of authors, in

three volumes, each of one thousand pages, closely printed in

double columns, “the fruit of many years of anxious research

and conscientious toil,” should not contain a large amount of

information valuable not only to the general reader, but to the

scholar and the man of letters.

Valuable information Mr. Allibone’s _Dictionary_ certainly does

impart; but we feel compelled to express regret that its author

should have made a serious mistake as to the importance of much of

the matter inserted. Into this error he appears to have been led in

seeking to increase the number of authors by the insertion of names

which never possessed the slightest literary value or significance.

The title-page announcement that the work contains “_over_

forty-six thousand articles (authors)” awakens within us no special

throbs of pleasurable anticipation, for we know how dictionaries

are made. And the delight with which one might contemplate its

array of one hundred and forty-eight Robinsons, its one hundred

and eighty Browns, its one hundred and eighty-nine Joneses, and

its solid phalanx of eight hundred and ten Smiths, exclusive

of a formidable list of Smyths and Smythes, undergoes serious

diminution, for the reason that one cannot help reflecting how much

valuable space might have been far more advantageously occupied.

In works of this description, mere book-making manifests itself in

its most flagrant aspect. In each successive publication in the

dictionary (alphabetical) form, upon any given subject, the effort

is made to surpass all its predecessors in the quantity of matter

and in the number of articles or names. Now, in a literary sense,

names die, as in actual life people die; and names which might have

some possible interest for the readers of Blount’s work, published

in 1690, have still less for people of the following century, and

positively none at all for our readers of 1870. It most resembles

a vain attempt to keep alive the memory of people not worth

remembering by constant transcription and repetition of what is

written on their tomb-stones. We are, therefore, unable to discover

any merit in the uniform numerals 46,000. It is more a matter of

mere assertion than of intelligent investigation and selection,

and the figure may be reached merely by the simple addition of the

contents of a few well-known bibliographical works. One of them

alone, the _Bibliotheca Britannica_, of Watts, furnishes 22,700

names of British and American authors, and more than half as many

more may be found in the copious indexes of English magazines and

quarterlies, not to speak of Griswold and other American works.

We by no means wish to be understood as desiring that the reduction

should be restricted to the elimination of the familiar household

names we have mentioned. We would have it ruthlessly extended to

the nullities in literature, whose sole contributions consist

of such productions (single specimens) as “Sermon,” “Almanac,”

“Funeral Sermon,” “Instruction in Water Drawing,” “Report of

‘Smithers _vs._ Tompkins,’” “Copy-Book,” “Edition of Laws of

Texas,” “Sermon on Popery,” “Pyrotechnics”--being careful to pair

off these two last named, for the “Popery” man clearly means

“pyrotechnics,” if he could have his way. What cares any one

nowadays for such a piece of information as this: “_Darch_, John,

‘Sermon,’ 1766. 4to”? Why, for instance, should the names of a

thousand such nobodies as R. P. Blakely go down to posterity as

authors, this R. P. B., as we learn from the _Dictionary_, having

merely translated some passages from _Liguori_ and called them

“Awful Disclosures”? Had we been spared profuse mention of most of

these sermon, almanac, and copy-book makers, space might have been

found to inform seekers for knowledge that William Cobbett wrote a

work on the _History of the Reformation in England_, a book which,

in admirably pure English, does some justice to the infamy of Henry

VIII. and his colleagues, lay and spiritual, who aided and abetted

his wholesale robberies and murders, and made of “Merrie Old

England” a land of desolation, want, and beggary. It is precisely

by this book that the name of Cobbett is most widely known, but

Mr. Allibone does not appear to have heard of it, otherwise his

knowledge of its existence might account to a great extent for the

tone of depreciation in which he speaks of Cobbett.

Quite as remarkable is the author’s suppression, in his

biographical notice of George Buchanan, of the fact of Buchanan’s

dependence for some years upon Mary Stuart, and of her kindness

and generosity to him. It was this fact that made Buchanan’s

_Detection_ “unrivalled in baseness, peerless in falsehood, supreme

in ingratitude.”

In sharp contrast with extended mention of the _Detection_ and its

object is Mr. Allibone’s languid notice of Miss Agnes Strickland’s

historical works, and of the brilliant Donald MacLeod’s writings in

general, and more especially his _Life of Mary, Queen of Scots_. We

are perfectly well aware that Mr. A., in season and out of season,

with and without pretext, takes every opportunity of protesting to

his reader that “we express no opinion on the question involved

in the Mary Stuart controversy.” Mr. Allibone protests too much,

and most so when seeking to convey the worst impression against

her. Thus, in the article on Buchanan, he says: “If Buchanan is

to be believed, there can be but little doubt of the guilt of the

fair Queen of Scots; but upon this point we express no opinion.”

Mr. Allibone here builds up his little argument on the authority

of this convicted liar, Buchanan, and adds, “We express no

opinion”--oh! certainly not--by no means! Protests and pretended

apologies like this abound in the _Dictionary_, and, so far from

concealing, only make more visible the marked bias of the author in

religious questions. Naturally enough, Buchanan and John Foxe are

both his favorites.

The author of the _Dictionary_ does not appear to be aware that

Henry Kenelm Digby has written and published anything since his

great work _Mores Catholici_--Ages of Faith, nor does he seem to

know that this distinguished author is a convert from Protestantism

to Catholicity. The notice of Aubrey de Vere is defective in many

points, and totally omits mention of the fact that the brilliant

poet is also a convert to Catholicity.

The article on Dr. Brownson is far from doing that distinguished

philosophical writer justice. This was not to be looked for,

but it is incorrect in several points. Dr. Brownson never was a

Presbyterian minister, nor was he a Deist. _Charles Elwood_ is not

“an account of his religious experience,” but _The Convert_ is such

an account. The statement that “Dr. Brownson is a great admirer of

the philosophy of M. Comté (_sic_) as developed in the _Cours de

Philosophie_” is without foundation. Dr. Brownson never admired it,

never accepted its philosophic position, and never read anything

of Comte’s except the Introduction to his voluminous _Course of

Positive Philosophy_. This error probably originated with Mr.

Griswold, who confounded the doctrines of Pierre Le Roux and the

St. Simoniens with the system of Auguste Comte.

We presume that the omission of the names of Archbishop Kenrick

(Peter, of St. Louis), Prince Gallitzin, Frederick Lucas, a

distinguished English convert, formerly a Quaker, and of many

others we might point out, is the result of accident.

We have mentioned John Foxe, the great “unreliable.” Mr.

Allibone’s apology--evidently a labor of love--for this unsavory

personage is not only elaborate, it is labored. We have referred

to Mr. Allibone’s evident bias. Foxe is a test subject, and we

shall therefore say a few words concerning it. If a scholar as

enlightened as our author should be can uphold Foxe as he does,

then we can readily gauge the measure of his Protestant credulity

and his anti-Catholic animus. Mr. Allibone spares us the necessity

of any effort to demonstrate his bias, for he goes to the trouble

of pointing out to us as one of the high merits of _Foxe’s Martyrs_

that “_its influence in keeping alive the Protestant feeling in

Great Britain and North America is too well known to be disputed_.”

Historical truth is one thing, “Protestant feeling” another. Far

from us to dispute the merit claimed by Mr. Allibone for his

beloved Foxe, but we beg leave to suggest to him that the proper

place for such praise would be the columns of a Know-Nothing paper,

not the pages of a dignified work on literature.

The account given by Mr. Allibone of Foxe’s life is to some extent

fabulous, inasmuch as he accepts Mr. Townsend’s statements as to

the authorship of _Foxe’s Life_ by his (Foxe’s) son. Mr. Allibone

ought to know that Foxe’s son did not write the _Life_ in question.

In the article _Maitland, Rev. S. R._, keeper of the Lambeth

MSS. and Librarian to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Allibone

enumerates as (13) of his works _Notes on the Contributions of the

Rev. George Townsend to the new Edition of Foxe’s Martyrology_. We

would advise Mr. Allibone--since he needs must raise an unnecessary

discussion about this man Foxe--to go beyond the title of this work

of Maitland’s into its contents. He will be rapidly enlightened

concerning both Foxe and Townsend. This Dr. Maitland is also the

author of the admirable _Dark Ages_. Mr. Allibone does mention it,

“only this and nothing more.”

Mr. Allibone has the hardihood to assert that, “as regards

conscientiousness of performance and adherence to records, _the

faithfulness of the ‘Book of Martyrs’ cannot intelligently be

questioned_,” and his principal witness to prove Foxe’s veracity

is--Gilbert Burnet, commonly known as Bishop Burnet! Throw

literature to the dogs! It is “keeping alive the Protestant

feeling” we look upon as our mission. That, as we read it, appears

to be Mr. Allibone’s controlling idea. But what is to become of

us if the faithfulness of every suspicious and fishy chronicler

is to be discovered and vindicated by every compiler of every

literary dictionary? However, we need not, we believe, be alarmed,

for our author’s affections are enlisted for a select few, Foxe

in particular, because of “his influence in keeping alive, etc.,

etc., etc., etc., etc.”

Here is one of the latest of the many honest Protestant exposures

of the character of Foxe’s book, from the pen of Professor Arnold,

of University College, Oxford:

“It is now indeed well understood that Foxe was a rampant

bigot, and, like all of his class, utterly unscrupulous in

assertion;--the falsehoods, misrepresentations, and exaggerations

to which he gave circulation are endless. Take, for instance, his

account of the death of Wolsey, which we know, from the testimony

of George Cavendish, an eye-witness, to be a string of pure,

unmitigated falsehoods.”

As to the worthlessness of Burnet’s testimony we have abundant

Protestant evidence. Mr. Allibone himself quotes Dr. Johnson to

this effect:

“I do not believe that Burnet intentionally _lied_; but he was

so much prejudiced that he took no pains to find out the truth.

He was like a man who resolves to regulate his time by a certain

watch, but will not inquire whether the watch is right or not.”

Whereupon Mr. Allibone indulges in this astounding piece of

withering sarcasm:

“One might imagine that the doctor had roomed with the bishop at

least, he seems to be so perfectly informed as to his habits”!

As to Burnet the man and the theologian, we are sufficiently

enlightened by the use he consented to be put to by Buckingham and

Lauderdale, at the time when, as royal chaplain, he preached before

“the king and his harem” every Sunday. This use was the preparation

of a work in which he undertook to set forth the queen’s barrenness

as “a good cause for divorce.” Starting at the period of Henry

VIII., England had become gradually pagan and profligate; but

whatever of goodness and virtue was then left in the country joined

in denouncing the author of the vile principles set forth in

Burnet’s book.

Mr. Allibone neglects to record that it was because Charles II.,

bad as he was, despised Burnet and his advice, and when, losing his

office in the Chapel Royal, Burnet suddenly awakened to a sense of

the king’s wickedness, and wrote a remonstrance to him on his bad

life, Charles treated him with silent contempt.

“Gilbert Burnet,” says one of his Puritan contemporaries, Jacob

Lawton, “was a man who blew hot and cold for money or for rich

patrons”; and in the ninth volume of Sir Walter Scott’s _Life and

Works of Dryden_ will be found the narrative of the betrayal to the

House of Commons by Burnet of the secrets of his patron, the Duke

of Lauderdale. Finally, his bishopric from William was merely the

reward of trickery and treason simply infamous.

As to Burnet the historian, Hume’s opinion that he is “sometimes

_mistaken_ as to facts,” and Sir Walter Scott’s statement that

“his [Burnet’s] opinions were often hastily adopted, and sometimes

awkwardly retracted,” may be thought not entirely fatal to his

reputation; but other authorities speak more plainly. Sir John

Dalrymple “never tried Burnet’s facts by test of dates and original

papers without finding them wrong.” Arbuthnot and Swift challenge

his veracity, and do not hesitate to attribute to him unworthy

motives. In 1693, Henry Wharton demonstrated his “suppression,

coloring, and falsifying of facts,” and the _Historical and

Critical Remarks_ of Bevil Higgons more than confirms Miss

Strickland’s conclusion that Burnet is “a notoriously false

witness.” This is Mr. Allibone’s veracious upholder of Foxe’s

truth! He may now take the witness.

* * * * *

ST. THOMAS OF AQUIN: HIS LIFE AND LABORS. By the Rev. Father

Roger Bede Vaughan, O.S.B. Vol. II. (New York: Sold by The

Catholic Publication Society.)

The first volume of this goodly work has been already noticed. We

are glad to welcome the second and concluding volume. Together with

the events of the life of St. Thomas from the time of his contest

with William of St. Amour until his death, which occupy but a

small portion of its space, this volume continues the history and

analysis of his works, and expatiates upon the Greek philosophers,

Christian doctors, and other sources of the doctrine of St. Thomas,

in their relation with him. As a biography we prefer that of the

Frenchman Bareille, which we desire to see translated, and which

the present work by no means supersedes. As a history of the times

and the works of the saint, Father Vaughan’s volumes are rich,

attractive, and valuable. The description of the Paris University

in the thirteenth century, and the account of St. Thomas and St.

Buonaventura taking the doctor’s cap, are very lively and graphic.

The centenary of St. Thomas will recur in 1874, and will probably

be celebrated with extraordinary splendor in Europe. Perhaps we may

do a little something also in America.

* * * * *

THE VIRTUES OF MARY, MOTHER OF GOD. From the Spanish of Father

Francis Arias, S.J. London: Burns & Oates. (New York: Sold by

The Catholic Publication Society.)

If it takes a saint to know a saint, and it is pretty generally

considered that it does, it certainly takes a saint to do justice

to the sublime virtues of the Queen of Saints. By all accounts

F. Arias was a saint, and his little work on the virtues of the

Blessed Virgin is what might be expected--a treatise full of piety,

full of emotion, and full of the highest asceticism. Together with

being a holy man Arias was a learned man, and in his book with the

fervor of the saint is combined the accuracy of the theologian.

Many of the saints have themselves been able to realize the almost

ineffable holiness of the Mother of God; but few have been able to

make this holiness a reality to others.

In this we think the Spanish Jesuit has surpassed most others.

In his hand the virtues of our Blessed Lady become a reality,

intelligible to all and imitable by all. Therefore it is that his

little work, while pre-eminently suitable for the convent and the

cloister, may be read with great benefit by all classes of persons

in the world.

It is proper to remark that _The Virtues of Mary, Mother of God_

is a republication; the same translation having been long ago

published under the title of _Imitation of the Blessed Virgin_. It

would be a great blessing if we had more republications of the same

sort instead of the mass of modern commonplaces, many of which are

wanting in emotion and not a few in genuine piety.

* * * * *

EXTRACTS FROM THE FATHERS, ETC. Dublin: W. B. Kelly, 1860. (New

York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This book, under the general title of _Christian Classics_, is

intended, as we are informed in the preface, “nearly altogether

for the use of students,” and as such may be considered a very

useful and desirable publication. More than a score of the most

illustrious and erudite fathers and writers of the church have

been put under contribution by the editor, and though we consider

the arrangement and choice of the selections susceptible of some

improvement, we are grateful for those presented us in so neat and

portable a form. Apart from what is purely moral and theological

in the _Extracts_, there is a great deal of biographical and

historical information interesting to the general reader, which

cannot be easily acquired except through the voluminous tomes so

seldom found in ordinary libraries.

* * * * *

UNA AND HER PAUPERS; or, Memorials of Agnes Elizabeth Jones. By

her Sister. New York: George Routledge & Sons.

So-called Protestant lands, which were once a part of the fair

garden of the church, still put forth some shoots occasionally

from the old roots left in the soil. It is pleasant to see them

springing up, now and then, as if to assert the indestructibility

of the divine seed; for the spirit of self-sacrifice and of charity

is essentially the spirit of Catholicism. As Balmes says, public

beneficence was unknown to the ancients. It is wholly due to the

church. The divine words, “Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of

the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” have gone

on with their undulations through more than eighteen centuries of

spiritual life in the church, awakening the tenderest instincts of

the human heart in behalf of suffering humanity. Thank God! there

are some nominally without its pale--

“With whom the melodies abide

Of th’ everlasting chime;

Who carry music in their heart

Through dusky lane and wrangling mart,

Plying their daily task with busier feet,

Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.”

_Una and her Paupers_--happily styled Una, for such lives are

unique, exceptional, in Protestant annals--is the history of

a large-hearted, sympathetic, North-of-Ireland lady, who was

gradually led, by her natural inclinations and by circumstances,

to a partial renunciation of the comforts of a pleasant home and

family affection, and submit herself to training as a nurse in the

celebrated Kaiserswerth[132] institution of Protestant deaconesses.

She was afterwards connected with an association of Bible-women

at London; then underwent a year’s training as Nightingale nurse

at St. Thomas’s Hospital in that city, and was subsequently

appointed Female Superintendent of the Liverpool Workhouse, where

she contracted a typhus fever, and died in 1868, at the age of

thirty-five.

The book is admirably edited by her sister, and has a eulogistic

introduction by Miss Nightingale, who seems to have given it its

title. The American edition has, moreover, the advantage of a

preface by the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. From a Protestant point of

view, this must be a charming and useful book. If not equally so

to a Catholic, it is because his standard of piety is infinitely

higher, and instances of far greater self-denial for the sake of

others are of daily occurrence in the church.

Miss Jones’ piety was decidedly of the so-called Evangelical school

in the Church of England. The Bible is constantly in her hands,

and all her spiritual emotions are expressed in Biblical phrases

that have more a smack of Cromwell than of prelacy. A few words

dropped here and there in her letters show her instinctive aversion

to Catholicism, but we love to think this rather the result of

ignorance than want of charity in a person of her profession.

Almost her first words written from Rome were: “I never go out but

as a duty, for the whole is so depressing, and it is indeed so

utterly the ‘city given to idolatry’; the associations of the past

are forgotten in its present.” This says volumes for her cast of

mind and piety. Kind and loving as she was by nature, we cannot

regret she was excluded from all missionary efforts in the Catholic

ward of the Liverpool Workhouse, on which she seems to have kept

a longing eye. She appears to have gained some influence over one

poor girl in London, who, she says, was “on the verge of becoming

a nun--to her the only conceivable way of finding the peace she

longed for: now her eyes seem to be opened to a better way, though

_she does not feel she has yet entered on it_.” As we are not

informed of the result, we may reasonably conclude this individual

found peace at last in the only true refuge.

Though trained in the best schools of Protestant benevolence,

Miss Jones’ shrinking from association with the nurses even of

Miss Nightingale’s school--not unreasonable when we recall the

experience of the latter in the Crimea--and her observations

with regard to the difficulties of such institutions, are full

of significance to those familiar with the efficient charitable

organizations in the church. She says: “The difficulty [of having

deaconesses in England] is, the real submission of the will there

must be. I believe this is _the_ valuable part of the training.”

“I believe all I owe to Kaiserswerth was comprised in the lesson

of unquestioning obedience.” “No one can tell what a woman exposes

herself to who acts independently. I never would advise any one

to do as I have done, and yet I feel I have been led on step by

step, almost unwillingly, certainly not as I should have chosen,

had I not seemed guided, as I believe I have been, and so kept.”

“But what I feel so much is, how many there are who want some

place where they can get teachings for their own hearts and souls,

training for, and direction in, work for others, sympathy in that

work and their difficulties in it, and a home where, in their

leisure hours, they may have more or less association with others.”

And the estimable Miss Nightingale, in her introduction, says:

“There is no such thing as amateur nursing.... Three-fourths of the

whole mischief in women’s lives arises from excepting themselves

from the rule of training considered needful for man.”

To these quotations, we will add another statement in this book by

the Rev. Mr. Moody, likewise of the Evangelical school, who is told

at Kaiserswerth that the Evangelicals of Great Britain furnished

less useful sick-nurses than the churches tinged with ritualism.

This, he says, was “humbling and instructive to hear”; and he adds

this was because “the nurses that come from us [the Evangelicals]

are _more anxious to take charge_ and to administer medicines, than

to _obey_, _to learn_, _to serve_.”

Such statements make us turn with satisfaction to the noble army

of charity in the Catholic Church who _really_ give up home and

earthly pleasures and their own will, and make themselves poor with

the poor, counting all this no loss that they may be spent for

Christ’s poor ones. What they have achieved as a whole is partly

known, but individual sacrifices and efforts are buried in the

hidden life they love. Their veiled lives are only fully known to

the Divine Spouse, whom they tenderly take to their hearts in the

person of his suffering poor; their countless heroic souls mostly

pass away leaving no _written_ record on earth.

The garments of the church are all studded over with such precious

jewels of love and charity. We have no reason to envy those who

seek to imitate our Sisters of Charity like the deaconesses of

Kaiserswerth and Florence Nightingale. May their laudable examples

and that of Miss Jones find numerous emulators! The glimpses this

book gives us of the moral as well as physical degradation of some

of the Liverpool paupers, are enough to set the Christian heart

on fire to labor for the elevation of the human race. Those women

who talk so frantically of their rights and of woman’s mission can

here find their true field, where none can compete with them. Men

certainly cannot.

But, as Rahel Varnhagen says: “Those who completely sacrifice

themselves are praised and admired: that is the sort of character

men like to find in _others_.”

* * * * *

SIX WEEKS ABROAD. By the Rev. G. F. Haskins. Boston: P. Donahoe.

The genial F. Haskins is known to everybody, and this little

book presents his numerous friends with a portrait of him, a

short biographical sketch, and some very brief, characteristic,

and sparkling notes of a recent visit to Europe. Each chapter is

a little crystal of Attic salt. Whoever buys and reads this book

will be pleased with it, be he young or old. There are some remarks

on education, Irish and American politics, etc., which are as

remarkable for point and sense as they are for terseness. Father

Haskins’ coin is small but valuable, like a rouleau of gold dollars.

* * * * *

VIRTUES AND DEFECTS OF A YOUNG GIRL. By a Chaplain. Translated

from the French. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1872.

This little manual of moral science was intended by the author as a

text-book for schools. It will, at least, be useful to parents and

teachers in forming the character of those confided to them. A more

complete elementary treatise on moral philosophy is a desideratum

for our Catholic institutions for girls. Of course it is taught,

in the highest sense of the word, in connection with the Christian

doctrine, but a practical work, not religious, strictly speaking,

is needed. It would serve, as our author says, as a help to divine

grace. The firmest basis of piety is moral principle. The moral

condition of the next generation depends on those destined to be

their mothers having definite, practical notions of moral science.

This science was once associated with the very rudiments of

learning. _The Christian’s Alphabet_, a compendium of the essential

points of moral philosophy, has come down to us from the middle

ages.

In the practical little work before us, the social virtues are

not overlooked. Politeness is one of them, for it is a virtue,

at least in France: we wish we could say everywhere. That “life

must be a perpetual sacrifice of self for the sake of others,” is

here laid down as the basis of politeness and the social virtues

generally. Like coin of precious metal, politeness is current in

every land and among all classes. It is the oil that lubricates

the wheel-works of society; it is the garland of flowers that

binds society together; it extends to the very tone of the voice,

the carriage of the body, and appropriateness of dress; it is

especially important to women, on whom depends refinement or

degeneracy of manners.

Respect for others is here inculcated in recognition of the divine

radiance that proceeds from the soul of every human being. One

section of this chapter is devoted to “Respect for the Aged and the

Poor.” Veneration for age is by no means prevalent in these times.

“It is regarded as an impertinence to be alive after sixty on this

side of the globe,” says an American. And as for the poor, who

respects them? And yet Bossuet saw an inexpressible sublimity in

the condition of the unfortunate.

Industry is likewise dwelt upon, and the evils of an aimless life.

The reason why so many women are nervous, morose, and melancholy is

because they are the victims of an aimless life. Their very hearts

are wasting away--corroded by rust.

Order and cleanliness have also their place. And how significant

they are of one’s moral condition! We read in F. Faber’s life, when

the orderly appearance of his room was noticed one Easter morning,

he replied that the napkin in the sepulchre was found _folded_

after the Resurrection, showing that our Lord hated untidiness.

This book is generally well translated, but there are some verbal

inaccuracies. Madame de Maintenon’s observations, on page 117, were

probably to the young ladies of St. Cyr--an institution of which

she was the patroness--rather than “the Misses Saint Cyr.”

* * * * *

WOMEN HELPERS IN THE CHURCH--THEIR SAYINGS AND DOINGS. Edited by

William Welsh. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1872.

_Women Helpers in the Church_--that is, in the Protestant Episcopal

Church--is a compilation of articles previously published in

_The Spirit of Missions_ from the memoranda of ladies engaged

in parochial labors, such as Sunday-schools, mothers’ meetings,

district visiting, etc.

This is another book calling attention to the efficiency of woman’s

co-operation in the regeneration of the human race. It dwells on

the necessity of trained lay-helpers in the work, and says the

church should be a training-school for aggressive warfare against

evil. And “as but few male communicants seem willing to give out

the socializing power which God has entrusted to them for the

benefit of those less favored, it is well to employ the agency

of godly women.” It finds less difficulty in training workers in

this country than in England, where “few persons of good social

position attend Sunday-school or Bible-class.” This statement

rather excites a wonder who _do_ attend, for the poor seem to

hold themselves equally aloof. The Protestant Archbishop of York,

quoted in this work, says that in one district in London not one

person in a hundred attends church. These people are in a state of

heathenish darkness, though “the Church of England has emitted a

pure Gospel light for centuries,” and are in the lowest state of

degradation. “Who are these people?” asks the archbishop, and, as

if conscious of the great gulf that separates them from those he

addresses, he adds, “They are of the same flesh and blood as we.”

The Catholic is unconscious of any such gulf. In the great republic

of the church, the poor are the most tenderly cared for. The church

has ennobled poverty by making it one of the evangelical counsels.

Bossuet says: “Let no one any longer scorn poverty or treat it as

a base thing: the King of Glory having espoused it, he has ennobled

it by this alliance, and henceforth he grants the poor all the

privileges of his empire.” “The poor of Christ have lineal rights,”

says Faber, and it is because the Catholic Church recognizes these

rights that it is emphatically the church of the poor.

We are glad to see any attempts made to elevate and socialize

the poorer classes by visiting them, disseminating good books,

and bringing them together for social and religious purposes.

One association of ladies engaged in this work is stated to have

made over six thousand visits the past year, and a committee of

twelve ladies made seventeen thousand visits in the course of

six years. The publication of their labors does not seem exactly

on the principle of not letting the left hand know what the

right hand doeth, though, if it excites emulation, it may not

be unjustifiable. Any good resulting from such labors is a more

enduring record, and will “survive all paper.” “For,” as Carlyle

says, “the working of the good and brave, seen or unseen, endures

literally for ever and cannot die. Is a thing nothing because the

morning papers have not mentioned it? Or can a nothing be made

a something by ever so much babbling of it there? Far better,

probably, that no morning or evening paper mentioned it, that the

right hand knew not what the left was doing.”

We are unwilling to criticise any sincere efforts to do good,

and will forbear commenting on the memoranda of the ladies which

compose the greater part of this work, however unattractive much

of their piety may be to a Catholic; but we need not be equally

forbearing to the editor, who detracts from the effect of incidents

sometimes touching by his frequent interlardings and would-be wit

about “portable fire-extinguishers” (meaning the fire of sin)

“anti-incrustators,” etc. His bitterness against the Catholic

Church makes him look with an envious eye at her success among her

cherished poor ones. He speaks of her as “a corrupt church, whose

spirit is hostile to republican institutions, now actively drilling

the lay force in sodalities and other associations, and using their

power to the utmost in educational, political, and proselyting

schemes!” But such insinuations cannot harm us. He himself

observes: “The Church of Rome, with all her obvious errors, suffers

but little from the violent opposition to which she is constantly

subjected. It will be well for all religious bodies closely to

scrutinize her educational success, her tender care for the sick,

and all the other modes by which she generates and uses spiritual

power. Surely no well-organized church with a pure Scriptural

faith, claiming to have divine authority, can in _this Protestant

nation_ be content any longer to yield ground to a _foreign church_

with a foreign ministry.”

We can afford to be forbearing, and heartily forgive such language,

in view of the tribute he pays to our superiority. The best thing

in the book is his extract from the Abbé Mullois’ work entitled

_The Clergy and the Pulpit in their Relations to the People_,

which he rightly calls invaluable, and says “should be carefully

and prayerfully studied by the clergy and laity of our church, as

it is eminently spiritual and practical”--a recommendation not

quite in harmony with the preceding complimentary allusions. The

Abbé Mullois’ work (issued by “The Catholic Publication Society”),

though only a fourth of the size of _Women Helpers_, is worth a

thousand such. It is full of charity, zeal, and genuine piety, and

sparkling with vivacity. No cant or lackadaisical piety _there_. It

is a book that should be in every priest’s hands at least. The Abbé

Mullois is fully sensible of woman’s adaptation to self-denying

labors in the cause of religion and charity. “Woman is called the

feeble sex,” says he. “True, when she does not love; but when love

takes possession of her soul, she becomes the strong, the able, the

devoted sex. She then looks difficulties in the face which would

make men tremble.”

The co-operation of woman in evangelizing the world is nothing

new in the church. Woman was instrumental in the fall of man; the

second Eve had a large share in his redemption. The ministrations

of women date from apostolic times, and the church has always

availed herself of them. France was said to have been won back

to Christianity by the Sisters of Charity. The utility of lay

co-workers, both men and women, is evident from the good done by

the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul among men, and the various

female associations among women. Wherever there is a priest, there

should be some such organization for the religious and social

elevation of the poor. _Women Helpers_ shows how the masses hunger

for spiritual aliment. Let us hasten to give them bread instead of

a stone!

* * * * *

THE OFFERTORIUM. A complete Collection of Music for the Sunday

and Holyday Services of the Catholic Church, containing

Masses, Vespers, Anthems, Hymns for Offertory, Benediction,

and all Special Occasions, a Requiem Mass, Holy Week

Services, Responses, etc. By William O. Fiske. Boston: Ditson

& Co.

Why this collection of music is called “The Offertorium” we cannot

understand. There is only one Offertory in the whole book. It might

with equal fitness be styled “The Introit” or “The Kyrie Eleison.”

Claiming, as it does, to be a collection of music for the services

of the Catholic Church, we looked at once for the imprimatur of the

proper ecclesiastical authority, but, after examining its contents,

we were not surprised at its absence. It is, in fact, a poor rehash

of books already well known to our country choirs. A number of

pieces are called “Gregorian.” If this be Gregorian chant, we want

none of it. It would lead us in charity to believe the compiler

never saw a volume of Gregorian chant in his life. Again, we think

no one capable of writing or compiling music for the church who

does not know how to read, or at least pronounce, Latin. We have

the following pronunciations given in this work: luci_fé_rum,

spiri_tú_i, us_qué_, glo_ría_, filio_rúm_, confi_dúnt_,

descen_dúnt_, etc., etc. In a _Gloria in Excelsis_ abridged from

Concone, the name of our Lord, “Jesu Christe,” is left out after

“altissimus.” The author likely got up his musical phrase first,

and, finding it too short, sacrificed the integrity of the sacred

text to either his musical poverty or professional vanity. This and

a few other cuttings of the text are, however, amply made up for

by the frequent repetition of words and parts of sentences to be

found on every page of the musical masses. The clergy are on all

sides lamenting the degradation of church music, but let them not

complain so long as they permit their choirs to furnish a market

for productions like this.

* * * * *

THE CHATEAU MORVILLE; or, Life in Touraine. From the French. By

E. R. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger. 1872. 1

vol. 12mo, pp. 366.

This book, the translator says in his preface, “is the first

of a contemplated series of entertaining foreign fiction, to

consist of a selection of some of the best works of the most

popular continental authors, and is intended for that class of

readers who are desirous of enjoying all the instruction to be

derived from a first-class novel.” We do not deny that the book is

sprightly, witty, and entertaining, and that it may please those

who read simply for amusement. All the characters are supposed

to be Catholic, yet that word is not once used in the work; nor

is religion in any of its practices, public or private, alluded

to, except on the last page. The story is a moral one, but of

the negative kind, and is to Catholic literature what the public

schools are to Catholic schools--Godless.

* * * * *

EXCERPTA EX RITUALI ROMANO PRO ADMINISTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AD

COMMODIOREM USUM MISSIONARIORUM, IN SEPTENTRIONALIS AMERICÆ

FŒDERATÆ PROVINCIIS. Nova et Auctior Editio. Baltimori: Apud

Kelly, Piet et Socios. MDCCCLXXII.

This new edition of the abridged ritual is quite an improvement

on preceding ones. The following matter has been added: “De

Visitatione Infirmorum,” “Modus Juvandi Morientes,” “Benedictio ad

Omnia,” “Benedictio Infantis,” “Benedictio Puerorum Ægrotantium,”

and exhortations, in German, before and after marriage. The

“Profession of Faith at the Reception of a Convert” is also given

in German. The translation of the baptismal interrogations into

the vernacular, which has hitherto been customary, seems to be

superfluous and even objectionable, after the decree of the S.

Congregation of Rites, August 31, 1867, forbidding the use of such

translations. The title is put as “Rituali Romano” on the back in

the copy before us, the most prominent words on the title-page

having been transferred to the cover. The rubrics are in red, the

type large and clear, and the binding good.

* * * * *

ON THE DUTIES OF YOUNG MEN. Translated from the Italian of

Silvio Pellico, by R. A. Vain. New York: D. & J. Sadlier &

Co. 1872.

This little book, of less than two hundred pages, contains much

that is new, apposite, and instructive. The style is calm,

affectionate, and altogether devoid of that harsh dogmatism which

sometimes makes even the best advice unpalatable. The varied

duties of young men claiming to be Christians and aiming at the

highest possible refinement, both in the family and society,

are described in a number of short chapters, every one of which

is a well-conceived sermon epitomized. The appearance of the

volume is in keeping with the excellence of its contents, and we

congratulate the publishers on having succeeded in producing one of

the handsomest of the minor works of the season in any department

of literature. We hope the public will appreciate this effort of

the Messrs. Sadlier to keep pace with the enterprise of other

publishers, and that their contemporaries outside of New York may

show equal energy and skill in the preparation of their books.

* * * * *

LATIN SCHOOL SERIES.--PHÆDRUS, JUSTIN, NEPOS. By Francis Gardner,

Head Master, A. M. Gay and A. H. Buck, Masters in the Boston

Latin School. Boston: Lee & Shepard. New York: Lee, Shepard &

Dillingham. 1872.

The Boston Latin School is one of our few classical glories. A

series of Latin text-books, edited by its masters, will be an

acquisition to be hailed by every teacher and pupil. This volume

of the series is a gem in every respect--text, notes, glossary,

and typographical form. What makes it very nice for a boy is its

small size, and the placing of the notes at the bottom of the

page. We trust that the other volumes of the series will follow in

rapid succession, and that they will contain nothing which can be

dangerous to the morals of the youthful scholars in whose hands

they will be placed. It is important to promote the thorough study

of the Greek and Latin languages, but still more necessary to

guard the minds of the young from the contaminating influence of

that portion of the classical literature which is defiled with the

impurities of heathenism. The introduction of the excellent series

of Christian classics published in France into the course of an

American college would be a good thing.

* * * * *

THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS. By Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A. January.

London: John Hodges. (New York: Sold by The Catholic

Publication Society.) 1872.

Mr. Gould is a remarkable man. Three years ago we reviewed

with considerable severity a work of his, and treated him as a

rationalist, which we supposed him to be at that time, not knowing

anything whatever of his opinions, except as they were indicated in

the book reviewed. We were somewhat puzzled by discovering that he

is really a clergyman of the Ritualist school, but it appears in

reality that he is a Hegelian in philosophy, and at the same time a

_soi-disant_ eclectic Catholic in theology. How he reconciles these

opposites is his affair, not ours. The present volume, at any rate,

is worthy of the highest praise. It is a collection of short lives

from the Bollandists, published in a beautiful style, and perfectly

suitable for circulation among Catholics. We trust he will complete

his useful and attractive work in the same admirable manner as he

has begun it.

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY has in press and in preparation

the following works, in addition to those already announced,

which will be published during the fall: _Pictures of Youthful

Holiness_, by Rev. R. Cooke; _A Saint’s Children_, by Emily Bowles;

_Life and Writings of St. Catherine of Genoa_; _All Hallow-Eve,

and Unconvicted_; _Tales from the Spanish of Fernan Caballero_;

_The Heart of Myrrha Lake, or Into the Light of Catholicity_;

_The Nesbits, or a Mother’s Last Request_; _Oakley, on Catholic

Worship_; _The Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac for 1873_;

and _The Book of the Holy Rosary_, illustrated with thirty-six

full-page engravings, by Rev. H. Formby. The publication of F.

Finotti’s _Bibliographia Catholica Americana_ has been unavoidably

delayed, by circumstances beyond the control of either author or

publisher. It is now about two-thirds printed, and will be ready as

soon as possible. This explanation is given as an answer to several

letters received by the publisher.

FOOTNOTE:

[132] An old monastic site (alas!), so named from the donor, the

Kaiser Charlemagne.

THE REVIEW OF MR. BRYANT’S ILIAD.

The following paragraph appeared in the _Independent_, from which

it was copied by the New York _Times_:

“We were slightly surprised, after reading in the June number of

THE CATHOLIC WORLD that ‘the New York _Times_ has long rivalled

_Harper’s Weekly_ in bigotry and anti-Catholic malice,’ to find

in the same number a long article on Bryant’s _Iliad_, which is

stolen bodily from two reviews of the same work in the _Times_ of

March 14 and June 20, 1870. The arrangement of the paragraphs is

slightly changed, but their contents are absolutely identical.

In the same number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD the editor pathetically

inquires: ‘What is the Catholic press doing to correct these

literary influences? What is it doing to cultivate the art of

criticism?’ Stealing, evidently. We are informed, however, that

often ‘the force of a Catholic organ consists of nobody but the

editor, who writes all the fourth page, and the assistant, who

makes up the rest of the forms with a paste-pot and a pair of

shears.’ If Catholic monthlies are edited in the same way as

Catholic weeklies, it manifestly becomes necessary to search for

articles among the files of the daily papers; but we must remind

the editor, to quote his own words again, that ‘newspapers go

everywhere. Their readers are not confined to any one sect or any

one party.’”

The simple fact of the matter is, that the author of the articles

in the _Times_ presented the review of the _Iliad_, which appeared

in our last number, to the editor of this magazine in manuscript,

and received payment for it as an original article. The proper

explanation has been already made to the editor of the _Times_. To

the _Independent_ our only rejoinder may be found in the last four

lines of the Ninth Fable of Phædrus.[133]

“Tunc ille insolens:

‘Qualis videtur opera tibi vocis meæ?’

‘Insignis,’ inquit, ‘sic, ut nisi nôssem tuum

Animum genusque, simili fugissem metu.’”

FOOTNOTE:

[133] _Phædri Fabulæ_, Fab. IX., Asinus et Leo Venantes.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XV., No. 89.--AUGUST, 1872.

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

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

Washington, D. C.

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES.

A RETROSPECT.

The astonishing growth of our hierarchy, with the multiplied

divisions which such growth calls for--overrunning, as they do,

and intersecting the boundaries of ancient mission-fields--seems

to make the renowned past of missionary labor on this continent

recede more and more into indistinctness. We propose to make some

brief mention of prominent incidents in the history of those

missions, and to do so not only that we may awaken in a generation

of superficial readers an interest in the achievements of the great

pioneers of our faith on this soil of America, but that we may base

thereupon some suggestions we wish to make to the future historian

of those times and those men. We trust that the day will come when

a taste for studies of this kind will have spread from the few to

the many, and create a necessity for some work more extended than

a sketch or a compend. Meanwhile, of such historical materials as

we have, which are accessible to the ordinary reader, we propose to

make mention, for the benefit of those who may now desire to know

what materials we possess; nay, more, that they may be encouraged

to appreciate these materials at their value, we shall reproduce

from them alone all the statements we have to present to the reader.

The period of time embraced by these early missionary enterprises

comprehends no less than eight and a half centuries, dating from

the first mention in history of the Norse missions, in the tenth

century, to the establishment of the last of the missions of

California in 1823. In the chronological order of their inception,

they range as follows:

I. The missions to the adventurous Norsemen, whose settlements

in the middle ages extended from Labrador to the southern coast

of New England. Although the light of faith gleamed but for a

time on our shores, leaving us only the memory of the Bishop of

Garda--so happily embalmed in the pages of Mr. R. H. Clarke’s

_Deceased Bishops_--the Norse missions did not entirely die out

on the eastern coast of Greenland until 1540. At this date, the

intrepid missionaries of Spain had already advanced from Mexico

into the borders of our present Southern territory. The extinction

of the Catholic settlements at the north was due to the physical

revolution caused by a change in the course of the Gulf Stream.

Thereupon, that once smiling and fertile shore became the bleak and

inhospitable region that it has ever since continued to be, and no

race of Europeans now disputes with the rugged Esquimaux a foothold

on the land.

II. The Spanish missions alluded to above. The history of these

missionary enterprises, in their alternating successes and defeats,

is one that renders the soil of Florida, Texas, and New Mexico a

land of sacred memories. In New Mexico, the Christian settlements

under our American Bishop of Santa Fé perpetuate these ancient

missions. In the other states named they exist only in the material

monuments they have left behind them.

III. The French missions. These were the vast Christian enterprises

which, from New France, sent into New York and the states west of

it so many apostles and martyrs. The present Christian Indians of

Canada owe their faith, and indeed their continued existence, to

these missions, which have also bequeathed to us within our own

limits the Abnakis of Maine and the Christian Indians who within a

few years have been removed from Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, etc.,

to the Indian Territory.

IV. The missions of Maryland. These missions carried the light of

faith to the aborigines of that colony, and if the latter have

ceased to exist, the Jesuits still subsist, and inhabit the ancient

manors where their brethren of old gathered around them the docile

children of the forest, ere the torch of religious and political

persecution was lighted by stranger hands in the “Land of the

Sanctuary.” Yet, even the missions of Maryland are not without a

living succession, for the Jesuits of Maryland planted a colony

of their brethren in the West, and have carried the Gospel to

vast multitudes of new subjects among the Indian tribes, and have

besides aided to sustain the faith of those expatriated from the

former limits of other mission fields. Perhaps the most serious

blow to the perpetuity of some of these missions is threatened

in the government’s plan of “improvement” in its Indian policy.

While the measures comprehended under this new policy aim at

eradicating some abuses, the plan is also ingeniously aimed to

operate in a direction where no abuses can be alleged, and to

substitute among Catholic Indians the “Evangelical” preacher for

the “Black-gown,” whom the Indians feel to be their best and most

disinterested friend, at whose feet they have learned the rudiments

of Christianity, and at whose feet alone they will condescend to

sit for instruction in the way of eternal life.

V. The missions of Louisiana. Within the former limits of these

missions, the area of the present states of Louisiana, Arkansas,

and Mississippi was embraced. By the removal of the native tribes,

the missions of Louisiana have become practically merged in those

which now embrace the Western States. Nevertheless, some Christian

Indians still linger on the soil of Louisiana proper.

VI. The missions of California. In so far as the hostility of the

whites has permitted the Indians to live in peace, these missions

may be said still to subsist. Such remains of them as Mexican

rapacity had spared descended to us at least on the cession of

California to the United States.

Should the full history of these missions come to be written,

the more perspicuous arrangement--we beg to suggest to the

historian--would be to divide the whole into _epochs_. Thus,

the Norse missions would constitute an epoch by itself, to be

designated, let us say, as the _Ante-Columbian_--missions before

the discovery by Columbus. When the Catholic Historical Society

shall be formed (even if it owe its origin to this suggestion

for its formation), its first care, after gathering into its

fire-proof cabinets the books, pamphlets, newspapers and magazines,

manuscripts, charts, portraits, sketches, and other memorials or

illustrations of the Catholic history of America, should be to draw

from Northern Europe materials for a more extended history than we

now possess of an epoch so full of interest to the antiquary and

the Catholic. Until recently, indeed, the Norse missions bid fair

to be reckoned as among myths. If they are no longer so regarded,

this result is due to the investigations of a few scholars only.

The _second_, or _Post-Columbian_, epoch should commence with the

history of the missionary efforts which succeeded the discovery by

Columbus. This epoch, after displaying the inception and progress

of these great religious enterprises, might terminate appropriately

with the establishment of one of the last series of missions, that

of San Francisco, erected on the site of the present city of that

name in 1776, seven days before the date of our Declaration of

Independence.

For the _third_ epoch, no event could form a more appropriate

initial point than that which freed our country from the domination

of England. From this point, a new era opens for our church, for

the charter of our national independence was the charter of our

liberties as well. In the epoch just elapsed, the spirit of British

legislation and the spirit of British bigotry harassed or defeated

at every step the apostolical laborers within the mission-fields

embraced in the limits of the American colonies. Now, over all

the territory of the new Republic, shortly to be enlarged by the

addition of Louisiana and Florida with their sacred memories of

the past, the old colonial legislation against Catholics began to

disappear from the statute-books of the states; and, if at the

present writing there be a state where these discriminating laws

still linger, her apologists are obliged to claim that they are

practically inoperative.[134] Early in this epoch, our present

hierarchy had its beginning in the appointment of John Carroll

as first bishop--John Carroll whose efforts, in conjunction with

Franklin, Chase, and Charles Carroll, to enlist the sympathies of

the Canadians in our national cause, were rendered abortive by

the anti-Catholic manifesto which had been issued by the colonial

congress of 1774.[135] The era of the great prelate’s labors

was shortly rendered memorable by the arrival upon our shores

of those devoted men whom persecution or revolution abroad had

driven hither. Through them, with here and there the assistance

of the few clergyman already on the spot, religion began to make

glad the desert places. The centres of population, no less than

the scattered settlements of the interior--the mountains of

Pennsylvania equally with the forests of Kentucky--rejoiced in

the spreading light of gospel truth. In short, the seventy years

succeeding the Declaration of Independence--within which period

we propose to limit this third epoch--form an era filled with the

chronicles of devoted missionary labor, and the history of humble

and painful foundations which have since expanded into vast and

even magnificent proportions.

For the commencement of the _fourth_ epoch, embracing the era in

which we live, and terminating when it may please the historian to

close it, the year 1846 is suggested for several reasons. If the

assignment of this date seems to terminate the preceding epoch at

a period disproportionally early, compared with the epoch before

it, it must be remembered that these seventy years, embracing as

they do the period of the formation and first growth of our present

hierarchy, would probably require as voluminous a treatment at

the hands of the historian as the whole long period of the second

epoch. In 1846, the partition of dioceses into ecclesiastical

provinces began by the erection of the Province of Oregon in that

year. Prior to this time the whole United States had formed but

one Province, under the Archbishop of Baltimore. The Province of

St. Louis was erected in 1847, those of New Orleans, Cincinnati,

and New York in 1850, and the Province of San Francisco in 1853.

The year 1846 is also the date of the accession to the Pontifical

throne of the great and good Pius IX., still happily reigning,

whose Pontificate is the most remarkable of modern times, if not

of all times, as it has certainly been the longest, and, in its

relations to the American church, the most momentous. The Sixth

Provincial Council of Baltimore was held in 1846, and the same

year was signalized by the opening of the Mexican War, which

was followed in 1848 by the acquisition of California and New

Mexico, classic lands in the history of the American Missions. The

annexation of Texas in 1845, with all her legacies of missionary

heroism, forms the closing political event of the preceding epoch.

Thus, many reasons concur for selecting 1846 as the period of a new

departure in our ecclesiastical annals. The thread of narrative

connecting the history of the old missions with our own day may be

said to terminate at the beginning of this epoch, by the admission

of California and New Mexico into the Federal Union. Nor need this

thread be afterwards resumed. The fourth epoch, judging from its

energetic beginnings and the triumphant progress the church in this

country has made in the interval, is destined to fill a glorious

place in ecclesiastical history.

These suggestions in regard to the method of dealing with our

Catholic history would be superfluous, except upon the supposition

that such a history as the subject calls for has yet to be written.

We have no doubt it will be. It is the purpose of this paper to

promote such a consummation, both by arousing an interest in

the subject on the part of readers, and stimulating the zeal of

writers. Without this interest on the part of readers, the zeal,

learning, and ability of authors will never be called into play

on this field. Whatever meed of praise we must assign to the few

authors who have made our missions or our Catholic history their

theme, it cannot be contended that they have largely developed it:

but, if they have not done more, it is because the taste of the

public--the Catholic public, at least--did not demand more. Here,

then, is need for reformation.

Catholics might take a lesson from the conduct of people of the

world. When a family of high origin rises again into distinction

from a condition of temporary depression, it reverts with fondness

to the ancestry by which it was distinguished in the past, as well

as to that which achieved its return to greatness: it justifies its

present position by the long roll it exhibits of its genealogical

worthies. So should American Catholics of the present day act and

feel as a religious family, but with a pride that is commendable,

since the object of it is the church of God, and all the glory it

acquires is due to the humility, the sacrifices, the self-devotion

of the truest heroes that ever lived, the saints and servants of

God. Such were our religious ancestors on this continent, and such

they were long before in the vista of centuries. It is something

to possess a mere antiquity in a land where all is new save the

race that is dying out towards the setting sun, and no lineage can

dispute for antiquity with that of the Catholic Church on this soil.

If her history were better known, we should not be so often met by

the assertions that this is a “Protestant country”--an assertion

which, though provoking, would be harmless but for some social

or legal ostracism which is attempted under color of it. The

preponderance of numbers, the only tenable ground upon which the

assertion can be made, is a mere temporary condition of things,

and is so rapidly disappearing that a mathematical calculation

is alone sufficient to fix its period of termination. But, last

as long it may, this preponderance avails nothing so long as the

law of the land knows neither Protestant nor Catholic as such.

This impartiality of the law, by the bye, will never be disturbed

by Catholics even when the preponderance of numbers shall be in

their favor. They venerate too deeply the example of the Catholic

Pilgrims of Maryland ever to descend from the high standard they

have left behind.

Again, this is not a Protestant country by virtue of early

discovery or possession, nor by reason of early settlement or

religious foundation, nor even by the establishment of an earlier

hierarchy, as some Protestant churchmen contend. Much less is it

Protestant by the conversion of either native or foreign races

within its confines. With one only exception, as a class, that may

be reckoned considerable, Protestantism is only an heirloom in

families that were Protestant at the time of their immigration.

Nor has it, with these, held its own; for the statistics supplied

by our Catholic bishops show that, among those confirmed by

them, a proportion, varying in different dioceses, but forming

an average of probably twelve per cent., is composed of converts

from Protestantism. The considerable exception we note is formed

of the descendants of Irish Catholics who long since emigrated

to these shores or were transported hither in large numbers by

Oliver Cromwell. Their children, deprived of religious instruction

and left without priests and sacraments, have been gradually

absorbed into the ranks of the sects around them. Hence the

number of unmistakably celtic names we find borne by many who are

now Protestants. This exception, however, goes very little way

towards establishing the general assertion that the Protestantism

of the country is due to the conversions it has made. The blacks

have naturally followed the religion of the masters in whose

families they were domesticated while slaves. As to the Indians,

Protestantism has done little or nothing that it can point to

with any pride, and it employs itself in their regard, as it does

in all other parts of the world where it encounters the Catholic

missionary, in marring or obstructing his work, thus leaving the

poor Indian in a more wretched condition than he had been before he

heard of Christianity at all.

Under whatever auspices certain colonies of Protestants were

established, long after the first occupation of American soil

by Catholics, the constitution, which is the charter of our

general liberties, and which these colonies, or the states

representing these colonies, united in adopting, is silent on the

subject of religion. Its equilibrium on this point is perfect.

Nor will it be disturbed, even though a judge of the Supreme

Court heard the little knot of superserviceable Protestants who

advocate the apparently innocent project of introducing “God in

the constitution.” Even if it were possible that these gentlemen

should succeed in their effort, an internecine warfare would

ensue among Protestants themselves for the possession by one

or the other of the different sects of the power to direct the

“appropriate legislation” contemplated in the proposed amendment

to the constitution. In this scramble, the opportunity of wielding

this new engine against the Catholics would be lost, and hence much

of the animus that directs the movement now would prove a waste

of zeal. Our general laws are, therefore, no more Protestant than

Catholic, and even court-preachers who claim that their “church” is

a “power in the land” are unable to wrest them from their tenor,

though they may fill the public offices with the adherents of their

conventicle.

History, good sense, and common observation thus militate against

a claim which is intended, in one way or another, to be injurious

to American Catholics and their church. This subject may not be new

to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, but it is one which will bear

repetition, in view of the necessity of presenting the truth as it

is before right-minded Protestants who may otherwise be beguiled by

the specious pretences of their less scrupulous brethren--in view

of the still greater necessity of fortifying our own people against

an allegation which is intended to discourage and demoralize

them. We need our moral force, our Catholic spirit, our sense of

equality with our neighbors, in order to accomplish much of the

good that is before us in both the social and the religious sphere.

It will help this spirit of noble independence to become familiar

with the history of our church in this country and of its unique

achievements.

The scattered memorials of early missions have been gathered with

great labor by Mr. John G. Shea, and compressed in his _History

of the Catholic Missions_ (New York, 1854). His narrative needs

digesting, but is of most interesting matter. The absence of

maps, however, and the consequent difficulty of following the

footsteps of the missionaries in their labors and journeys, often

through unfamiliar localities, necessitate a reference to other

books, and so detract from the value of the work as a handbook

for ordinary readers. Even the works of Kip and Parkman, covering

a more restricted ground, are illustrated by maps. The tables in

Mr. Shea’s appendix, with the names of the missionaries, the date

of their arrival, and that of their death, and also the list of

authorities in print and manuscript illustrating his subject, are

extremely valuable. We are indebted to Mr. Shea’s work for the

principal portion of our materials.

T. D’Arcy McGee’s five lectures on the _Catholic Church in the

United States_ (Boston, 1855), written in a clear, brilliant, and

forcible style, pass in review the history of the American church

from the days of Columbus down to the period of the publication of

the book.

_The Catholic Church in the United States_, by Henry de Courcy,

translated and enlarged by John G. Shea (New York, 1856), is

modestly designated by the author as a “sketch,” but can only be

considered so because the ground covered by the work is so vast,

and the period so extended, that it was found impossible to dwell

at length on any particular point. Still, the work is neither hasty

nor superficial, and comprehends a bulk of nearly 600 pages.

These three works by Catholic authors are the only publications we

possess bearing upon the general ground, and adapted to popular

use and reference. A lecture here or there, or Dr. White’s sketch

attached to Darras’ _General History of the Church_, does not add

materially to our resources. It will be observed from the date of

their publication that these three works were published in three

successive years about the period of the last “Know-Nothing”

excitement. Are we to infer from this circumstance that our people

can only be goaded by religious persecution into demanding such

works? If so, we shall have the less reason for regret when the

unprecedentedly long period of peace we are now enjoying shall

come to a close, as it certainly must, sooner or later, in the

providence of God.

Of biographies and local histories we have a growing collection,

some of them of great value. The affairs of a diocese, a state,

or a particular region of country will always command a special

interest among those who dwell therein. Hence we may expect this

class of works to appear in increasing numbers. They furnish

important materials to the future general historian, and probably

educate the taste of readers into a demand for more comprehensive

works. Many details that would be useful to the historian would

perish but for them, as many have doubtless perished already for

the lack of timely chroniclers. An enumeration of these works is

not essential in this place, but we trust that other hands will do

justice to those who have bestowed their scanty time upon labors

of this kind, for all these works have been written by men of busy

lives, such men as the late Archbishop Spalding, for example,

among the clergy, and the late Bernard U. Campbell, of Baltimore,

among the laity. Mr. Campbell’s writings, to be sure, have not

been reprinted from the magazine for which they were written; but

had not the gates of death closed in the midst of his career on

the author of the _Life and Times of Archbishop Carroll_, we might

have expected from one possessed of his industrious research, his

ardent mind, and genuine talents, contributions of the highest

value to the history of the church in America. He was called hence

just as a position of comparative distinction and emolument seemed

about to compensate him for his long years of faithful duty in the

inconspicuous but responsible post he had hitherto filled; and this

tribute to the memory of one whose character was brightened by

every Christian and every civic virtue will not seem out of place

here to those who knew him--and who in his community did not know

him? who did not love him?

When will our young men, beginning life with advantages of which

Mr. Campbell could not boast, with wealth and family position and

scholastic training, learn to emulate such an example, and devote

their opportunities, their means, and the fruits of their studies

to a task which would do them infinite honor, instead of devoting

all these gifts to the service of a frivolous society?--a task upon

which, in their default, strangers and aliens have entered, and

gathered laurels to themselves at the expense of the church whose

heroes they pretend to exalt.

The author of a work to which we have already referred has snatched

from the intervals of severe professional labors time for the

production of two of the most important volumes contributed to

our American Catholic literature in the department of biography,

although their bulk and cost must render them inaccessible to many

readers. But it is a work the perusal of which must quicken the

desire for that full and connected history of the American church

which awaits us in the future. Here, that history glitters in

detached fragments, like prismatic hues reflected from some great

signal-light, around each saintly and venerable figure whose life

and labors the author has portrayed. There, in one luminous whole,

it will irradiate our entire past. Again, a clergyman has found the

opportunity, amid the cares of a parish and the distractions of

frequent and painful illness, to prepare for publication a schedule

of all the early issues of our American Catholic press--a most

welcome adjunct to the labors of the Catholic historian. With these

and many similar examples before them, how great a reproach must

rest upon our Catholic young men of culture if their last and only

contribution to the literature of their church and country be the

fleeting amenities of a college address at graduation!

But, as we have already remarked, the field of our Catholic history

has been entered upon by writers of another and an alien school.

The wealth of incident, the picturesque _entourage_, the heroic

action, which characterize the history of our Catholic missions

have proven irresistible attractions to the Protestant scholar. Mr.

Francis Parkman is especially conspicuous in this department, and

we wish to say a few words in regard to his best-known work, _The

Jesuits in North America_ (Boston, 1867). We trust that to Catholic

readers Mr. Shea’s elegant reprint of Father Charlevoix’s _History

of New France_, fully and carefully annotated by Mr. Shea himself,

will supply all the needs of a reference on this field of inquiry.

None can fail to admire the graces of style which distinguish Mr.

Parkman’s writings, but Protestants alone can make him a reference

and commend him for the fidelity with which he adheres to their

worn-out traditions and the readiness he exhibits to flatter their

ingrained prejudices and prepossessions.

It is difficult to understand how an author could have written so

fully and so eloquently of men, the dignity of whose aims he seems

not to have formed the slightest conception of, or that he should

have chosen this theme at all under the circumstances. We can only

hope that a more profound feeling stirred him to the task than he

is willing to acknowledge. But Mr. Parkman is a New Englander, and

it befits not the Puritan traditions of his people to display any

enthusiasm. On the ears of the auditory he undoubtedly in the main

sets himself to address--an auditory dead to every supernatural

impression except that which may be evoked by the practices of

spiritism--words of enthusiasm would fall distastefully, and the

reflex of an inner faith be simply repelling. Hence Mr. Parkman

carefully avoids any suspicion of complicity with these unpopular

emotions, and his heroes enact their grand parts like puppets put

in action on a mimic stage by some inexplicable machinery. All the

pith and marrow of their actions, such as Catholics know to have

animated them, is eliminated, and nothing but a limp and imbecile

counterfeit is left of the living, breathing man. Yet these men,

these great missionaries so parodied, were they who undertook the

most gigantic labors, endured the most severe hardships, and met

even death itself, from the most exalted motive that can animate

our kind--the love of souls for God’s sake! In Mr. Parkman’s

hands, all that is great and ennobling about them shrinks into

an unsubstantial figment: the impelling motive, if one is to be

descried at all, is a barren sentimentalism, the action, left

aimless and unsupported, a mere _prettiness of behavior_.

The following passage from _The Jesuits in North America_ (page

97) will afford an example of the _animus_ with which the book is

written. It opens with the reiteration of a stale slander: “That

equivocal morality, lashed by the withering satire of a Pascal--a

morality built on the doctrine that all means are permissible for

saving souls from perdition, and that sin itself is no sin when

its object is the ‘greater glory of God’--found far less scope

in the rude wilderness of the Hurons than among the interests,

ambitions, and passions of civilized life. Nor were these men,

chosen from among the purest of their order, personally well fitted

to illustrate the capabilities of this elastic system. Yet, now

and then, by the light of their own writings, we may observe that

the teachings of the school of Loyola had not been wholly without

effect in the formation of their ethics. But when we see them in

the gloomy February of 1637, and the gloomier months that followed,

toiling on foot from one infected town to another, wading through

the sodden snow, under the bare and dripping forests, drenched with

incessant rains, till they descried at length through the storm

the clustered dwellings of some barbarous hamlet--when we see them

entering, one after another, those wretched abodes of misery and

darkness, and all for one sole end, the baptism of the sick and

dying, we may smile at the futility of the object, but we must

needs admire the self-sacrificing zeal with which it is pursued.”

_The futility of the object!_ And this is said in the nineteenth

century of Christian enlightenment! Has the lettered paganism which

held its head so high in the days of the early Roman Pontiffs

indeed revived in all its impenetrable pride, and with all its

scorn of the Christian faith and the Christian people? Has it only

_slept_ through all these centuries, to awaken again in our day and

stalk among us with unblushing front as of old?