In conclusion, on the subject of authors, Rev. W. I. Kip,

afterwards made Protestant Episcopal Bishop of California,

published, under the title of _Early Jesuit Missions in North

America_, a translation of some letters written by the French

Jesuits on the mission between 1696 and 1750. We see nothing to

object to and much to commend in this work. We must except from our

commendation a portion of the editor’s preface, as follows: “There

is one thought, however, which has constantly occurred to us in

the preparation of these letters, and which we cannot but suggest.

Look over the world and read the history of the Jesuit Missions.

After one or two generations, they have always come to naught....

Must there not have been something wrong in the whole system--some

grievous errors mingled with their teachings, which thus denied

them a measure of success proportioned to their efforts?”

Considering that, after one or two generations, the insane jealousy

of governments generally led to the persecution of the Jesuits, the

rapacity of officials to the plunder of their missions, and that

the whole society was suppressed and dispersed in the midst of some

of its most prominent labors, the failure of most of the Jesuit

missions may be easily accounted for. But these causes were all

extrinsic, not intrinsic, as Mr. Kip suggests. In spite of these

disintegrating causes, the vitality of the missions established

by the Jesuits, as exemplified in this retrospect, is something

remarkable. Nor was there ever, or, if ever, rarely, a failure

where these extrinsic causes were not at work. Mr. Kip’s assertion

that there is not a “recorded instance of their permanency” is

unveracious in spirit, if it be not in fact. He might easily have

known better. Probably, if he would “look over the world” through

the medium of the Protestant authorities quoted by Dr. Marshall

(and Dr. M. quotes no others) in his work on _Christian Missions_,

Mr. Kip and others equally in need of enlightenment would know what

they ought to believe of Jesuit and all other Catholic missions.

_Per contra_, and as shown by the same Protestant authorities,

it will be seen that the barrenness erroneously predicated of

the Jesuit missions by Mr. Kip is the distinguishing mark of the

Protestant missions everywhere and at all times, under the most

favorable as under the most adverse circumstances, in their first

stage equally as in their last.

When we consider that eight hundred or more years ago all that

was Christian in our land was Catholic, we can bear with more

equanimity the presumptuous offers of hospitality made to us

by sectaries who claim as their own a soil wherein Catholicity

was planted before their religion was heard of. In brief, the

history of these first missions was as follows: When the light

of Christianity spread from Ireland to Iceland, the adventurous

natives of the latter country had already effected a lodgement on

our continent through the colonies they had planted in Greenland

and on the shores further south, extending to Narragansett Bay.

They called this latter region Vinland from the great profusion

of native vines they found there. In the year 1000, Catholic

missionaries set forth from Iceland, and soon bade Greenland

blossom with the fruits of faith, as it blossomed already with the

material beauty and verdure that then crowned its valleys. In time

missionaries were despatched hence to Vinland, with the same happy

results. Thus, in what seems to us the night of ages, the voice

of Christian prayer and the hymns of Christian praise resounded

along our Northern shores. Greenland was already dotted over with

institutions of piety and learning when Eric, now its bishop, with

his see at Garda, came in 1121, for the second time, to visit his

dear Vinlanders and their Indian neophytes; rounding the promontory

of Cape Cod to the south, five hundred years before the grim

Puritans rounded it to the north on their way to Plymouth Bay. He

came this time to dwell with the chosen ones of his flock, and

doubtless to die with them, for the curtain of history has fallen

over his fate and that of his companions and spiritual children.

The old stone tower at Newport is, in the eyes of some respectable

antiquaries, a relic of ancient Catholicity in New England that

belonged to a church or monastery, but its mute walls reveal

nothing of the sacred catastrophe which overwhelmed the Christian

colony of Vinland. The soil of New England was therefore long since

dedicated to the God of truth, and let us trust that he will again,

in his own good time, claim his heritage.

Turning our eyes to the other extreme of our national boundaries

as they now exist, we find that the first Spanish missionaries set

foot in Florida in 1528, in company with the expedition of Narvaez.

The latter expected to find him an empire rivalling in wealth and

extent that of Mexico, so recently subjected to the Spanish arms by

the prowess of Cortez. The limits of the new empire were already

marked out for a see, which took its title from the Rio de las

Palmas, its southern boundary, a river in Mexico between Vera Cruz

and Tampico, and extended to the Cape of Florida. The new bishop

himself, Juan Juarez, headed the band of missionaries. As Father

Juarez, he had been one of the twelve Franciscans who were invited

to Mexico by Cortez to be its first apostles, and whom he received

with great honor in 1524, five years after his landing. Father

Juarez here distinguished himself by his zeal and his love and care

for the Indians, and his appointment as the new bishop, which was

made on the occasion of a subsequent visit to Spain, was therefore

most fitting.

The expedition of Narvaez proved, however, a failure, and in its

failure was involved that of the missionary scheme connected

with it. No rich empire met the commander’s expectant gaze,

no dusky monarch clad in barbaric splendor and surrounded by

assiduous courtiers crossed his path to question his purposes or

withstand his advance. He encountered only straggling Indians

who treacherously led him on to his ruin. At last, weary,

disappointed, pinched with want, and decimated by disease or the

arrows of ambushed savages, the troops of Narvaez forced their

way back through the jungle to the shore they had left. Narvaez

had injudiciously, and against the advice of Bishop Juarez,

ordered his ships elsewhere, and the only resource of the party

was to escape to sea as best they might in the rude boats they

constructed for the purpose. Four only remained behind, and these

saved themselves by a perilous journey across the continent.

The remainder were lost at sea, or were cast away to die a more

lingering death by starvation, disease, or the attacks of the

natives. Among the latter was the party of Bishop Juarez, which

had been driven ashore on Dauphin Island, near the mouth of the

Mississippi. Thus the fate of the second bishop who possessed

jurisdiction over any portion of our soil is, like that of the

first, wrapped in painful obscurity, and the fruits of his mission,

if there were any, are equally left without living trace. All that

is known of this devoted pioneer and martyr of the South has been

recorded by Mr. Clarke in his _Lives of the Deceased Bishops_.

The four survivors of the expedition of Narvaez traversed Texas and

New Mexico, and, reaching the shores of the Gulf of California,

reappeared to the gaze of their astonished friends. The accounts

they gave of the kingdoms and cities they had passed on their

journey--accounts that were doubtless somewhat colored by their

imagination--came to the ears of an Italian friar named Mark, and

excited his zeal for the glorious spiritual conquest that seemed

to lie before him. Placing himself under the guidance of Stephen,

a negro, one of the four survivors alluded to, and attended by

some friendly Indians, he boldly plunged into the wilderness which

skirted the river Gila. Crossing it, he continued his march until

he came within sight of Cibola, a city of the Zuñi tribe. Here he

sent forward Stephen with a party of the Indian attendants to

prepare the way, but the natives drove them back, and even killed

Stephen and some of his companions. The friar could only look

with longing eyes towards the city where he had hoped to garner a

harvest of souls, and then sorrowfully began to retrace his steps.

Ere descending the hill from which he bade farewell to the city,

he, however, planted the cross, the object of his journey and the

emblem of his mission.

The chieftain, Coronado, stimulated by the representations made

of the supposed riches of Cibola, headed an expedition fitted out

by the government to reduce it. He followed the route previously

traversed by Friar Mark, who accompanied him, together with a

number of other Franciscans. Cibola was reached, and soon yielded

to the invader, but so barren was the prize, that Coronado resolved

to press on to the conquest of another fabled empire in the

interior, leaving the poor friar, overwhelmed with reproaches,

to return home in shattered health. He ended his days shortly

after. Coronado, in his researches, crossed to the valley of the

Rio Grande, and even to that of the Arkansas, but without result,

except in the discovery of the vast herds of bisons which swarmed

the plains, and of which he was the first among Europeans to give

an account. When Coronado, weary of his fruitless journey, resolved

to return, Father John de Padilla, one of the Franciscans, in his

younger days a soldier, begged to be allowed to remain at the

Indian town of Quivira, west of the Rio Grande. Brother John of

the Cross proffered a similar request in regard to the neighboring

village of Cicuye, now Pecos. Bestowing upon them a supply of live

stock, and some Mexican Indians as assistants, the expedition

passed on and left them to their perilous posts. The Indians of

New Mexico were, as a race, of morals more than ordinarily pure,

and they possessed some familiarity with the arts. Notwithstanding

these humanizing traits, the lives of the two devoted missionaries

paid the forfeit of their courage and zeal, or they may both have

perished by the hands of roving Indians. No tidings were ever heard

of the lay brother, and the fate of the father was announced in

Tampico by his companions, who fled thither with the news of his

martyrdom.

The expedition of Coronado occupied the years 1540-1, or a great

portion of them. In the latter year De Soto, who had entered

Florida in 1539, led on by the same delusive hopes with which

the narrative of the survivors of the party of Narvaez inspired

Coronado--stood beside the mighty Mississippi, its discoverer. The

following year, its waters were to be at once the grave of the

great leader and the haven of refuge for the remnant of his band

in their escape from the country. De Soto had brought with him

from Spain a number of ecclesiastics, secular and regular. It is

not probable that they accomplished anything among the natives,

but they at least sacrificed their lives in the attempt, for the

last of them perished in the interval between the death of De Soto

and the arrival in Tampico of the survivors of his expedition. The

dark colors in which those who cater to popular prepossessions

delight to paint the conduct of the Spanish invaders are seldom

brightened by the testimony that should accompany the picture, of

the religious purposes which were never entirely absent from their

minds. With some of them religion was, indeed, a controlling

motive. Coupled with dreams of worldly conquest, was always the

hope and desire of spreading the knowledge of Christian truth

throughout the empires that might be won. Let the conduct of our

non-Catholic fellow-citizens in the first years of the American

occupation of California, in all its characteristics of violence,

irreligion, greed, and cruelty to the Indians, be compared with

that of the Spaniards of three centuries before, and it may be

found that the latter will gain by the comparison. Moreover, no

scheme of benevolence in behalf of the poor Indians, no thought of

extending God’s kingdom upon earth, ever entered the thoughts of

our nineteenth-century adventurers.

In 1544, one solitary soldier of the cross, Father Andrew de Olmos,

a Franciscan, acquired a success among the Indians of Texas which

had been denied to all his predecessors on the same field. It

was the wild race then known as the “Chichimecas,” among whom he

fearlessly advanced. Strange to say, many hearkened to his words,

and followed him to Tamaulipas, where he founded a reduction

for them, and completed their instruction. In the missions of

Mexico, Father Andrew had already acquired a knowledge of four

Indian languages, of three of which he had prepared grammars and

vocabularies, and in two of them had written religious works for

the use of the Indians. He now became a proficient in the language

of this tribe also, and prepared many books for his spiritual

children. Father John de Mesa, a secular priest, a kindred spirit

in zeal, and of like accomplishments as a linguist, joined him in

his labors, and both of them devoted the remainder of their lives

to the Indians of the reduction. Their mission was so fortunate as

to be perpetuated by successors, under whom it was also enlarged by

the accession of many new Indian converts.

An attempt equally intrepid in character and peaceful in its

method, but still entirely ineffectual in result, was the

expedition into Florida in 1547 under the direction of Father

Cancer de Barbastro, a distinguished missionary of Mexico, attended

by several other Dominicans. Fortified with a royal decree from

Philip of Spain restoring to liberty all natives of Florida held in

bondage in any portion of the Spanish possessions, and provided by

that monarch with an unarmed vessel, the missionaries were received

with some delusive demonstrations of friendship on the part of

the Indians. Untouched by the peaceful character of the mission,

however, they seized the first opportunity to massacre Father

Diego de Peñalosa, who had entrusted his life in their hands, and

not long after Father Cancer himself. The mission was thereupon

abandoned by the others as hopeless.

NOTE.--In addition to the works devoted specifically to the

subject, mentioned in the text of this article, we would refer

the future historian to the following sources of information as

indispensable to an exhaustive treatment of the theme. We offer

the suggestion as a partial acknowledgment of the obligation

which we, in common with our fellow-Catholics of the United

States, are under to a pioneer in this field of investigation--an

assiduous and _successful_ student (so far, at least, as his

readers are concerned) of early American Catholic annals:

_Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley_. By John

Gilmary Shea. (Embracing the Relations of Fathers Marquette,

Hennepin, Allouez, and others, and a _fac-simile_ of the outline

map of the region made by F. Marquette.)

_Early Voyages up and down the Mississippi._ By the same.

The Cramoisy Series of _Memoirs and Relations concerning the

French Colonies in North America_. Edited and published from

early MSS. By the same. 24 vols. (This includes Relations,

Biography, Travels, Letters, Diplomatic Correspondence, etc.,

etc.)

_The Library of American Linguistics_: A Series of Grammars and

Dictionaries of American Languages. Edited by the same. 13 vols.

“Our Convents,” in _The Metropolitan_, and “Our Martyrs,” in the

_United States Catholic Magazine_. (The latter has been published

in book-form in a German translation.)

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[134] Let us pause to observe that this change in the spirit of

legislation marks also the decline of that spirit of bigotry which

inspired it in the first place. The spirit of bigotry, however,

still survives, though it be less aggressive than formerly. It

outlives the melioration of charters, and dies hard. When it

shall have reached that stage of feebleness to which the natural

generosity of our countrymen will sooner or later reduce it, we may

then hope to follow where Canada has led in her laws concerning

_education_. The pompous protection now afforded by states and

municipalities to their necessarily infidel school will disappear

to give way to measures of solicitude for the equal education of

all, Catholic and infidel, Protestant and Jew, without injustice

to any man’s religion or any man’s resources. The unfortunate

precedent afforded by the theocratic government of New England, and

which has been so blindly followed by other states, in assuming

to _educate_ instead of _aiding_ education--even this disorder in

our republicanism may be healed, if congress do not meanwhile (as

appearances threaten) strengthen the hands of state absolutists

by its largesses; or, if it do not, by an act of still greater

usurpation than the states have been guilty of, consign the task of

popular education to the care of the general government.

[135] Thus Protestant bigotry probably lost us Canada, as it gained

us--must we say it?--the treason of Arnold. The bigotry of Arnold

revolted at the alliance with France, because it was an alliance

with Catholics. His disgust was heightened by the liberality of

feeling which began to be manifested by his countrymen towards

Catholics. The co-operation of Catholics, native and foreign, in

the cause of our National Independence, was so marked that it

may well have embittered a patriot of his calibre, and indeed it

infuriated him to that degree that he preferred to sell his country

rather than serve a cause which was so largely sustained by those

whose religion he hated. Does not Arnold live in successors? To say

nothing of others, who were the Know-Nothing patriots who preferred

to disgrace the national name by destroying the memorial-stone

contributed by Pius IX. to the Washington Monument, rather than

that its shaft should preserve the evidence of the respect of a

Pope for the memory of our Pater Patriæ?

FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POETRY.

TO THE BLESSED VIRGYNE.

As thou wel knowest, O Blessed Virgyne,

With lovynge herte and high devocion,

In thyne honour he (Chaucer) wroot many a lyne,

For he thi servant was, mayden Marie,

And let his love floure and fructifie.

--OCCLEVE.

TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN.

Lady, when men pray to the,

Thou goest before of thy benignitie

And getest us the light of thy prayere

To giden us to thi Sonne so dere.

--CHAUCER.

FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.

XXIV.

Fleurange hastily wrapped a large white burnous around her, drew

the hood over her face, and then ran to the carriage, which was

waiting for her. It seemed as if heaven had sent her aid in the

very hour of her greatest need. She felt that her resolutions would

be carried out by means of her cousin, but in what way she could

not yet see. At all events, she was no longer friendless, and one

of the difficulties she had to surmount was already smoothed away.

These thoughts prevailed over all others during her short ride

from the palace to the hotel. At her arrival, the sight of Clara

made her forget everything for a while but the sweet memories of

the past.--The Old Mansion, the fireside around which they used

to gather, the family all scattered since they last saw each

other--all came back with sharp poignancy, and it was with tears of

joy and regret they flew into each other’s arms.

This first emotion somewhat calmed, the two cousins looked at one

another. Though they had not been separated more than a year,

the appearance of both bore marks of the changes they had passed

through. Clara was as fresh and pretty as ever, but her fine son,

whose birth had delayed her return to Germany, added to the charm

of youth a certain gravity which enters into all maternal joy, and

gave to her beauty the crown of dignity it had hitherto lacked.

As to Fleurange, it would be difficult to say what had changed

her. Was it the elegance of her dress, which the princess did not

excuse her from, even when they were alone? Or the distinguished

society in which she now moved? Or was it the increased paleness of

her face, and her air of depression, that gave such sweetness to

her look, lent such new grace to her form, and rendered her whole

person more strikingly attractive than ever?

Fleurange had passed through too many sorrows, and at too early an

age, for her face ever to reflect the careless gaiety of youth. And

yet, after some weeks passed in her uncle’s family, the Old Mansion

was lit up with no smile more radiant than hers--it resounded with

no voice more joyful. Now, her pale and noble countenance seemed

overshadowed with a premature gravity. Her serene eyes, with their

expression of firmness, no longer displayed the sanguine enthusiasm

of youth, which used at times to light them up and deepen the

gray hue of the iris into the lively brilliancy of black. Without

looking a day older, she seemed to have acquired the experience of

maturity, and made a correct estimate of life without having taken

a step further through it.

Clara and Julian gazed at her with a kind of anxious admiration,

but forbore questioning her. They instinctively felt she would

prefer not to answer their questions. Besides, her own inquiries

left no room for theirs. The names so dear to them all were one by

one pronounced, and for some moments everything was lit up with the

warmth of the far-off fireside, which, amid all the young girl’s

recent emotions, she had never ceased to feel. Everything was going

on well among those dear absent ones. Comfort, peace, and even

somewhat of ease gradually reappeared beneath their roof. And all

this was owing to Clement’s activity and ability.

“Dear Clement!” said Clara with tears in her eyes. “What a

providence he has been to them all! May God bless and reward this

beloved brother!”

Then the travellers spoke of themselves. They were only passing

through Florence, which they had previously visited. After going

around to see Perugia, and all that region so attractive to

artists, they intended resuming the route to Germany. They were to

pass the following year at Heidelberg, where they were impatiently

awaited, Julian feeling obliged to make up for the time he had lost

in this delightful journey and to undertake with no further delay

the orders he had received.

Perugia!--At the very mention of this place an idea suddenly

occurred to Fleurange. Before arriving at Perugia they would have

to pass near Santa Maria al Prato. Could she not accompany them

thus far, and seek the advice and aid of the Madre Maddalena who

had always shown so affectionate an interest in her? Guided by her,

she would be sure of taking the wisest course in the perplexities

of her situation. If she needed courage, where find it if not

with her, the very remembrance of whom often sufficed to renew

the vigor of her soul? If she needed consolation, who so able to

impart it? Yes, this opportunity was providential; she must hasten

to profit by it; and, without speaking for the present of absolute

separation, she would only obtain the princess’ permission for a

few days’ absence in order to make this short journey.

Having decided on this, Fleurange breathed as freely as if a weight

had been removed from her heart. Before the end of the hour,

she took leave of her cousin after appointing a meeting for the

following day, and re-entered the carriage which had brought her.

It was in the month of May. The air was redolent of

spring-time--and spring-time at Florence. Count George’s carriage

was an open _calèche_. As she took her seat, one of the passers-by,

doubtless struck with her beauty, threw her one of those large

bouquets which in that city of flowers are in every one’s hands

at that season. Fleurange, without even turning her head to look

at the person who offered her this delicate homage, accepted it

without any scruple, and inhaled its odor with delight. She felt

an unusual pleasure in the sweet fresh night air which caressed

her cheek, and at finding herself thus alone for a moment with

uncovered head beneath so pure and brilliant a sky. After the long

confinement she had endured--passing so many days and nights

in a chamber the air and light scarcely penetrated--this moment

of freedom was a mental and physical refreshment of which she

unconsciously had absolute need. Besides, amid all the anxious

care she lavished on the princess, one thought--a constant,

painful thought--had not ceased to haunt her: She had been obliged

to practise continual renunciation of a tenderness which, mute

or sometimes murmured, had on a thousand occasions made itself

understood or divined. It was an additional relief to feel this

struggle would soon end, that a means of departure was at hand, or

rather of flight, and she would only have to courageously struggle

and repress her feelings a few days longer. After that, she would

only have to suffer; there would be nothing more to fear, either

from others or herself.

The young girl’s evening ride came to an end too soon. The horses

went like the wind, and brought her in a few moments to the foot of

the broad marble staircase. She ascended it slowly, and proceeded

at the same pace through the large salons, till she came to the one

in which she had left the princess and her son. This room, it will

be remembered, was the last of the suite, and opened, as well as

the one next it, upon the terrace, which thus afforded an exterior

communication between the two rooms.

When Fleurange came to the latter, she stopped. She feared the

princess might have retired without waiting for or needing her.

But not so: her son was still with her. She could distinctly hear

the sound of their voices. Owing to the vernal mildness of the

evening, all the windows were open, and, instead of entering,

Fleurange passed out on the terrace to await the conclusion of

their conversation. And, moreover, it had not yet struck ten--the

hour appointed for her return.

But she had scarcely gone out before she regretted it, for she

could not help hearing, not only their voices, but their very

words. She was about to return when she was stopped, and rooted as

it were to the ground, by a word which her ear caught, and which

gave her a thrill. That word was _Cordelia_; and almost immediately

after she heard her own name--her name, not that of Gabrielle, the

only one by which she was known, but the name of her childhood, the

name unknown to every one at Florence except him who now uttered

it--and in such a tone!

“Fleurange!” said Count George. “Yes, mother, this name which

just escaped me in speaking of her; this name as strange as her

beauty, and which, like the charm she is endowed with, belongs to

no one else in the world, was the one her father called her by the

first time I ever saw her--a thousand times more charming than the

Cordelia of which she was the original--”

Fleurange heard nothing more.--For some moments she felt ready to

faint, and it was only a resolute effort of her will that kept her

from falling to the ground, overcome by surprise and emotion. Was

it really the count she heard speaking? and could it be his mother

to whom he was talking? What madness led him to brave the princess

by using such language--her whom the slightest contradiction often

threw into a violent state of impatience and anger--her who could

not endure the least opposition from any one? What would she say?

What reply was Fleurange about to hear?

She no longer thought of stirring. She felt incapable of deciding

whether it were well or ill to remain; she had but one wish--to

hear the princess’ reply, and to act in consequence. Perhaps, after

hearing it, she would leave the place where she stood, never to

appear before her again; who could tell? Already a confused idea

entered her mind of leaving the palace and returning through the

streets, alone and on foot--night though it was--to the Steinbergs.

After a long silence the princess spoke, but her trembling and

subdued voice, to Fleurange’s great surprise, betrayed no signs of

anger. The effect was only the more profound on her who now stood

quivering with silent expectation.

“Then, George, you wish to cause me the greatest mortification it

is possible for a son to cause his mother--you wish to violate the

promise on which I relied with so much faith and confidence?”

“Mother, I have already told you I never made any promise.”

“Enough, George. I like your frankness. Do not spoil it now by

prevarication. If you made her no promise, you made me one which

you have not kept--me, your mother. This is sufficient, I think, to

merit my reproaches.”

“Mother--!” And George rose with an impatient air, and turned as if

to go out.

The princess rose too. She seemed completely cured. It often

happened that some extraordinary excitement effaced in a moment the

last traces of a long and severe attack.

She put her arm around her son’s neck and drew him towards her.

“George,” said she, when he returned to the place he had just left,

“I ought not to trust any more in your promises, and yet there is

one I beg you to make.”

“What is it, mother?”

“You will not yield to this folly without taking time for

reflection?”

“I can promise that.”

“Moreover--listen to what I am going to ask--Swear you will never

yield to it till you have obtained my consent.”

George hesitated. “That would be a very serious promise,” said he

at length in a caressing tone, “if I did not know that in the end

you never refuse anything to your spoiled child.”

“Come, come, George,” resumed his mother in an eager tone of

distress, “do not make me repent of my indulgence. Give me your

promise!”

“Well, mother, it should be acknowledged I ought to hesitate to

give it--without ever having asked her, without even knowing how,

after all, I should be received.”

The princess shrugged her shoulders.

He continued: “I am persuaded she would dispense with your consent

less readily than I, and consequently my submission is under the

guard of a will stronger than mine.”

The princess at first looked astonished; then, after a moment’s

reflection, she said: “Perhaps you are right. No matter, give me

your hand on this promise.”

George bent down, kissed his mother’s hand, and pressed it in his.

“There it is,” said he, “and my promise--on my word of honor.”

“That is right, my child, now leave me. It is time for Gabrielle to

return, and it would be better for her not to find you here.”

George rose, and, embracing his mother once more, left the room.

As soon as she was alone, the princess threw herself on her _chaise

longue_, put both hands to her face, and burst into sobs.

CHAPTER XXV.

Fleurange hesitated a moment, then followed her natural impulse,

which was always straightforward and courageous. She resolutely

entered the salon by the terrace window, and when the princess

raised her head she saw the young girl before her, wrapped in her

white burnous, with her bouquet in her hand. Though the princess

was expecting her, this sudden apparition surprised her to such

a degree that she gazed at her for a moment without speaking, as

if she were a supernatural vision. But it was only for a moment.

Fleurange perceived that the anger she repressed in her son’s

presence was now about to burst forth.

The princess wiped away her tears. Her eyes expressed at once wrath

and disdain. She hastily rose, and was about to add severe words

to the imperious gesture with which she pointed towards the door

with one hand, and had already placed the other rudely on the young

girl’s shoulder, when the latter, without arrogance and without

fear, looked her in the face.

The expression of Fleurange’s large eyes was such as can only be

compared to that magnetic virtue--that sometimes subdues, they

say, the fury of beings destitute of reason. No words could have

expressed to such a degree the uprightness and purity of her

soul. With all her faults, there was a nobleness in the princess’

nature which was touched by that look, and responded to it. Her

eyes turned away: she fell back on her _chaise longue_, and

unresistingly allowed Fleurange to take both her hands, which had

just made so threatening a gesture. She held them for some moments

grasped in her own, but neither of them spoke.

At last Fleurange said in a sweet, calm voice: “Princess, I was on

the terrace, and heard everything.”

A new flash of indignation awoke in the princess’ eyes, and her

mouth resumed its expression of disdain. The young girl’s face

slightly flushed.

“You will readily believe,” she continued, “that I did not go there

with the intention of listening. But hearing my name, I stopped. It

was wrong, I acknowledge, but I had no time for reflection. Pardon

me, and forgive also,” she added in a more troubled tone, “the

momentary displeasure Count George has caused you on my account.”

“Momentary!” repeated the princess in a cold, ironical tone.

“At least,” continued Fleurange, “you will find it only for an

instant that this notion, this folly--in short, what you have just

heard--will be serious enough to annoy or afflict you.”

“Gabrielle!”

“Allow me to continue, princess; you shall reply afterwards. My

heart is so full of gratitude towards you--”

“Do not talk to me of your gratitude,” cried the princess,

interrupting her, and breaking out anew. “It is precisely because

I thought I had some claims on it that I feel so deeply wounded.

After loving you so much, I am tempted to hate you. It is your

perfidy, your ingratitude--”

“I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,” said Fleurange, turning

pale. “Allow me to prove I am not. I ask it even more for your own

sake than for mine.”

The princess became calm once more, as if appeased by her sweet

voice, and seemed to resign herself to let Fleurange continue. She

leaned her head on her hand, and listened some moments without

changing her attitude.

“No,” repeated Fleurange, “I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,

and God knows what I am ready to suffer to spare you this

mortification or any other!--My first thought was to go away--to

flee--that you might be delivered from my presence and all the

annoyance it might cause you. But, princess, that would not have

been the best course. He must forget me. Therefore I must not

disappear in so romantic a fashion.”

“What do you mean?” said the princess with surprise.

“That I must certainly go away, but not in a way that will induce

him to pursue me. The less obstinate he is made by any appearance

of opposition, the sooner I shall be effaced from his memory.”

“You understand him well,” said the princess, more and more

astonished; “and you talk very coolly,” added she. “Then you do not

love poor George at all?”

A moment before she had been greatly irritated at her protegée’s

presumption, but now, mother-like, she seemed ready to take offence

at her indifference.

A lively blush suddenly suffused Fleurange’s face, and great

tears came into her eyes. “I do not love him?--My God! O my God!”

murmured she in a stifled tone, “have pity on my poor heart!”

But she almost immediately regained her self-control, and the

princess, more affected than she wished to appear, became

attentive, and at length perceived the importance of what she was

about to hear.

Fleurange then rapidly explained her design. It was the same she

had formed an hour before at her cousin’s: only then she was

desirous of concealing the motive and duration of her absence from

the princess. Now everything was simplified; she would set out with

the Steinbergs for Perugia, and afterwards find a pretext for

prolonging her absence. Only it was important the princess should

appear to expect her return, and, above all, should manifest no

anxiety as to her son’s fidelity to his promise.

“That promise,” continued Fleurange, not without a tone of just

pride, “I venture to say that M. le Comte George, in placing it

under the protection of my will, was right in his conviction it

would be well kept.”

While she was talking, all the princess’ resentment vanished, and

changed gradually to profound gratitude. Looking at Fleurange as

she stood before her, she realized, if she had wished to abuse

her ascendency or even take advantage of it, no filial respect

would have sufficed to bring George to submission: no maternal

authority have succeeded in restraining him. Whatever it might cost

her to acknowledge it, she could not deny that, if this double

wound was spared her pride and her affection, it was due to the

generous disinterestedness of her whom she had just treated with

so much haughtiness, as well as to her clear judgment. Yes, she

was perfectly right in thinking it would not do to disappear and

suddenly tear herself away, as it were, from George. The princess

knew, better than any one else, to what degree of tenacity this

kind of contradiction might lead her son, and it was precisely

this knowledge of his character alone that had just given her the

power of restraining herself in his presence. The means suggested

by Fleurange was therefore the best to ensure his future safety.

The princess’ great hope was in the mobility of George’s nature,

provided, on the one hand, he were withdrawn from the dangerous

charm of Fleurange’s presence, and, on the other, they did not

appear separated by the prestige of a great obstacle. Nothing,

in fact, could be more judicious than the advice this young girl

gave contrary to her own interests. She was too much a woman of the

world not to comprehend this, and was grateful to her for it. Once

more she might hope to attain the aim of her whole life, and with

this end in view she yielded without remorse to the necessity of

trampling under foot the noble heart that was immolating itself.

We will even venture to affirm that, if she was preoccupied with

anything beyond the present danger, it was not Fleurange’s crushed

life, but rather the effect of this unfortunate occurrence on

her own comfort and habits. Nevertheless, when they separated at

the end of this long conversation, the princess folded Fleurange

in her arms with many demonstrations of affection, and when the

latter was once more alone in her chamber she felt comparatively

happy. She abhorred all dissimulation, and the important step she

had just taken in the path of courageous frankness seemed to have

removed a burden from her heart. She was still in that state of

somewhat excessive satisfaction which succeeds a great effort,

when, in entering her chamber, she threw down the bouquet she had

in her hand. In doing so, a paper she had not noticed fell from

it to the floor. She picked it up with some surprise, opened it

mechanically, saw the writing was unknown to her, and read it

without comprehending it at first:

“To live without the power of reparation: to suffer without being

able to expiate: are these torments that belong to earth, or hell?

Not far from you a man lives and suffers thus. _You who pray, pray

for him!_”

Fleurange read and re-read these words two or three times without

attaching any special importance to them. Suddenly she shuddered

and began to tremble. The concluding words were the refrain of a

song sung at one of the soirées at the Old Mansion in the hearing

of the only person she knew in the world who had reason to write

the other part of the note she had just read.

But was it possible! Could it have been Felix, her guilty and

unhappy cousin, who wrote it, and this very evening placed it in

her bouquet? Was it his hand that threw it? At this thought she

shivered as if the shadow of one dead had fallen upon her. Or was

it simply a mystification? The history of the Dornthals’ ruin was

not wholly unknown at Florence. Perhaps some one wished to frighten

or puzzle her. She grew bewildered in trying to unravel this new

mystery. How solve the doubt? How even speak of it without reviving

a hateful remembrance, or making a painful revelation?

She finally bethought herself of Julian’s presence at Florence, and

this relieved her mind: he would be able to discover the truth,

and know better than any one else how to avoid injuring in his

researches the unhappy man who was perhaps this very moment hiding

not far from her a blasted and dishonored life.

If the Princess Catherine had been told the previous evening she

was about to be deprived of her charming companion, the news would

have been sufficient to cause a return of the alarming symptoms

from which, thanks to her care, she had but just recovered. But

greater interests than her fondness for Gabrielle were at stake,

and her selfishness itself was overruled, or, rather, assumed

another form, in view of the danger she reproached herself for not

having foreseen, and which threatened an essential element in her

happiness, as well as the accomplishment of one of her dearest

wishes.

Not to be unjust to the princess, we must acknowledge this wish

was reasonable, and in her persistency on this point she gave as

great a proof of genuine maternal sagacity as of worldly ambition.

We should also add that the wish in question was in accordance

with one sacred in her eyes--the wish of the adored husband of her

youth. His memory was interwoven with her earlier days, when her

life, simpler and better, promised to be something higher than

succeeding years had realized.

After she became a widow, she had no guide but herself, and

when, beautiful, wealthy, and still young, she appeared in the

fashionable world at St. Petersburg, her light and frivolous nature

had no restraint but her pride. In the height of the intoxication

of this second epoch of her life, she always respected the limits

the fashionable world itself sets, and beyond which refuses

its consideration and respect, even while still lavishing its

flattery and incense. Her pride, in particular, prevented her

from transgressing these limits--that was the dominant trait in

her character--and prompted her to aim at the highest position at

all times and in all places. And after conferring on her life a

kind of dignity, it guided her in the choice of a second husband.

She thought herself happy in obtaining rank, honors, and wealth,

but she soon found she had paid too dear for these advantages;

and perhaps she would not have passed through the trials of an

ill-assorted union as irreproachably as the period of liberty that

preceded it, if, at the end of two years, death had not restored

that liberty a second time.

After this, nothing occurred to trouble the brilliant and

prosperous course of a life which, in spite of generous instincts

and a mind considerably cultivated, was given wholly up to

frivolity, with the exception of her affection for her son. But

however lively and passionate this affection might be, it was

wanting in the dignity of maternal authority. Her charming boy,

who from his earliest years possessed every grace and attraction

which nature in her most generous mood could confer, as well as

a rare mind and uncommon beauty, gratified her maternal pride,

which is so excessive in proud natures. The princess, proud of her

promising son, did not perceive she was not obeyed as fully as she

was adored; and years passed away thus till the epoch,

“Ove uom s’innamora.”

Then the Princess Catherine began to realize she had no authority

over her idolized son, and that she needed great prudence and skill

to avoid what would have been the most trying of failures, for all

her ambition was now centred in him--an ambition even more ardent

than she had ever felt for herself.

Then sprang up the earnest desire of seeing his father’s wish

realized--a wish expressed while George was still in his cradle.

The Count de Walden’s neighbor in Livonia was a brother in

arms, a dear and intimate friend, named the Count de Liningen.

Both noblemen of the highest rank in the province, wealthy, and

possessing contiguous estates, they agreed to unite their children

unless their wishes were opposed to it when old enough to fulfil

the agreement.

Neither of the two friends lived long enough to catch even a

glimpse of the dawn of that day. Three years after the birth of his

son, the Count de Walden was no longer living, and before the young

Vera, who was a year younger than George, reached her eleventh

year, the death of her father, and, soon after, that of her mother,

left her mistress of all their possessions. The young heiress was

sent to St. Petersburg till she was of age, and there was reared in

strict seclusion by one of her aunts, who long before had given up

the world.

The Princess Catherine had always retained a respectful remembrance

of the Count de Walden’s wish, which was renewed on his death-bed;

but that wish assumed another aspect in her eyes when, towards

the epoch of which we have been speaking, the young Vera suddenly

emerged from her retirement and was presented at court. The

sensation she produced, her immediate popularity, the place at once

accorded her among the empress’ maids of honor, gave an _éclat_

to her entrance into society which the princess deeply regretted

George had not witnessed. But he had been absent several months

from St. Petersburg, and was now visiting Paris for the first time.

His mother neglected no opportunity of seeing the young maid of

honor, and this was facilitated by the friendly relations that

formerly existed between the two families. These relations were now

renewed on both sides with an eagerness which seemed most favorable

to the project formed during George’s and Vera’s infancy, though

they had never met since that time. The princess’ impatience for

her son’s return increased. Vera seemed formed to captivate him,

and as to George, his mother could not be anxious as to the effect

he would produce.

At last he returned, and everything indeed seemed to favor the

princess’ plans. George was greatly struck, almost captivated. The

lovely Vera was still more so. But the princess, in her ardor for

this marriage, took the false step of speaking to her son with an

anxiety that had precisely a contrary effect to that she wished

to produce. George had not come from Paris quite disposed to

relinquish his independence at once and bind himself for ever. He

became cautious. The words Vera perhaps expected to hear died away

on his lips, and changed into meaningless flattery. His mother,

without abandoning her hopes, felt their realization must be

deferred. But they were both young. With her penetration as a woman

and a mother, she was sure she was not deceived as to the effect

her son had produced. She thought she could trust to the durability

of the sentiment he had inspired, and believed time would bring

George back to the feet of her whom she destined for him; and she

doubted this the less because, in one of their conversations on

this subject, he acknowledged no woman had ever attracted him more

strongly, and he almost promised his mother not to offer his hand

to any one else.

In this way affairs remained. George returned to Paris, and thence

to Italy, where his mother had decided to live. But meanwhile,

as we know, Fleurange’s sudden appearance, and other influences

we have caught a glimpse of, had gradually drawn his mind and

heart in a very different direction from what his mother wished

him to take. At his last visit to St. Petersburg, during which

Fleurange became an inmate of the princess’ house, the latter had

the double displeasure of learning her son avoided Vera, and that

this coolness, so cutting to the young girl, was malevolently

attributed by many to George’s political opinions. This greatly

troubled his mother. Whoever knew Russia at that period is aware

that the privation of its ruler’s favor was not regarded as a

slight misfortune. If the insulting words of a former and not very

remote epoch were no longer in force, “If the emperor no longer

declared a man was only something when he was speaking to him, and

as long as he was speaking to him,” many people at St. Petersburg

acted as if he had so spoken; and the princess could not resign

herself to see her son in the position of a man in disgrace. And

yet his rash and imprudent language kept her constantly anxious

on this point. It was therefore with something like a maternal

instinct of approaching danger she ardently desired his marriage

with Vera, which would give him the liberty of remaining at court

or leaving it, and in the latter case of returning to Livonia under

the safeguard of favor, and taking the position his rank and their

united estates would entitle him--a position in which he could

dispense with the favor of the court.

“Oh! why is it not so?” sometimes exclaimed the princess with

mingled anguish and impatience. “Why is he not already sheltered

from all I fear?”

And then, contrary to the suggestions of her prudence, she allowed

herself to broach the subject to her son, which, in the interests

of her design, it would have been better not to have done. She

thus, in spite of herself, provoked a resistance, the real source

of which, unsuspected by her, daily became more clear to himself.

We can now imagine the effect of the confidence George had been

led to repose in the princess in a fit of capricious frankness.

On the whole, he did not fear his mother; and though of course

he had never subjected her condescension to such a trial, he was

convinced, whatever repugnance she might at first manifest to his

wishes, a little persistence on his part would triumph sooner or

later.

For nearly four months he had, it is true, been endeavoring,

contrary to his habit, to conceal the attraction he felt, but

it was that he might not disturb his mother too soon, or the

young girl either, and thereby perhaps deprive himself of the

charm of her presence while he was still uncertain as to his own

plans. These plans he now believed matured. Under the increasing

ascendency of present influences, the remembrance of Vera gradually

faded away, and the future as well as the present seemed linked

with her who now filled his life. He therefore considered it

opportune to allow his mother at once to have a glimpse of what was

going on in his heart.

In spite of her inexpressible alarm, the princess had sufficient

control over her feelings to receive this annoying disclosure with

apparent calmness, and almost conceal from her son the effect of

the most painful disappointment she had ever met with.

At first all seemed hopeless. As to Gabrielle’s grace and

attractiveness, who knew and appreciated them more than herself?

What could she do to counteract their influence, so long exercised

unsuspected by too credulous a mother? How foolish she had

been!--How imprudent!--How fatal her confidence!--Her reliance on

Fleurange’s virtue, the only danger that had ever occurred to her,

prevented her fears. And who would ever have suspected her of so

much ambition or him of such folly?

Never had such a tempest raged in her bosom before. So violent a

hatred had never succeeded to so much fondness. But before her

anger had time to burst fully out, all these feelings underwent a

new transformation, and one still more unforeseen than the first.

Her enemy became her ally--she against whom she felt herself

powerless, now came to her aid against herself, and George was

restored to her by the hand that could so easily have led him for

ever away.

In view of so great a danger and such unexpected assistance, all

the considerations that would so recently have made her dread

Fleurange’s departure now induced her to hasten it, without losing

sight, however, of the importance, so reasonably pointed out by

her, of doing nothing to lead George to connect this departure

with his disclosure and give it the appearance of an irrevocable

separation. Self-interest was supreme, and there was no danger

this time that the Princess Catherine would be wanting in prudence

or shrewdness, or would not at need have recourse to skilful

diplomacy.

XXVII.

Everything really seemed to favor the plan the princess had

at heart. The opportune arrival of the Steinbergs afforded a

reasonable pretext it might have been difficult to find at another

time without exciting George’s suspicion.

The following day, when Fleurange timidly expressed a desire before

them all of accompanying her cousin a part of the way to Perugia,

the Marquis Adelardi, who was present, declared the excursion would

prove very beneficial, and begged the princess to allow her young

protégée a short vacation, of which her overtaxed strength had

need. George joined his entreaties to those of the marquis, and the

princess seemed to yield more through consideration for them than

condescension to Fleurange.

She had preserved an appearance of sorrowful gravity since the

night before, which did not suffer George to forget he was in

disgrace. Nor did she conceal a certain coolness towards Fleurange,

which he naturally attributed to his communication respecting her.

It was the princess’ intention not to allow him to perceive the

perfect reassurance which her conversation with the young girl

had restored. George comprehended his mother was displeased with

him, but he had expected this displeasure; he saw she suppressed

her resentment and continued to treat Fleurange kindly, and he was

touched by her forbearance. He felt she relied on his word, and was

grateful for her trust.

Everything was therefore arranged in the most natural manner.

A fortnight was the time allowed for the projected excursion.

The Steinbergs, deceived like the rest, were as much overjoyed

as surprised at the prospect of a pleasure they had not dared

anticipate, and thus everything fell in with the princess’ wishes

without her appearing to do anything but yield to the desires of

the rest.

The Steinbergs were to leave the following morning. This last

day was to be devoted to revisiting several museums, and would

end with a walk to San Miniato. Fleurange boldly proposed to

join them. A feverish agitation made inaction insupportable. She

feared finding herself alone with George for an instant, and was

sure of being readily dispensed from her attendance on this last

day. The princess’ consent, in fact, was not difficult to obtain,

and towards the middle of the day Fleurange set out with Julian

and Clara for the Palazzo Pitti. After visiting that gallery and

several others they continued their ride, and at length stopped

at the foot of the ascent to San Miniato. There they left the

carriage. While slowly ascending the steep hill, Fleurange took out

the paper that fell from her bouquet the night before, and gave it

to Julian to read, telling him the suspicion which had arisen in

her mind.

“It is strange,” said the latter with an anxious look, after

reading the note and carefully examining the writing. “Nothing

could be more painful now than to meet Felix again, and yet this

paper only reawakens a previous suspicion respecting him.”

“You had already suspected his return to Europe?”

“Yes, but only from a slight indication, and I should not have

mentioned it if this new incident had not occurred. Several months

ago, I was making some necessary researches at Bologna, when

my attention was drawn to a work in the library in which I was

taking notes. There was a question of some contested historical

point, respecting which several passages had been copied from the

curious manuscripts in the library. The writing was but recently

interrupted, as was evident from the open page. I was reading it

with a good deal of interest when my attention was completely

withdrawn from the subject of the work by some words scribbled

almost illegibly on a paper the copyist had used to try his pen on.

Your name, Gabrielle, was written on it several times; then the two

letters F. D.; and finally, ‘Felix--happy; what irony--Felix!’ I

examined the extracts with increased attention. The writing did not

look like his, but was a studied fac-simile of the manuscript he

was copying. As to the scribbling on the loose paper, it was wholly

unrecognizable. I asked the librarian some questions, and learned

that the work was for some great Florentine nobleman whose name he

was ignorant of, but the copyist was an Italian named Fabiano Dini.”

“Is that all?” asked Fleurange. “Were you not able to learn

anything more definite?”

“Nothing. The next day the unfinished work had disappeared, and

during the remainder of my stay at Bologna the copyist did not

return to the library. I kept the scrawl that had puzzled me, but

thought no more about it. Allow me to retain this note, that I may

compare the writing with that.”

“Could it really have been Felix? Or is all this a mere accident?”

“It is impossible to tell. It might have been he, for you know he

had a thorough knowledge of Italian, and it might also have been

one of his friends familiar with his history. All we have ever

been able to discover respecting him is, that he went to America

with questionable travelling companions--Italians, Germans, and

Poles--mostly driven out of their own country for good reasons.”

Clara’s smiling face grew sad during this account, and Fleurange

felt her heart contract with increased melancholy. This revival of

one of the saddest memories of her life seemed to add a mournful

presage to the sad realities of the day.

However, she kept her sorrows to herself. Her cousin must for

the present remain ignorant of the cause as well as the real

length of the journey she would begin on the morrow, and on every

account it was best for her to seek distraction from her thoughts.

Therefore, after entering the church of San Miniato, she gave

her whole attention for a while to the frescoes, paintings, and

mosaics around her, and listened to the explanations Julian gave

respecting the numerous symbols--a kind of Christian hieroglyphics

which are alone comprehended by those who seek something in art

beyond the mere form that strikes the senses. They spent nearly an

hour in this manner without perceiving the flight of time and the

increasing dimness of the church. They were at length preparing

to leave, when at the door they found themselves face to face

with Count George and the Marquis Adelardi. The former said in a

gay tone he knew their excursion was to end at San Miniato, and

he had proposed to his friend to join them here. “We were neither

of us unworthy to hear what Steinberg would have to say, but

unfortunately we are too late.”

While he was speaking, Fleurange, overcome with surprise,

involuntarily shrank back as if to hide herself in the obscurity

of the church, but daylight was rapidly disappearing, and they all

agreed it was time to return to the carriage, which was awaiting

them at the foot of the hill. She therefore followed the others,

but, though she was the last, George waited for her, and before she

had a chance to avoid him offered her his arm. Adelardi had given

his to Clara, and Julian accompanied them. In this way they slowly

descended this charming declivity, looking at the prospect--one of

the finest views of Florence, over which the setting sun now cast

the soft rays of its departing light.

George slackened his steps so as to allow the others to precede

them, and was thus, in a manner, left alone with Fleurange. For a

time neither of them spoke. Though very different in their natures,

the emotion of both was profound. As for her, the consciousness

that this must be their last interview, added to the repressed but

profound tenderness of her nature, made this the sweetest but most

heart-rending hour of her life. He, on the contrary, felt freed

from his previous restraint by the explanation he had had with

his mother. Besides, he was not unskilful in reading the feminine

heart, and not without sufficient penetration to understand what

was passing in that he imagined he could now hear beating beside

him, and he felt at liberty to speak more openly than he had yet

done.

“Fleurange!” he suddenly said. She trembled, and tried to withdraw

the hand that rested on his arm, but he held it.

“No, no, allow me to retain your hand, and let me--me alone--call

you by this name,” added he softly. “Let it be a name sacred to my

use; you are willing, are you not?”

He pressed the hand he still held, and raised it to his lips.

Fleurange clearly saw amid the soft tones of his words an assurance

but feebly disguised. But, alas! if she had dared reveal her real

sentiments at this moment, she would not have dreamed of showing

any offence at this. Yes, she loved him; he did not doubt it, that

was evident. But what of that? It would have been a great relief

could she have avowed it boldly to every one as well as to himself.

George’s assurance was certainly rather too evident, but how

readily she pardoned him! How happy she would have been to tell him

he was not mistaken, and that her whole life should prove it. This

would have been the sincere cry of her heart, had the clearness of

her conscience been for a moment obscured at this dangerous hour.

But it was not so.

“Monsieur le Comte--” said she after a long silence.

“George! Oh! call me George!” he passionately cried. “Let me hear

you, at least once, call me by my name.”

Poor Fleurange! She withdrew her hand from his arm and left him

for a moment, endeavoring to control the too violent agitation of

her heart. He followed her, and she soon resumed, with apparent

calmness: “I never expected to hear you call me by my name again,

and hoped I should not.”

“Hoped! Tell me then I am mistaken; that I am presuming and

foolish; that I have been deceived in thinking I read in your eyes

something besides absolute indifference.”

She made no reply.

“Fleurange!” continued he impetuously, “your silence wounds and

chills me. Have I not, at least, a right to some answer?”

“But have you any right to question me? Ah! Monsieur le Comte, you

would be more noble and generous were you more mindful of what you

are and who I am.”

“Fleurange,” said the count with a grave accent of sincerity, far

more dangerous than that of passion, “you shall be my wife if you

will consent to be--if you will accept this hand I offer you.”

“With your mother’s consent?” said Fleurange slowly, and in a low

tone. “Can you assure me of that?”

After a moment’s hesitation, George replied: “No, not to-day; but

she will yield her consent, I assure you.”

Fleurange hesitated in her turn. She knew only too well to what a

degree this hope was illusory, but this was her last opportunity

of conversing with him. The next day would commence their lifelong

separation, which time, distance, and prolonged absence would

continually widen. There was no longer any danger in telling the

truth--the truth, alas! so devoid of importance now, but which

would, perhaps, second the duty she had to accomplish quite as well

as contradiction.

“Ah! well,” she at last replied with simplicity. “Yes, why should

I deny it? Should life prove more favorable to us; if by some

unforeseen circumstance, impossible to conceive, your mother should

cheerfully consent to receive me as a daughter, oh! then--what

answer I would make you know without my telling you. You are

likewise perfectly aware that until that day I will never listen to

you.”

“But that day will come,” cried George vehemently, “and that

speedily.”

“Perhaps--” said Fleurange. “Who knows what time has in store for

us? And who knows that in time the obstacle may not come from

yourself?”

She endeavored to say these last words in a playful tone. They were

hardly uttered before she suddenly stopped, but the shade of the

large cypresses that bordered the road prevented George from seeing

the tears that inundated her face.

She then left him and walked rapidly on to overtake Julian,

George soon joined them, and they all continued on the way for

some time without speaking. The light was fading gradually away,

and they walked more cautiously as they approached the foot of

the hill. Just before reaching their carriage, they met two men

walking rapidly along, and conversing too earnestly to notice them

beneath the shade of the cypresses. But their features could be

distinguished, and the two cousins and Julian felt a thrill of

sympathetic horror as, in one of them, they recognized Felix!--

Adelardi, on his side, seemed surprised and annoyed also, but

George, after following them with his eyes like the rest, left his

party, turned back, and spoke to one of them. The latter at his

approach respectfully uncovered. George said a few words to him

in a low tone, and the two men then kept on their way. The count

joined his party again.

“Who was that you were speaking to, if the question be not

indiscreet?” said Adelardi.

“By no means,” replied George, unhesitatingly. “It was Fabiano

Dini, the young Italian I spoke to you about, who is my agent, you

know, and a very intelligent one, in purchasing curiosities, and

who also aids me in my little historical and artistic researches.

He has been away, and only returned two days ago. I had a word to

say to him.”

“He was in very bad company,” said Adelardi, frowning.

The two cousins, meanwhile, entered the carriage; Julian, obliged

to follow, heard no more.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE SYMBOLISM OF THE CHURCH.

The Catholic Church has no _forms_--that is, meaningless

ceremonies used to impress and awe the multitude; but she has

symbols--that is, “signs by which things are distinguished one

from another.”[136] According to the original meaning of the word,

these symbols, the aggregate of which has come to be an outward and

universal profession of faith, have each one a deep significance,

sometimes even a double sense, and are, in fact, a silent

compendium of the history as well as the doctrines of Catholic

Christianity. But it cannot be too much insisted upon that their

worth is entirely relative, depending solely on their authorized

interpretation, and losing all their value if disconnected from it.

Thus we can recognize no symbols, but mere forms, in the ritual of

Anglicanism, Lutheranism, etc. Not only is their value relative,

but their use is almost optional in the church--we mean as regards

the use made of them by the individual soul. The church has “many

mansions,” and sympathizes with the severe taste of the Northern

races, as well as with the superabundant love of the gorgeous in

observance, of the Southern and Eastern nations. Sprung from an

Eastern people, her ritual is as manifold and dignified as that of

her Hebrew precursor; but, deputed as she is to the _universal_

world, and having built her later development upon the broad basis

of the Gothic and Scandinavian natures, her exterior admits of the

austere simplicity so dear to the last-mentioned races.

Still the principle of outward forms being a fitting expression of

inward belief is so obvious and so wedded to the requirements of

human nature, that it would need a second deluge to destroy it.

When “forms” (so-called) were dethroned by the Reformation, they

crept in again in real earnest among the reformers themselves. The

phraseology of Cromwell and his Roundheads, the speech and garments

of the Quakers, the splits among the Baptists and Anabaptists

upon the “form” of administering what they did not even believe

to be a sacrament, were so many involuntary acts of homage to the

time-honored principle of symbolism. Of the good effect produced

on all sorts of minds by the outward expression of the doctrine

of Christ, we will quote two examples, taken from very opposite

sources. In a note to the preface of Moehler’s _Symbolik_, we

read: “There is at Bingen, on the Rhine, a beautiful little

Catholic church dedicated to St. Roch, to which Goethe once gave

an altarpiece. ‘Whenever I enter this church,’ he used to say,

‘I always wish I were a Catholic priest.’ In the great poet’s

autobiography we also find an interesting description of the

extraordinary love for the Catholic ritual and liturgy that had

captivated his heart in boyhood.”

The other example is from the writer’s own experience among the

agricultural poor of England. A poor and infirm woman, having

come for the first time to a Catholic chapel, said afterwards

that, often as she had read in the Bible the history of Our Lord’s

Passion, she had never understood it so well as she did by once

looking at the crucifix over the altar. This was the beginning of

her conversion.

Of the great religious revival in Germany and the labors of Count

Stolberg (the period which answers in time, as also in result,

to the Tractarian or Oxford movement in England) the preface to

Moehler’s _Symbolik_ also says: “As the avenues that led to the

Egyptian temples were bordered on either side by representations of

the mystical sphinx, so it was through a mystical art, poetry and

philosophy, that many minds were then conducted to the sanctuary of

the true church.” Mrs. Jameson bears witness to a similar process

within her own consciousness concerning the saints of the monastic

orders. “We have in the monastic pictures a series of _biographies_

of the most _instructive_ kind.... After having studied the

written lives of St. Benedict, St. Bernard, St. Francis, St.

Clare, and St. Dominic, to enable me to understand the pictures

which relate to them, I found it was the pictures which enabled

me better to understand their lives and character.”[137] The same

thought is expressed by a learned English antiquarian, speaking

of the symbolical paintings of the Catacombs: “Moreover, because

they [the artists] desire that the mind of those who see these

paintings should not retain the outward semblance of the scene,

but be carried forward to its hidden and mystical meaning, they

always depart more or less from its literal truth, _e.g._, we never

find seven or twelve baskets (the miracle of the multiplication of

loaves), but eight; nor six water-pots of stone (marriage of Cana),

but seven. It was the symbol of a religious idea they aimed at, not

the representation of a real history.”[138] In a word, symbolism

is as old as creation, and there never was a time when men did not

make for themselves a language of _signs_. Heathendom was only a

corruption of signs into realities; Judaism was a religion of signs

carefully interpreted in view of the later and fuller revelation.

Our faith is the realization, in part, of the Hebrew types; but

since we are still clogged with mortality, and therefore still

under an imperfect law, it follows that through symbols we must

still be taught. An unsymbolical religion would be unscriptural,

for Christ himself tells us he has come to “fulfil, not to destroy

the law.” And this is not incompatible with the command to “worship

God in spirit and in truth”; for without the _spirit_, of what use

would be the form? It would be as valueless as words from the lips

of a maniac, words which have no weight because the mind does not

direct them. But who would contend that because the random words

of a madman are meaningless, all speech is so? Even so, though

mere forms would be idolatrous, forms hallowed by doctrinal and

scriptural meaning are holy and venerable.

Having premised thus much, we will attempt some description of a

few of those symbols most anciently used by the church, and of the

significance of certain acts and ceremonies which usually are but

superficially examined by our opponents, and, perhaps, not fully

appreciated by Catholics themselves.

The Catacombs, where the ecclesiastical life of the church was

first brought into shape, furnish the most interesting material

on the subject of Christian symbolism. The times required

great caution--here was one motive for secret and hieroglyphic

instruction; the first converts were Jews, Orientals deeply imbued

with the love of imagery and poetry--here was a second reason for

the rapid development of symbolism; our Lord himself had deigned

to use figures and parables in his teaching--here was also a model

and a permission for the copious use of signs. Almost the earliest,

and certainly the most interesting, Christian symbol was the

fish. The Greek word for fish contained five letters, Ἰχθύς, each

of which was the initial of the following words: Jesus, Christ,

Son (of) God, Saviour. Dr. Northcote says of it: “It became a

profession of faith, as it were, both of the two natures, the unity

of person and the redemptorial office of our Lord.”[139] Besides

this ingenious meaning, the fish signified “the human soul in the

first or natural creation, the same soul as regenerate or created

anew, and Christ himself as uniting the two creations of nature

and grace. In the first or natural creation, life began in the

waters and from the waters, of which the fish is the inhabitant.

In the spiritual or new creation, all life begins from the waters

of baptism.”[140] The fish also bears a reference to the story

of Tobias, where the application of its entrails “defeats devils

and restores sight.”[141] In three or four instances the fish

is depicted bearing a ship on its back, and this combination

naturally suggests to us Christ upholding his church.[142] The

epitaph of St. Abercius, Bishop of Hierapolis in Phrygia at the

end of the second century, has the following allusion to the

symbolic fish: “Faith led me on the road, and set before me for

food from the one fountain the great and spotless fish which the

pure Virgin embraced; and this fish she (Faith) gave to friends to

eat everywhere, having good wine, giving wine mixed with water,

and bread. May he who understands these things pray for me.” In

a fresco in the crypt of Santa Lucina is seen a fish carrying on

its back a basket of bread, the latter being of an ashen color,

like that offered by the Jews to their priests on festival days,

and in the midst of the bread appears something red, partly

effaced, but resembling a cup of red wine.[143] This, of course,

was intended for the Holy Eucharist, as we shall see further on.

In the work of Aringhi on the Catacombs, we find it mentioned

that a sarcophagus was found of the date of the very earliest

centuries, whereon the story of the paralytic is represented (a

very favorite simile in the Catacomb list of subjects). The bed of

the subject of the cure is shaped like a fish.[144] The baptismal

font first received the name of “piscina,” and the Christians

often called each other “pisciculi,” little fishes, as we learn

from Perret. He also tells us too that this emblem reminded the

early Christians of the very scenes of the Gospel connected with

Christ’s miracles, the apostles’ calling, and the establishment

of the church; Christ walking on the waters; preaching from a

bark; allaying the tempest; causing a miraculous draught of fishes

to be taken; finding the coin of the tribute in the mouth of a

fish--all this was suggested by the simple figure of a fish. St.

Jerome says that “the fish that was taken in whose mouth was the

coin of the tribute was Christ, the second Adam, at the cost of

whose blood the first Adam and Peter, that is, all sinners, were

redeemed.” Origen speaks of our Lord as “he who is figuratively

called the fish.” This symbol leads naturally to that obvious one

of the loaves, which typifies the Holy Eucharist. Abundant proof

of this is found in the writings of the fathers. The types of this

sacrifice and sacrament are unmistakable. In the cemetery of St.

Callixtus is a painting representing the _mystical supper_ (not

the historical one) of the Eucharist. “The seven disciples seated

at the table represent all the disciples of Christ. The number

_seven_ signifies universality. The two fishes on the table remind

us of the multiplication of the five loaves and two fishes. The

seven baskets are filled with _whole_ loaves, not fragments, and

the addition of an eighth hints that we are not to think of the

literal history, ... but of that ulterior and spiritual sense to

which they all (the three occurrences represented in this one

fresco) point, and in which they all unite, that is, the doctrine

of the Blessed Eucharist.”[145] A lamb carrying a milk-pail on its

back is sometimes used as an eucharistic emblem. The _Acts_ of St.

Perpetua give us her dream, or rather vision, in which the Good

Shepherd gave her the _curds_ to drink, after he had milked his

flocks. She received it with her arms crossed on her breast, while

all the assistants said “Amen”! These words and posture were those

used during the administration of the Blessed Sacrament. Milk is

perpetually used in Scripture to denote the good things of God; and

in early times, according to Tertullian and St. Jerome, _milk and

honey_ were given with this meaning to newly baptized infants or

adults. The practice was continued, on Holy Saturday at least, as

late as the ninth and tenth centuries. This symbol of the milk-pail

is, however, rarer than any other, and is by no means on the same

level as that of the fish, the lamb, and the loaves.[146]

The Good Shepherd is a pictorial symbol that has never fallen into

disuse, and that of Orpheus with his lute or pipe is analogous to

it. The adaptation of the heathen myth of Orpheus training wild

beasts by the sweet sounds of his lyre to the hidden meaning of

Christ curbing men’s passions by his doctrine, is vouched for by

St. Clement of Alexandria. In a painting of the Good Shepherd in

the cemetery of St. Saturninus, a goat appears in place of the

lost sheep. “This,” says Dr. Northcote, “was intended as a protest

against the hateful severity of the Novatians and other heretics

who refused reconciliation to penitent sinners.” In some of these

representations, we see several sheep at the feet of Jesus, in

attitudes pregnant with meaning; some “listening attentively,

not quite understanding as yet, but meditating and seeking to

understand; others turning their tails--it is an unwelcome subject,

and they will have nothing to do with it”;[147] or, again, “one

of the two sheep is drinking in all that he hears with simplicity

and affection; the other is eating grass--he has something else to

do; he is occupied with the cares, pleasures, and riches of this

world.”[148]

Dr. Northcote says that as the sheep represent the flock of Christ

in life, so the dove is more especially the symbol of the soul

after death. It is primarily a type of the Holy Ghost, as the

Scriptures suggest and the writings of the fathers assert. They

call the Holy Spirit figuratively “a dove without gall,” the

expression which is found repeated on some of the sepulchres of

children, as indicative of their innocence. Later on, we find the

soul of St. Scholastica appearing to her brother, St. Benedict,

under this form. A dove pecking at grapes denotes the soul’s

enjoyment of the fruits of eternal happiness.[149] Tertullian calls

the dove “a herald of peace from the beginning,” and, when painted

with an olive-branch in its mouth, it is to be taken in this sense.

It is a symbol that we use in our own times. Noah’s ark, a type

of the church often seen in the Catacombs, is connected with the

dove. Perret tells us of a picture, noticed by Bottari in his

_Sculture e Pitture_, of Noah in the ark, and the ark again within

a ship. The form of the ark, according to Hebrew calculations,

was a long square, but it is generally represented in the Early

Christian paintings as a _cube_, a figure suggestive of greater

stability.[150] This system of departure from the literalness of

history is too universal not to be intentional. For instance, none

of these representations of the ark are without a dove, but in some

a woman appears instead of Noah. Tertullian in his work on baptism

says that this symbol meant the general doctrine of “the faithful,

having obtained remission of their sins through baptism, receive

from the Holy Spirit [the dove] the gift of divine peace [the

olive-branch], and are saved in the mystical ark of the church from

the destruction of the world.”

The resurrection of Lazarus, and Moses striking the rock, are both

types of the resurrection and eternal life, and are often seen in

juxtaposition. In one of these paintings, Lazarus is like a little

child, and is clothed in bands that more resemble swaddling-clothes

than a winding-sheet. Our Lord also is quite boyish. The apostles

likewise are often represented as young men, so is Moses in many

instances. This is thought by Perret to be symbolical of the

immutability of heavenly glory. Among other types often found

in the Catacombs are the anchor with a cross-shaped handle, the

symbol of hope from time immemorial; the palm, a sign of victory;

and the ship, the invariable type of the church of Christ. The

Scriptures themselves suggest this latter idea, as they also do

that of the rock, _petrus_. This subject is fully treated in

some frescoes of the cemetery of St. Callixtus. The rock (Christ)

pours down streams of living waters, which two apostles join their

hands to catch and collect for the benefit of the world. In other

compositions, the rock does not pour forth water spontaneously

(this was a reference to the day of Pentecost), but emits it at

the touch of the rod held by Moses (the type of Peter); and in

other paintings, two men appear carrying away from it baskets of

bread, which are then touched with a rod by a figure supposed to be

Christ. This would denote the sacramental change from bread to the

flesh of Christ.[151] Thus one type is always presupposing another

or merging itself into another. In a fresco of several subjects,

all referring to the Holy Eucharist, found in an ancient Christian

cemetery at Alexandria, there is written over the heads of several

persons assembled at a feast these words: “Eating the benedictions

of the Lord.”

Now, the Greek word here used is the same that St. Paul uses (1

Cor. x. 16) to denote the communion of the body and blood of

Christ, and, furthermore, is the identical word by which St. Cyril

of Alexandria denotes the _consecrated_ elements.[152]

Daniel in the lions’ den and the three children in the fiery

furnace are constantly represented in the Catacombs as types of the

persecutions of the church and the fortitude under them. The phœnix

or palm-bird occurs as a symbol of immortality, and was graven

on the tomb of Maximus by order of St. Cecilia.[153] The peacock

also signified immortality, and came to be so used from being the

bird of Juno, or the supposed emblem of the apotheosis of the

Roman empresses. In one fresco in the cemetery of St. Sixtus, we

find SS. Peter and Paul represented as standing on either side of

a _crowned_ tower, doubtless a symbol of strength, figurative of

the church. Perret also tells us that God the Father, “himself

invisible, while his power is manifested by his works,” is typified

“with singular aptitude by a hand coming forth from the clouds.”

This is in a picture of Moses striking the rock.

A very beautiful representation of the Lamb, Jesus Christ, of later

date however than the Catacombs, but not so late as to have lost

their informing spirit, occurs in a mosaic that formerly decorated

the apse of the basilica of St. Peter in Rome. The Lamb stands

at the foot of a jewelled cross, on a rock, with four streams,

one running from each of its feet, and a fifth from the foot of

a chalice into which the blood of the Lamb spurts down from its

wounded breast. An evident allusion to the five wounds of the Lord

is here combined with the type of the Holy Eucharist (for the

cup suggests the latter). The cross, as such, is rarely found in

the Catacombs, but the _Acts of the Martyrs_ mention a soldier,

St. Orestes, who, while playing at throwing the disc, let fall

from his garments a small cross (which, discovering his religion,

procured him the glory of martyrdom), so that we may suppose that

this sign of Christianity was sometimes secretly worn about the

person during the early centuries. St. Augustine, St. Hilary, St.

Jerome, St. Chrysostom, and our own countryman, Venerable Bede,

agree in the cross being “the sign of the Son of Man” of which

Jesus himself speaks in the Gospel. Tertullian quotes the vision of

Ezechiel (ix. 4), and interprets thus the sign _Tau_: “Now, the

Greek letter _Tau_ and our own T is the very form of the cross,

which he predicted would be the sign on our foreheads in the true

Catholic Jerusalem.” Dr. Northcote tells us that the number 300,

“being expressed in Greek by the letter _Tau_, came itself, even in

apostolical times, to be regarded as the equivalent of the cross.”

We know how St. Paul speaks of the cross, as meaning the whole

Christian faith. The sign of the cross, however, was contained

in or appended to the monogram ΧΡ. (the first two letters of the

Greek word Christ--ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ). This was sometimes written P, while in

some ancient manuscripts the _Tau_ itself was written +, forming

an exact Greek cross. Sometimes to this monogram (worn to this day

as a badge by the Passionist Friars) was added the letter _Ν_, the

initial of Νικητής, the Greek for conqueror. This is something

similar to the inscription translated “In hoc signo vinces,” seen

by Constantine in his vision outside the gates of Rome. It was in

this shape that the inscription was afterwards put on the “Labarum”

or banner of the cross, and also on many coins struck during the

reign of Constantine.[154]

Not to prolong the subject of the Catacombs too indefinitely, let

us end with these words of Dr. Northcote: “Nothing was likely to

be more familiar to the early Christians than the symbolical and

prophetical meaning of the Gospels and the Old Testament, so that

the sight of these paintings on the walls of the subterranean

chapels was probably as a continual homily set before them....

Indeed, it is scarcely too much to say that some of these artistic

compositions might be made to take the place of a well-ordered

dogmatic discourse.”

When the immediate fear of persecution was removed, the church

gradually added to her alphabet of symbols. The cross became more

general, at first ornamented and wreathed, jewelled and gilt, as it

was by order of Constantine, then by an easy transition becoming

a simple crucifix, with the image of the Redeemer plainly wrought

upon it. Constantine forbade the cross to be any longer used as an

instrument of torture or punishment; while the finding of the true

cross and the honor paid to it soon familiarized the people with

its exclusively divine associations. From Mrs. Jameson’s researches

we gather that the “fashion of decorating the cross with five

jewels, generally rubies, typified the five sacred wounds.”[155]

We also learn from her the origin of the nimbus, or glory, so

generally used after the fifth century as an attribute of holiness.

At first it was borrowed from pagan sources, the “luminous nebula”

of Homer--that, is the divine essence standing “a shade in its

own brightness”--being, as she informs us, the first trace of it

to be found in antiquity. Rays or plates of brass were sometimes

fixed to the heads of imperial busts and statues in Rome, and later

on it is seen round the heads of Christian emperors (Justinian

in particular) who were not canonized. It strikes one as curious

that Mrs. Jameson should have omitted all mention of Moses and the

_horns_ or rays of light that adorned his countenance as he came

down from Mount Sinai. In the transfiguration, our Lord’s face “did

shine as the sun,”[156] and the angel that sat over against the

sepulchre on the morning of the resurrection had a “countenance

as lightning.”[157] After the fifth century the _nimbus_ became

universal, and was adopted as a symbol of holiness. A cruciform

glory was the distinctive emblem of God, and also a triangular one,

which typifies the Trinity, and was often used later round the head

of figures representing God the Father, and entirely surrounding

the Holy Spirit, who was painted as a dove.

It would be quite impossible to go through the cycle of all the

symbols now in use. They have varied very little since the days of

Constantine, but they cover so vast a field that it would take a

lifetime to study each one in detail.

The chief service of the church, the Mass, naturally strikes

us first. Nearly every ceremony is connected with it, and is

only complete when preceded or followed by it. Churches (often

symbolical in their form and arrangement), vestments with their

many hidden meanings, lights, incense, holy water, music,

processions, group themselves as mere accessories round the

sacrificial act which gives them their importance. The word Mass

is supposed by some to be derived from the Hebrew _Missach_, a

voluntary offering,[158] but the most widely received opinion

is that it comes from _Missa_ or _Missio_, the dismissal of the

catechumens before the most solemn part, the consecration. The word

itself is of very ancient use, as appears from the letters of St.

Ambrose, St. Leo, and St. Gregory.[159] The _Gloria Patri_, which

is often used in the liturgy as well as constantly in the hours

of the divine office, was introduced in 325 as a protest against

the Arian heresy which contended that the Son was not equal to the

Father.[160] The custom of standing during the gospel signifies our

readiness to defend its truths and practice its precepts. We sign

our foreheads, lips, and breast in token of our resolve not to be

ashamed of the cross of Christ, to profess it always in words, and

to keep it for ever in our hearts. At the “Incarnatus est” in the

Credo we kneel in reverence to the mystery of the God made man, and

at the “Domine non sum dignus” we strike our breasts in token of

penance and humiliation, as we have before done at the Confiteor.

This has always been the conventional sign of sorrow, as we read of

the publican in the gospels.

Of the use of lights, St. Jerome says in his letter against the

heretic Vigilantius: “Throughout all the churches of the East,

when the gospel is to be recited, they bring forth lights, though

it be at noonday, not certainly to drive away darkness but to

manifest some sign of joy, that under the type of corporal light

may be indicated that light of which we read in the _Psalms_--‘Thy

word is as a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.’”[161]

Everywhere in the Old and New Testaments, _light_ is the type of

knowledge; in the parable of the virgins, it is also the symbol

of fidelity. In Rome, torches were carried at weddings as a sign

of honor. St. Chrysoston says that lights are carried before the

dead to show that they are champions and conquerors. What more

natural than that these usages should have been transferred to

the Christian churches? “Within the sanctuary and in front of

the altar,” says the anonymous author of the _Explanation of the

Sacrifice and Liturgy of the Mass_, “a lamp is kept day and night,

to warn us that Jesus Christ, the light of the world, is present

on our altars, ... and that our lives should, by their holiness,

shine like a luminary.” Candles are used in several mystical

senses by the church during the ceremonies of Holy Week, as chiefly

the Paschal candle. This is fraught with many meanings. Unlighted,

it is an emblem of Christ in the tomb, while the five grains of

incense put into it in the shape of a cross typify both the five

wounds of our Blessed Lord and the spices with which his dead body

was buried. Contrary to the usual custom, which requires a _priest_

to bless any holy thing, the Paschal candle is blessed by the

_deacon_, to denote that Christ was buried by his disciples (Joseph

of Arimathea and Nicodemus), not by his apostles. When lighted,

the candle prefigures Christ arisen. The Pavia Missal makes it

signify, while unlighted, the pillar in the cloud which guided the

Israelites by day through the desert, and, after being lighted, the

fiery column that directed them at night. The columnar shape of the

candlestick in many Italian churches is thought to refer to this

part of the interpretation. The triple candle, which is lighted

with new fire on Holy Saturday, signifies the Trinity, and in

connection with this we are reminded of a curious ceremony in the

Greek ritual, which consists in the benediction given by a bishop

whenever he says Mass. He holds in each hand a candle--one triple,

denoting the Trinity; and the other double, and symbolizing the

union of two natures in Jesus Christ.[162] The manual of Holy Week

tells us that the fifteen candles on the triangular candlestick,

used during the office of _Tenebræ_, represent the “disciples

whose fervor cooled at the approach of danger, and who dispersed

here and there, wavering in faith, forgetful of their promises,

and all seeking safety in flight, abandoning their Master. The

candle that remains lit and is finally _concealed_ behind the

altar is a figure of Jesus Christ. He came to enlighten the world;

but ungrateful, perverse men made every effort to obscure and

extinguish his glory. When they fancied they had succeeded, he rose

from death to an immortal life, more glorious than the former.”

The whole of the ceremonies of Holy Week are nothing but a literal

“showing forth of the death of the Lord until he come”--a yearly

rehearsal, as it were, of the great drama of human life and

destiny, of the rejection of the elder and the adoption of the

younger branch of the family of men--that is, the choice of the

Gentiles after the trial of the Jews. Incense, the recognized

emblem of prayer, and spoken of as such in the well-known passages

of the Apocalypse,[163] also reminds us of the perfumes used in the

East as a sign of honor towards kings and princes, and of the gift

of the Magi to the infant Saviour. Dr. Rock says that “a venerable

antiquity (522) informs us that the incense burning round the

altar, whence, as from a fountain of delicious fragrance, it emits

a perfume through the house of God, has ever been regarded as a

type of the good odor of Jesus Christ which should exhale from the

soul of every true believer.”[164] The frequent use of holy water

is above all typical of purity, the great preparation of the soul

for any holy action.

Salt is a preservative against corruption, and also reminds us of

the miracle of Eliseus,[165] when, to make the drought cease, he

asked for a vessel with water and salt. The apostles are called

the “salt of the earth,” and salt is recognized as the emblem of

wisdom. Oil, used in many functions, is typical of sweetness and

mildness, in consideration of its natural powers of healing, and

from time immemorial anointing has been considered a consecration

to God.[166] Oil was also used in the old Hebrew sacrifices,

together with cakes as well as salt.[167] The “Agnus Dei” perhaps

requires a fuller explanation than the former symbols. It is a

waxen cake stamped with the figure of a lamb. The Pope blesses a

certain quantity of these cakes every seventh year of his reign.

“The origin of this rite seems to have been the very ancient

custom of breaking up the Paschal candle of the preceding year and

distributing the fragments among the faithful. Alcuin, a disciple

of the Venerable Bede, describes the blessing in these words:

‘In the Roman Church, early on the morning of Holy Saturday, the

archdeacon comes into the church and pours wax in a clean vessel,

and mixes it with oil; then blesses the wax, and molds it in the

form of lambs; ... the lambs which the Romans make represent to us

the spotless Lamb made for us; for Christ should be brought to our

memories frequently by all sorts of things.’”[168] The Asperges,

or sprinkling with holy water before Mass, reminds us of the

sprinkling of the blood of the Paschal lamb on the door-posts of

the Israelites--a ceremony which was to be performed with a bunch

of hyssop.[169] It also refers to the Psalm Miserere, in which we

pray to be “sprinkled with hyssop, and we shall be cleansed”--a

prayer which forms part of the prescribed orisons to be repeated

during the Asperges.

Of the symbolical meaning of the sacred vestments, and their

colors, we will only speak briefly. The most obvious apology for

them is their use as prescribed in the Old Testament, where they

are made the subject of the most minute directions. Many things

came to us through the Temple traditions, the Gregorian chant, for

instance, which closely resembles that still used in the orthodox

synagogues of our own day. It is not improbable that something

of Hebrew traditions entered into the custom, early adopted by

the Christians, of wearing specified and holy garments during the

celebration of Mass. But the church, ever mindful of her mission of

teaching, could not let such vestments be mere ornaments, however

fitting and seemly. The author of the _Explanation of the Mass_

says that “ceremonies are a kind of illustration of our sacred

mysteries; they represent them to the eye, to a certain extent,

as a look or a discourse do to the ear or mind, especially to the

uneducated, who are always the greater number.” The vestments are

a very prominent part of the externals of the Mass; their color

announces at one glance whether a virgin or a martyr is being

commemorated, whether we are to join in prayer for some unknown

brother deceased in Christ, or to lament in a penitential spirit

the sins of mankind and our own. Green, very seldom used, is the

normal color for Sundays, denoting hope and joy in the promise of

the new spring. There are two meanings attached to the different

component parts of the holy vesture. The “amice” which covers

the head (in ancient times entirely) represents the “helmet of

salvation,” divine hope; the “alb,” innocence of life, because it

clothes the celebrant from head to foot in spotless white; the

“girdle,” with which the loins are girt, purity and chastity (also

referring to the text of St. Luke, “Let your loins be girt”),[170]

and possibly bearing some allusion likewise to the journey of life,

and the command anciently given to the Jews at the first Pasch,

“You shall gird your reins”;[171] the “maniple,” which is put on

the left arm, patience under the burdens of this mortal life; the

“stole,” which is worn on the neck and shoulders, the yoke of

Christ; and the “chasuble,” which, as uppermost, covers all the

rest, charity--according to the saying of St. Peter, that “charity

covereth a multitude of sins.”[172] The author of _The Following of

Christ_, speaking of the duties and dignity of the priesthood, thus

beautifully interprets the ecclesiastical apparel: “A priest clad

in his sacred vestments is Christ’s vicegerent, to pray God for

himself and for all the people in a suppliant and humble manner. He

has before him and behind him the sign of the cross of the Lord,

that he may always remember the passion of Christ. He bears the

cross before him in his vestment, that he may diligently behold the

footsteps of Christ, and fervently endeavor to follow them. He is

marked with the cross behind, that he may mildly suffer, for God’s

sake, whatsoever adversities shall befall him from others. He wears

the cross before him that he may bewail his own sins, and behind

him that through compassion he may lament the sins of others, and

know that he is placed, as it were, a mediator between God and the

sinner.”[173]

Besides this mystical signification, the vestments also have a

representative meaning. The amice is intended to recall the rag

with which the Jews bandaged our Saviour’s eyes;[174] the alb,

the white garment in which Herod, in derision, clothed him; the

girdle, maniple, and stole, the cords with which he was bound; the

chasuble, the purple garment with which the soldiers covered him

when they hailed him as a mock king, and as a complement, the cross

on the chasuble represents that which Christ bore on his wounded

shoulders on his way to Calvary. The priest’s tonsure, worn very

conspicuously by most of the religious orders, is a type of the

crown of thorns.

The ceremonies of marriage are interesting from their symbolical

meaning, but are so familiar that it is useless to dwell on them.

In the Greek Church, a glass of wine is partaken of by the bride

and bridegroom, as a type of the community of possession which

is henceforth to exist between them. The use of the ring is not

confined to earthly nuptials; it is worn, as we know, by bishops

as a sign of union with their sees, and also by many orders of

nuns, as a pledge of their mystical bridal with their heavenly

Spouse. The rites of initiation and profession in some of the

religious orders of women are full of symbolism. In the taking of

the white veil among the Dominicanesses at Rome, the novice is

asked to choose between a crown of thorns and a wreath of roses

placed before her on the altar. The hair is shorn, as a sign of

detachment from the vanities of this world. At the profession the

nun prostrates herself, and is entirely covered with a funereal

pall, while the choir chants in solemn cadence the psalm for the

dead--_De Profundis_.[175] This awful expression of her utter

renunciation of the world has a most mysterious effect on any one

who is happy enough to witness it. The grating and curtains that,

in some orders, screen the religious from view, even during their

friends’ visits to the “parlor,” are only a visible sign of the

entire separation between them and all, even the most innocent,

earthly ties. And speaking of religious orders, we are reminded

of the peculiar ceremonies which, with some of them, enhance the

solemnity of the divine office. Of these, a biographer of St.

Dominic says, with true mediæval instinct, that it was no wonder

that Dominic should have tried to imitate, in the many bowings and

prostrations of the white-robed monks, the pageantry of angelic

adoration which he had so often seen in visions--the folding of the

many myriad wings, and the casting down of golden crowns before

the throne of the Lamb.[176] And yet, while we are thinking of

this beautiful interpretation, there comes another thought--that

of churches as bare as the monastery itself, and of a ritual so

simple that it would satisfy the veriest Covenanter. The Trappists

especially, the Cistercians and Franciscans also, are forbidden any

display in ceremonial, and any costliness in material, with regard

to the worship of God. Poverty is to reign even in their churches;

and thus we have an asylum provided for those minds whose ascetic

turn inclines them to ignore everything but the most spiritual

and internal expression of faith. Thus, in old times, St. Paul

of the Desert abode among caves and wild beasts, and St. Simeon

Stylites passed his life on the summit of an isolated column.

Prayer without the slightest incentive to it, meditation without

any outward suggestions to strengthen it--such was their life. They

never heard glorious chants nor saw processions of clerics clad in

golden robes; no ritual, no symbol even, was there to help them

on; and yet they were saints. There are such minds still now; the

church has a place for them--a place among her rarest and choicest

children, for, after all, “they have chosen the good part, and it

shall not be taken from them.”

But for the majority symbolism is language, ceremonial is reading.

And because others who do not understand this language rail at

it, should we forget or give it up? Rather should we explain it

to them; for who does not know how much pleasure may one day be

derived from a tongue that to-day seems barbarous? Who can read

Goethe till he has mastered the grammar of one of the richest

languages in the world? or who can enjoy Dante till he has learnt

to read him familiarly in the liquid original? Even so with

Catholics; others must learn the Catholic alphabet before they

pronounce upon the magnificent poems contained in our ceremonial.

See this picture of the crucifixion--for in this one subject all

our religion is enfolded. It is a mediæval painting. The arms of

our Saviour are spread wide, almost on a level with his head; Mary,

John, and Magdalen stand beneath; the penitent thief is beside

him on his own cross. Two angels in flowing robes hold jewelled

chalices under his pierced hands to collect the drops of blood, and

other angels are seen in the clouds above, with musical instruments

in their hands. This is no literal representation of the scene

on Mount Calvary, no realistic picture of the thunder cloud, the

brutal soldiery, the opened graves, such as we see by the dozen

nowadays. It is not so much a picture of the _crucifixion_ as of

the _redemption_. It occupies itself merely with the mystical sense

of the great sacrifice; the figures beneath the cross are not

portraits, in attitudes of human desolation, but representatives

of the church of the faithful on earth; the good thief is put

there for the aggregate of repentant sinners; the angels in the

clouds rather celebrate the redemption of the world than lament

the death of God; and the instruments they play are--we may well

suppose it--meant to typify the consecration of art to religious

purposes; the cup-bearing angels, catching the drops of blood as

they fall, are types of the adoration paid to the saving blood of

Jesus through all generations, and of the untold preciousness of

this great treasure; in the _chalices_, also, we see a distinct

allusion to the sacrifice of the Mass; finally, the widely extended

arms mean--at least, they came to mean it not long after--the

_universal_ nature of the redemption; and therefore the Jansenists,

when they taught that Christ died only for those who are actually

saved, painted their crucifixes with the arms uplifted high above

the head.

So our Catholic symbolism is an open book, a text for the highest

art, and a guide to the humblest mind. It has chapters for all--for

poverty, nudity, and coarseness are as symbolical as magnificence

and oriental grace. The despoiled altars of Good Friday are as

eloquent as the procession of Palms or the Easter exuberance of

decoration; the crib and the straw of Christmas are not less

fraught with meaning than the decked tabernacles of Corpus Christi.

In a Benedictine abbey you will hear soul-stirring strains of the

most solemn harmony; in a Carmelite convent you will listen to a

chorus of nuns who are forbidden to use more than three notes with

which to vary their singing of the divine office; in a Trappist

retreat you will watch for the slightest sound, and hear nothing

save the muffled fall of clods of earth as a monk digs his own

grave, or the salutation, “Brother, we must all die,” as another

monk passes him on his way to a similar occupation. Let those who

do not understand our symbolical language pause and learn it; and

no doubt, learning to read it _as_ we do, they will soon come to

read it _with_ us in the brotherhood of the faith.

FOOTNOTES:

[136] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[137] Introd. to _Legends of the Monastic Orders_ (p. 25).

[138] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[139] _Roma Sotterranea._

[140] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[141] See Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[142] _Ibid._

[143] _Ibid._

[144] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_.

[145] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[146] Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[147] _Palmer._

[148] _Ibid._

[149] _Dr. Northcote._

[150] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_, vol. x.

[151] Palmer’s _Early Christian Symbolism_.

[152] Dr. Northcote’s _Roma Sotterranea_.

[153] Perret, _Catacombes de Rome_.

[154] Dr. Northcote’s _Roma Sott_. p. 123.

[155] _Sacred and Legendary Art._

[156] St. Matt. xviii. 2.

[157] St. Matt. xxvii. 3.

[158] Deut. xvi. 10.

[159] Dr. Challoner.

[160] Dr. Rock’s _Hierurgia_.

[161] Ps. cxviii. 105.

[162] Dr. Rock’s _Hierurgia_.

[163] v. 8, viii. 4.

[164] Dr. Rock, _Hierurgia_.

[165] 4 Kings ii. 19.

[166] 1 Kings x. i.

[167] Levit. ii. 4, 5, 6, 7, 13.

[168] Cardinal Wiseman, _Four Lectures on Holy Week in Rome_.

[169] Exodus xii. 22.

[170] Luke xii. 35.

[171] Exodus xii. 11.

[172] 1 Peter iv. 8.

[173] Book iv., chap. 5.

[174] St. Luke xxii. 64.

[175] For the foregoing particulars see Challoner’s _Catholic

Christian Instructed_.

[176] Dr. Alemanny, _Life of St. Dominic_.

THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

CHAPTER II.--CONTINUED.

THE LEADERS.

“I do not catch the gist of your simile of the blind man and

colors,” interrupted Greifmann.

“I wanted to intimate that thousands swear allegiance to the

banner of progress without comprehending its nature. Very many

imagine progress to be a struggle in behalf of Germany against

the enfeebling system of innumerable small states, or a battling

against religious rigorism and priest-rule in secular concerns.

In unpretending guises like these, the spirit of the age

circulates among the crowd travestied in the fashionable epithet

_progressive_. Were you, however, to remove the shell from around

the kernel of progress, were you to exhibit it to the multitude

undisguised as the nullification of religion, as the denial of

the God of Christians, as the rejection of immortality, and of an

essential difference between man and the beast--were you to venture

thus far, you would see the millions flying in consternation before

the monster Progress. Now, just because the multitude, although

progressive-minded, everywhere judges men by Christian standards,

very often, too, unconsciously, therefore Shund has to pass,

not for an able speculator, but for a miserable usurer and an

unconscionable scoundrel.”

“For this very cause, the liberal leaders of this city should

stand up for Shund,” opposed the banker. “Just appreciation and

respect should not be denied a deserving man. To speak candidly,

Mr. Schwefel, what first accidentally arrested my attention, now

excites my most lively interest. I wish to see justice done Mr.

Shund, to see his uncommon abilities recognized. You must set his

light upon a candlestick. You must have him elected mayor and

member of the legislature; in both capacities he will fill his

position with distinction. I repeat, our deeply indebted city

stands in want of a mayor that will reckon closely and economize.

And in the legislative assembly Shund’s fluency will talk down all

opposition, his readiness of speech will do wonders. Were it only

to spite the stupid mob, you must put Shund in nomination.”

“It will not do, Mr. Greifmann! it is impracticable! We have to

proceed cautiously and by degrees. Our policy lies in conducting

the unsophisticated masses from darkness into light, quite

gradually, inch by inch, and with the utmost caution. A sudden

unveiling of the inmost significance of the spirit of the age would

scare the people and drive them back heels over head into the

clerical camp.”

“I do not at all share your apprehensions,” contended the

millionaire. “Our people are further advanced than you think. Make

the trial. Your vast influence will easily manage to have Shund

returned mayor and delegate.”

“Undoubtedly, but my standing would be jeopardized,” rejoined

Schwefel.

“That is a mistake, sir! You employ four hundred families.”

“Four hundred and seventy now,” said the manufacturer, correcting

him blandly.

“Four hundred and seventy families, therefore, are getting a living

through you, consequently you have four hundred and seventy voters

at your command. Add to these a considerable force of mechanics who

earn wages in your employ. You have, moreover, a number of warm

friends who also command a host of laborers and mechanics. Hence

you risk neither standing nor influence, that is,” added he with a

smile, “unless perhaps you dread the anathemas of Ultramontanes and

impostors.”

“The pious wrath of believers has no terrors deserving notice,”

observed the leader with indifference.

“And yet all this time Shund’s remarkable abilities have not been

able to win the slightest notice on the part of progressive men--it

is revolting!” cried the banker. “Mr. Schwefel, I will speak

plainly, trusting to your being discreet; I will recommend your

factory at Vienna, but only on condition that you have Hans Shund

elected mayor and member of the legislature.”

“This is asking a great deal--quite flattering for Shund and very

tempting to me,” said the leader with a bright face and a thrice

repeated nod to the banker. “Since, however, what you ask is

neither incompatible with the spirit of the times nor dishonorable

to the sense of a liberal man, I accept your offer, for it is no

small advantage for me from a business point of view.”

“Capital, Mr. Schwefel! Capital, because very sensible!” spoke

Carl Greifmann approvingly. A short groan, resembling the violent

bursting forth of suppressed indignation, resounded from the

adjoining apartment. The banker shuffled on the floor and drowned

the groan by loudly rasping his throat.

“One condition, however, I must insist upon,” continued the

manufacturer of straw hats. “My arm might prove unequal to a task

that will create no ordinary sensation. But if you succeeded in

winning over Erdblatt and Sand to the scheme, it would prosper

without fail and without much noise.”

“I shall do so with pleasure, Mr. Schwefel! Both those gentlemen

will, in all probability, call on me to-day in relation to matters

of business. It will be for me a pleasing consciousness to have

aided in obtaining merited recognition for Hans Shund.”

“Our agreement is, however, to be kept strictly secret from the

public.”

“Of course, of course!”

“You will not forget, at the same time, Mr. Greifmann, that our

very extraordinary undertaking will necessitate greater than

ordinary outlay. It is a custom among laborers not to work on the

day before election, and the same on election day itself. Yet, in

order to keep them in good humor, they must get wages the same as

if they had worked. This is for the manufacturer no insignificant

disadvantage. Moreover, workingmen and doubtful voters require to

be stimulated with beer gratis--another tax on our purses.”

“How high do these expenses run?” asked the millionaire.

“For Sand, Erdblatt, and myself, they never fall short of twelve

hundred florins.”

“That would make each one’s share of the costs four hundred

florins.”

Taking a five-hundred florin banknote between his thumb and

forefinger, the banker reached it carelessly to the somewhat

puzzled leader.

“My contribution to the promotion of the interests of progress! I

shall give as much to Messrs. Sand and Erdblatt.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Greifmann!” said Schwefel, pocketing the money

with satisfaction.

The millionaire drew himself up. “I have no doubt,” said he, in his

former cold and haughty tone, “that my recommendation will secure

your establishment the custom already alluded to.”