The terrible lesson I had already received was not, however, to be carried

to such an extent; but it was some minutes before I could be convinced of

it. Livia herself had some difficulty in clearly relating the account she

was charged with. At length I comprehended that Flavio, while pursuing a

successful career of pleasure, was no less careful to improve every

opportunity of repairing the inroads made on his fortune. Among these was

the proposal to marry a wealthy heiress, which he acceded to without any

scruple. But though he thus triumphed over a large number of suitors by

means of his good looks and captivating manners, it was, in his eyes, only

a lucky bargain and another light vow. He had been engaged only a few

days, and the marriage was about to be publicly announced, when he met me

at the ball. The sight of a new young face, and especially the _naïve_

inexperience of a girl it would be easy to dazzle, inspired the wish to

try his power once more. But he had been followed to the ball‐room, and

watched, by one of the unsuccessful suitors of the beautiful heiress. His

encounter with Mario a few days after confirmed his rival’s suspicions,

and afforded him a pretext for gratifying his hatred and jealousy.

Consequently, when Flavio, after leaving Mario wounded on the field,

returned to the villa he occupied at a short distance from Messina, he

found a new opponent to bring him to an account for his faithlessness to

his betrothed, on the plea of a distant relationship that gave him the

right to declare himself her champion. In this second duel, fortune was

adverse to Flavio. He lived several weeks, however, and had only died that

very morning from the effects of his wounds!... The news had just

arrived.... And this was what Livia had been commissioned to tell me

of....

If it is true that our souls are like precious stones that only reveal all

their brilliancy after much cutting and polishing, it is certain that for

both the first blow must be the most trying.... My soul, over which my

mother had watched, and which she said was dearer to her than her own

life, or even than mine, was now undergoing this painful process; or,

rather, had undergone it. But during the last hour, it was no longer the

knife, but fire, that had been applied to my bleeding heart!

Though I had no direct cause for self‐reproach concerning this new

catastrophe, as I at first feared, I did not feel myself wholly

irresponsible. This was sufficient to deepen the solemn gravity of my

reflections, in which I remained absorbed so long—motionless and

silent—that poor Livia was seriously alarmed.

“Speak to me, Gina, I implore you. Oh! why, tell me why, _carina_, you

have kept all this secret from your poor sister? Who could have dreamed

you loved this unfortunate man; that you loved any one unbeknown to us

all? Could we imagine such a thing possible? You know, dear child, I have

never found fault with you, and I will not now. So tell me if it is true

that you eluded the vigilance of your mother and Ottavia, in order to meet

Flavio in the garden? Was it there you gave him the flower you wore in

your hair? And is it true that more than once....”

Excessive surprise completely roused me from my stupor, and I eagerly

interrupted her with a face as red as fire:

“Never! never! never!...” I exclaimed in a tone that would have convinced

the most incredulous, for it had the indubitable accent of truth. “I did

not love Flavio Aldini, and I never met him alone in my life.”

Livia, in her turn, looked at me with astonishment. “Did not love him?

Never met him alone? Never gave him a bouquet or a single flower?”

“I will tell you the truth, Livia: once, and then I did not speak to him,

I threw him from a distance the carnation I wore in my hair.”

“Once? From a distance? Ah! then tell me when and where you did it?”

I made no reply. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind with the

rapidity of lightning.... It was evident that, by some wonderful chance,

no one knew exactly what had taken place. A vague story had been

circulated, founded on Flavio’s exaggerated boasts. My father, brother,

and sister had accepted this version—so far from the truth—without

understanding the real extent of that which had been alleged against me. I

felt that they considered me guiltier than I really was. And yet I would

not have undeceived them for anything in the world. They judged me more

severely than I deserved, but of what consequence was it? Was I not

sufficiently culpable to accept this injustice with humility? Was it not

enough, without complaining of anything else, to be at last assured that

my secret was safe with my mother in heaven? Ought I not rather to bear

all their reproaches without a murmur? There was only one that would have

overwhelmed me, and that I was spared. All others were easy to bear, and,

moreover, were merited by what they were ignorant of, if not by what they

supposed true.

Livia patiently waited for me to break my long silence.

“You know I am incapable of telling you an untruth,” I said to her at

last.

“Yes, and therefore I always believe you.”

“Well, then, I implore you to believe me now, Livia, without asking me

anything more. And, moreover,” I added in a supplicating tone, “do not

repeat what I have just told you, and make no effort to justify me to any

one.”

My good sister looked at me attentively for a moment, and then gently drew

my head against her shoulder.

“Poor Gina!” she said. “It shall be as you wish. I believe everything you

say, and love you too well to annoy you with any more questions.”

Livia knew me thoroughly; for, notwithstanding her apparent simplicity,

she had an eye that could read one’s soul. She saw the sincerity and

repentance of mine, and read in my pale face and distressed look the

extent of my sufferings, and her kind heart melted.... I was, indeed, very

young to experience such a variety of emotions, and was still too weak to

endure them. The habit of duelling, so unfortunately prevalent in Sicily,

had, of course, accustomed me more than would have been the case anywhere

else to occurrences similar to that I had just heard about. But to have my

name connected with so fatal an affair; to feel that I was the cause of

the blood shed in one of these encounters, and that the other had resulted

in the tragical end of one who had flashed for an instant across my path,

like one of those meteors that are the ominous forerunners of misfortune

and death, ... was more than my young heart and feeble frame could endure.

Livia perceived it.

“Come, _carina_,” she said, “lean against me. You need rest.”

I attempted to make my way to an old sofa, covered with red damask, at the

other end of the vast and scantily‐furnished room; but I had no sooner

risen than my strength failed me, and I was obliged to lean against a

table to keep myself from falling. Livia hastened to procure some cold

water, with which she sprinkled my face. I soon recovered, but was still

pale and agitated when Ottavia came in. She had left me quite well an hour

before, and, finding me now in such a state, she exclaimed with mingled

impatience and alarm as she advanced: “Good heavens! what has happened to

her? She was so well this morning.”... And giving Livia a furtive,

distrustful glance, she extended the index and little finger of her hand,

closing all the others; turning around as she made this gesture, the

meaning of which is only too well known in our country.(89) This was done

so quickly that I hoped I was the only one to perceive it.

“How foolish!” I angrily exclaimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand and

covering it with mine. “Are you going to treat me always as if I were an

invalid or an old woman? _Thanks to Livia_”—and I emphasized these

words—“I have entirely recovered.”

Ottavia, half angry, half sorry, was about to go away; but Livia made a

sign for her to remain, and, pressing my hand as she embraced me once

more, left the room without uttering a word.

VI.

The little incident I have just related will doubtless excite some

astonishment, and be regarded as scarcely confirming what I have said

before about Ottavia’s piety and good sense. But whoever has lived in the

southern part of Italy knows there are hundreds of people in that region

whose education, and even religious instruction, are in no way deficient,

and who, nevertheless, are not exempt from the singular superstition I

have just referred to.

I leave it to the erudite to prove that Magna Græcia derived it from

classical Greece, the mother country; that remote antiquity made use of

the same absurd gesture to avert the effects of what it was still more

absurd to believe; and that in those days, as well as now, people

multiplied this very sign under the form of protective amulets—not only as

jewels to be worn, but in the objects that surrounded them. I likewise

leave to them the task of explaining why this evil has resisted the

influence of time and the progress of civilization, as well as the spirit

of Christianity. All that can be said, it seems to me, is that in those

regions this superstition takes the place of all those that abound in the

North of Europe, and from which Italy is exempt. For instance, we do not

hear people there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and Sweden, talk of strange,

weird apparitions, fairies, or malign spirits, under the name of bogies or

banshees. They are not afraid, as in Russia, of meeting people clothed in

black, of the number thirteen, and a thousand other absurd notions which

Catholicism has condemned without being able to eradicate, and which

Protestantism has been much more powerless against. Nor are the ruins, as

in Germany, associated with wild legends or haunted by spirits. But, to

make up for all this, the jettatura holds there its baleful sway. Though

frequently ridiculed, it is feared more than any one is willing to admit;

and there is no one, even among the most reasonable, who would suffer this

dreaded epithet to be applied to himself, or any one he loved, without

manifesting his displeasure. It would be impossible to account for the

cause of this prejudicial notion in individual cases, or explain why this

fearful term is sometimes applied to men of special merit, and women who

are young, lovely, and amiable, as well as to those whom a pretext is

wanted to avoid, or whose appearance has something repugnant. Sometimes it

is sufficient that a person has accidentally witnessed some misfortune,

and, if the same thing is known to occur again, the word escapes from the

lips, flies from mouth to mouth, and the foolish prejudice is established.

This had been the case with poor Livia. An accident once happened to me in

my childhood when she was with me; shortly after, she was present when

another occurred to one of our young friends; and a third time, she

happened, in one of her charitable rounds, to be in the house of a poor

man at the time of his death. This was spoken of at first as a mere jest;

but it gradually became a source of mortification and humiliation to her,

though none of us were ever allowed to make the least allusion to it in

her presence. The repeated troubles of the past few weeks had disturbed

the faithful Ottavia’s equilibrium and good sense to such an unusual

degree that when she found me, pale and agitated, leaning on my sister’s

shoulder, the first thought inspired by her terror caused her instantly to

make this involuntary gesture.

I was so vexed at this occurrence that for a moment I forgot everything

else. I felt angry with Ottavia, and threw myself on the old sofa without

speaking, in a fit of mingled sorrow and displeasure.

I had always been fond of Livia, and now all the repressed and pent‐up

tenderness of my heart was poured out on her. She seemed to be the only

person in the world that still loved me—the only one that stood between me

and what appeared like a great void. Yes, my mother was right in what she

said about the great necessity of my nature. As a flower dies, deprived of

the sun, so without affection I should soon cease to exist. I placed no

reliance on the durability of that which my brother had just manifested.

As to my father, his love seemed extinct in comparison with that of former

times. And now that I knew the reason of his coldness and severity, I had

no hope of overcoming them; for I felt sure he would less readily excuse

the truth, were it revealed to him, than the error which had caused such a

change in his manner.

Therefore for any one to wound the feelings of Livia, my darling sister,

my indulgent and faithful friend, was at this time like piercing my very

heart. I remained with my head on the cushions of the old sofa, while

Ottavia was bustling about the chamber, as if trying to divert my

attention from what had taken place. At last she approached and tried to

get hold of my hand. I withdrew it.

“Come, dear signorina,” she said, “forgive your poor old Ottavia. I did

wrong.”

“Yes, very wrong, Ottavia,” I replied in a tone almost severe.

“I know it, and feel as if I were listening to the blessed spirit of Donna

Bianca herself when I hear you and see you! You resemble her so much,

signorina!...”

“Well, Ottavia, what would she say to you, if she had been present?”

“She would tell me that my fear of the jettatura is both foolish and

wrong; and that is only what I know myself, what I believe and realize

when I am on my knees before God!... Oh! at such times I really feel that

his will alone is everywhere accomplished; I only love that holy will; I

am afraid of nothing, because I am convinced that will must prevail. And

yet, after all, ... when my dear signorina seems to be in danger, or I

imagine some one is going to bring her ill‐luck....”

“Ottavia!... Ottavia!”... I cried, suddenly interrupting her with an

outburst that almost frightened her, “it is I, it is I, and not she, who

bring ill‐luck to all I approach....”

I burst into tears as I spoke. This sudden return upon myself effaced,

with the mobility of youth, the impression previously received, and

brought back, to my confusion and remorse, all the reality of the present.

Ottavia, like the rest, had been told of my supposed fault, and was

ignorant of what I had really done; but she was by no means in a mood now

to add any reproaches to those I had already received from my brother. On

the contrary, she tried to soothe me, not by any direct reply, but by

speaking of that which she could talk best about. I had always been more

or less piously inclined from my earliest childhood. How could it be

otherwise under the excellent influence that had hitherto been the life of

my life?... This piety did not obliterate my faults, but it existed in

spite of them, and was to exist through all the perils reserved for me in

the future. But it was, if I may so speak, intermittent. Sometimes it grew

dormant, if not absolutely extinct; at other times it was kindled to a

lively and ardent degree. Therefore I frequently recited my catechism with

indifference and _ennui_; but when it was explained by Ottavia in her

peculiar way; when she spoke of the sacraments, or dwelt on the life and

sufferings of our Saviour, and more especially on the life to come, I was

filled with delight. The loveliness of the natural world around me seemed

to assume an additional charm; and when I considered that this was only a

faint image of a far more beautiful realm, I longed at once to exchange

this life for the other....

It was by such means the good Ottavia now gently endeavored to divert me,

by speaking of God, of heaven, and various other sacred topics. By degrees

she came back to more indifferent subjects, and finally to Livia,

promising to make her forget the mortification she had experienced, and

almost persuading me she had not perceived what had taken place.

I allowed her to talk on in this way without interruption until her

somewhat monotonous tone produced a drowsiness that was beneficial to my

over‐excited nerves. As soon as she saw my eyes grow heavy, she placed one

of the large sofa‐cushions under my head, closed the window‐shutters to

exclude the dazzling light, and then, after remaining beside me till she

was persuaded I was fast asleep, softly left the chamber.

I was not, however, asleep. But my attitude and the profound silence and

solitude of the room were very soothing, and I remained a long time

absorbed in a thousand complex thoughts. Long years have passed away since

that day, and other and more dangerous temptations have assailed me, but I

have never forgotten the reflections of that hour. My vanity had been for

ever shattered like the congealed surface of some deep lake by some sudden

blow. It had not really been a part of my inner nature, but rather on the

surface, and therefore not the most dangerous trait of my character.

During the remainder of my life, I can only recall a single hour—and _only

one!_ ... when it again blinded me.... But that hour was long after the

one of which I have been speaking. At this time I could say with assurance

that Mario’s wish was fulfilled—that I was effectually and radically cured

of my vanity. Associated with so many poignant recollections, it had

become horrible in my eyes.

My health was somewhat affected by the agitation I had undergone, and I

took advantage of this to remain several days in my room, only leaving it

to take the air on the terrace. I only saw my father for a moment, morning

and night. The remainder of the day I passed with Livia. Whether she had

forgotten what had distressed me so much, or it was owing to her self‐

control, or she really had not noticed it, it was impossible to tell from

her manner, and I finally persuaded myself it was as I hoped.

Livia, in spite of her amiable disposition, had great firmness of

character. She never allowed herself to be induced to tell anything she

wished to conceal, or to do what was forbidden by others or by her own

judgment. But what especially characterized her was her self‐

forgetfulness. This did not strike me at that time. When one is only

fifteen years of age, one receives impressions without defining them: one

is repelled or attracted by certain natures without being able to analyze

them. But in looking back, not only over the events of my past life, but

what transpired in the inner folds of my conscience, I clearly see the

difference between my sister’s nature and mine. From her very childhood

she had lived a life of self‐forgetfulness (sublime and simple way to

heights but little known!), regardless of her own tastes and inclinations,

and even of her own sufferings. Whereas, I was constantly endeavoring to

fathom the workings of my heart and soul and mind, and to find food for

them, as one tries to appease one’s hunger and thirst when importunate.

Not but that I was capable of forgetting myself, and, so to speak, of

being absorbed in the heart of another, as I had been in that of my

mother, but solely on the condition of being to that other, in return, the

object of an infinite predilection; ... for this word of such vast import

does not seem to express more than my heart craved. But in spite of this

difference, or rather on the very account of it, Livia and I were always

at ease with each other, and it was not without regret I was at last

obliged to resume my usual life. I regretted this the more because it had

been regulated by my father in a way that indicated only too plainly how

much he distrusted me. Nevertheless, I submitted with humility and

docility to this unaccustomed _surveillance_, the cause of which was so

evident.

I was only released from it during the early hours of the day, which I

spent in my chamber with Livia. I was not allowed to go into the garden,

except under Ottavia’s escort; and I was not permitted to leave the house,

unless accompanied by my father or Mario. All the rest of my time I passed

in my father’s cabinet, where he had a table placed for me near his own.

There, for hours together, I read, wrote, or worked, varying my

occupations according to my own tastes, but without any other liberty. To

have passed my days in this way beside my father would have been

delightful once; but now, though he was often kind and affectionate, there

was a certain gravity in his affection that made me feel I was the object

of unjust suspicion, and tortured me beyond expression. But I submitted to

this torture without a murmur, acknowledging, as I did so, that it was

only a merited chastisement.

This cabinet was like a vast hall in form, and, like all the other rooms

of that old palace, grand in its proportions, but only furnished with what

was absolutely essential. One side of the apartment was entirely lined

with shelves filled with books and papers, and at each extremity stood a

row of arm‐chairs. In the middle of the room, opposite two large windows,

was my father’s writing‐table, near which was mine. Between the windows

hung a large painting, which was the only ornament in the room; but, to

compensate for this, the garden could be seen, and further off, beyond the

verdure of the orange‐trees, stretched the blue outline of the sea.

My father received many of his friends and clients in the morning, but

seldom admitted any of them into the room we occupied. A servant half

opened the door to announce the visitors’ names, and my father went into

the adjoining room to receive them. It was only on special occasions he

gave orders for any one to be admitted where we were.

During the long hours I was thus left alone, I sometimes busily employed

my time, but more frequently remained with my arms folded, plunged in a

profound reverie. At such times I always avoided looking at the large

painting that hung on the opposite panel between the two windows. This was

a fine copy of Herodias’ Daughter, by Guido, the original of which I

afterwards saw in the Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The sweet, charming face

of the girl who is holding with a smile the bleeding head of S. John had a

kind of fascination for me. It seemed like the personification of vanity

in a new form, giddy and thoughtless in its course and fatal in its

results, and often inspired me with many silent, gloomy reflections.... I

preferred looking at the foliage of the orange‐trees in the garden below,

or gazing into the blue, illimitable heavens above. I often amused myself,

likewise, before a cage, prettily painted and gilded, that hung in one of

the windows, and contained a bird whose company was a great diversion in

the life of disguised punishment I was condemned to. This bird, whose

melody surpassed that of the nightingale in sweetness and power, was one

of those called at Sorrento, where they are chiefly found, the _passero

solitario_. I was so fond of its sweet music that my father had allowed me

to hang the cage here, and more than once in the day I climbed up on a

bench in the embrasure of the window to see there was no lack of the

singularly copious and solid food which this bird of angelic notes daily

requires.

One day, while I was thus perched at a considerable height from the floor,

the door opened much wider than usual, and the old servant that announced

the visitors said with a certain emphasis: “His Excellency the Duca di

Valenzano.”

My first thought was to descend from the post I occupied; but before I had

time to do so, the visitor entered the room, and stood regarding me with

an air of surprise. My father rose to meet so unexpected a client; but the

latter held out his hand to aid me in my descent, and followed me with his

eyes, without speaking, as I hastily regained my usual seat, blushing with

confusion. My father conducted him to the other end of the room, where

stood the row of arm‐chairs, and both took seats. During the long

conversation that followed, I could only hear the tones of their voices as

they rose and fell. Sometimes my father’s predominated, and at other times

the deep, sonorous voice of his visitor. I saw it was a question of

business, for my father rose several times to search for different papers

among the books arranged on the shelves of the library. Finally the

conversation ended, and the new client proceeded towards the door. But

when he arrived opposite the cage where my bird was singing, he said:

“Really, one’s ears are charmed here no less than one’s eyes. It seems

more like a palace of fairies than a rendezvous for all the contentions of

Sicily....”

He was then standing directly before me.

“Don Fabrizio,” continued he, “is not this your daughter, Donna Ginevra,

of whom I have so often heard? Do me the favor of presenting me to her.”

My father’s face assumed a severe, dissatisfied expression, and mine was

covered with a livelier blush than before. “Heard of me so often?” Alas!

he had probably heard me spoken unfavorably of! Perhaps this was the very

thought that clouded my father’s brow. Nevertheless, after a moment’s

hesitation, he said: “Rise, Ginevra, and pay your respects to the Duca di

Valenzano.”

I rose, but without uttering a word; for I was disconcerted by the fixed,

scrutinizing eye that seemed trying to read my face. I lowered my eyes,

without being able to distinguish the features of this new acquaintance. I

only remarked that he was tall, and had a noble air, in spite of his

peculiar garb, that made him look more like a travelling artist than a

person of high rank.

To Be Continued.

On The Wing. A Southern Flight. III.

“Vedi Napoli, e poi mori.”(90)

We left Rome in a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured in

large, cold drops, pattering against the windows of the railway carriage,

and adding considerably to the feelings of gloom and apprehension with

which we thought of Rome—as Rome is now. When should we visit the Eternal

City again? And would the veil of sadness which now falls on all that is

dear and sacred to the Catholic be raised once more in our time? Mary was

very silent for some hours of our long journey; and while I, with my

habitual curiosity, was peering through the rain‐washed window to discover

the beauties of the glorious country through which we were rushing, she

lay back with closed eyes, absorbed in thought; while Frank, with a fixed

frown on his face, was reading and rustling, and finally crumpling up, in

paroxysms of anger, the numerous Italian papers that he had bought by

handfuls at the station. Presently Mary opened her eyes once more, and

condescended to recognize the great fact that we were travelling further

and further to the glorious South. I do not think I felt less intensely

than my sister the sorrow that attends all reflection on the present

condition of the great centre of Christendom and the position of the

Father of the faithful. But my grief is apt to take another form from that

of Mary’s or Frank’s. Mary grows silent and outwardly calm. Frank becomes

gloomy. I am more irritable; and irritability leads to activity. My mind

was working with an incessant rapidity, and the impulse to catch sight

once more of every shred that could carry me back to happier times, and

recall once more the memories of the past, kept me straining my eyes to

get a glimpse of Albano, where we had spent a long, happy summer when the

Holy Father was at Castel Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of Lavinia,

Æneas’ own city, the object of so many excursions in those happy days?

Should I see those hills covered with chestnuts, bare of leaves now,

beneath whose shade I had so often rested? Even Velletri, though not in

itself a specially interesting place, had the charm of association. I

remembered how I had gone to spend a long day there, and had wandered to

the gates of some private house with a large garden. I had stood looking

through the iron bars on a little paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a

paradise in disorder. Stone vases stood on a balustrade, filled with

bright flowers, but also with weeds. The fertile valley lay below, and

beyond the blue and purple mountains rose in tiers one above another, with

soft, violet shadows and dim blue mists; and here and there a peak of

rugged rock, on which the sun struck bright and keen. A long avenue of

shady plane‐trees was to my right. A solitary peasant drove his mule, with

balanced panniers and pointed ears like two notes of admiration against

the sky, far as my eye could reach down the green distance. I longed to

wander on; to follow the flickering lights along that silent road, and

know that it would lead me out to the Pontine Marshes, with the rugged

Abruzzi beyond. Here, too, rests the body of Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a

Franciscan nun, who died in 1640, and whose life, less known out of Italy

than it deserves, is one of the most marvellous in its union of great

graces and great sufferings.

The rain pelted hard; the lightning made me, from time to time, shrink

back suddenly; but still I strained my eyes to catch sight of the shifting

scene, and allowed memories to reawaken and imagination to throw its

glamour over the past and the future.

Many of the stations along this road are at some distance from the towns

whose name they bear; and this, of course, diminishes a little the

interest of the journey. For instance, Aquino, the birthplace of the great

father of the church, S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a mile off. Near here we

were, for a time, to take leave of Frank. He had made up his mind to visit

the cradle of the great saint before proceeding to Monte Casino, where he

had made arrangements to spend at least a week. Our readers are no doubt

well aware that Monte Casino is no longer what it was. Its glories have

been shorn by the present government, as the rays of the sun are shorn by

the twilight. There are comparatively very few monks of the order of S.

Benedict still allowed to reside there. Amongst them, however, Frank had

formed a real friendship; and for a month previous, at least, Mary and I

had heard him descanting upon all the charms that he was to find in that

wonderful retreat of learning and sanctity. Partly to tease him, and

partly to be revenged for the fact that I must be for ever excluded, I

generally replied to his enthusiasm by making a wry face and uttering the

words, “Kid, rancid oil, and garlic.” Then he would toss back that

tiresome stray lock which is always trying to shade his beautiful violet

eyes, and reply, with a smile, “Oh! I shall not mind.” The train stops a

very short time at San Germano, the station for the Monastery of Monte

Casino, and we had a hurried leave‐taking. I was endeavoring to collect a

few of his newspapers, which I thought he had not half read, and put them

into his hand as he left the carriage. “No, no, dear Jane. Do you think I

would pollute those sacred walls by carrying there all that blasphemous

stuff.” And he leapt out just as we began to move on.

“O Mary!” I exclaimed, “how dreadful it would be, if Frank were to become

a Benedictine monk.”

“What else do you want him to do?”

“Why, live at home, of course, as an English country gentleman should do,

marry, and bring up a son to rule after him.”

“What a thorough conservative you are, Jane!” said Mary with a smile.

“I am not so sure of that. I have a dash of the liberal in me at times.

But I do love the dirty acres; and I like to see them going down from

father to son without a break.”

“You are right there. It is that permanence which is the back‐bone of

England. I do not believe in the lasting stability of any country where

there is a perpetual and ever‐recurring division of property. What a man

_has_ should always survive what a man _is_, in a sufficiently substantial

form to make the cradle of a future destiny. And where no one is sure of

inheriting a large fortune with the large leisure that it secures, it

tends to make all men equally mercenary. There should always be a class

apart who have no need to fret about making money, but can afford to spend

it.”

“But what if they do not spend it well?”

“That is an answer which in one shape or another you may make to the

laying down of any principle. What if it be abused? It does not prove the

falsity of the principle, but only once more calls to mind the truism that

everything is open to abuse.”

“I suppose you think there are so many objects on which wealth may be

advantageously expended that it is well to have an hereditary body whose

business it is to do so.”

“Yes; and I would certainly include the cultivation of hot‐house grapes,

and the elysium of fat porkers who are washed and combed twice a week. It

is every man’s business to produce the best he can of whatever he has in

hand, including pineapples and pigs.”

“Well done, Mary. You are a worse conservative than I am. But do you

really think that modern civilization, as it is called, has its uses?”

“By modern civilization, Jane, I conclude you really mean material

improvements. Civilization is a term which is so misused that it has

become hardly safe to use it at all. It ought to mean something much

higher than increased railway facilities, more looking‐glasses and buhl,

hundreds of daily newspapers, and a French cook.”

“Oh! of course. Civilization ought to mean the intellectual and spiritual

development of mankind from out of the rough block of his animal nature

and his uneducated mind. If you add to this the refinement which self‐

respect and a perpetual inner consciousness of a Being greater and higher

than ourselves, keeping all the man’s actions in harmony with himself and

with a higher law, you have a really civilized man as distinct from a

savage.”

“That is not a bad description of what civilization ought to be. But that

is very different from the idea most people have in their minds when they

use the term.”

“In point of fact, Mary, I mean material progress. How far is it useful?”

“How people would stare at you, Jane, for that query!—people who think

there is nothing more glorious than to have invented a new machine or a

fresh adjunct to luxury.”

“Yes, those are just the people who would not the least know what I meant

by my implied doubts about the value of material progress. But you know

what I mean and why I question its nature and deprecate its increase.”

“It is a difficult question to solve. But I have long since come to the

conclusion that there is never any very great and generally diffused

advance made by mankind in any one direction without its having some

definite purpose in the Eternal Mind for the ultimate good of his

creation. The progress of science is only second in importance to the

progress of religion; and after these two comes the progress of the useful

arts, which are the offspring of science, and often seem only to pander to

luxury, but are really subsidiary aids in that march, in the

accomplishment of which man is to fulfil his destiny of possessing the

earth and filling it. Mankind is in no way benefited by the discovery, for

instance, of a new perfume, whereby some silly woman may add to the

already exaggerated expenses of her toilet; but the process by which that

perfume has been produced is, in itself, of the utmost value, and exhibits

mechanical invention and scientific principles that are of the last

importance to mankind. The perfume is an accident—a little of the golden

dust scattered by the wheels of material progress.”

“Just so; and dust, albeit golden, is not a good atmosphere to breathe

in.”

“Decidedly not.”

“Then do you think, dear Mary, that material progress, or what we

generally call improvements, conduces, on the whole, to human happiness?”

“Ah! there lies the really difficult question, and one which I have again

and again striven to answer satisfactorily to myself. Happiness is a term

generally used to cover more than it has any right to do. There is only

one real happiness, and that is what man finds in himself, in union with

his God. That happiness is positive, and there is no other positive. We

begin it here, but with great drawbacks and frequent interruptions. We

complete it in the light of glory. But outside that, hanging on to the

skirts and fringes of real happiness, there are contentment, pleasure,

ease, and last, but not least, comfort. No one can impart happiness, pure

and simple, to another. The nearest approach to doing so is in a

reciprocal affection. But God alone can satisfy the soul of man. What we

can confer on others and on ourselves are various degrees of those lesser

goods which I have enumerated. Now, all these enter into the general plan

of God’s dealings with his creatures. The animal world is susceptible of

them in its degree, and we ourselves in a far higher degree. As they enter

into the general scheme, I am at liberty to conclude, not only from my own

sensations, which might delude me, but from that very fact, that they are

of very great importance, and that everything which augments the sum of

them is a blessing. They are the ore out of which we coin our charities to

others. They are therefore essentially God’s gifts, to be given by us

again.”

“I know what you mean, Mary. I shall never forget the pleasure I had in

taking one of your air‐cushions to that poor woman at T——, who was dying

of cancer, and to whom the slightest pressure of even an ordinary pillow

was so painful. Now, air‐cushions are a comparatively modern invention.

Dear mother used to say no one ever heard of mackintoshes and gutta‐percha

in her day.”

“No, Jane, nor yet of lucifer matches. It was terrible work to have to

nurse the sick through the night, with a flint and steel and tinder as the

only way of striking a light. I think I see now my old nurse, with her

large frilled night‐cap, hammering away for what seemed to us children a

good three minutes, because the rush‐light had gone out, and baby was

crying. I can remember I had for that flint and steel very much the same

feelings an Indian has for his fetish. I used to wonder how the flint hid

the fire in its cold bosom, and why sometimes it seemed to require so many

more persuasive knocks than at others before it gave out its sparks. But

for the matter of that, as a child I had secretly embraced the earliest

form of religion, the _animism_ of the lower races of savages—and I lent a

soul to all inanimate, and even all inorganic, matter. I believe, if we

could but find it out, all children do so more or less. The external world

is so wonderful to them that they vaguely imagine a personality and a

consciousness to exist in everything. There is not a little girl who does

not, in her heart, believe that her doll is something more than wax and

sawdust; and I would not give much for her, if she did not. The exuberance

of faith leads to an exuberance of tenderness; and the girl who believes

in her doll has the germ of a good mother in her.”

“You seemed just now to attach a great importance to comfort, Mary. I am

surprised at that.”

“It arises, in a measure, from my own personal experience. Besides which,

comfort may mean almost anything; for it is generally whatever we are used

to. I remember so well, years ago, when the sorrows of my life first

threatened to overpower me, how thankfully I felt the warm, soft arms of

mere outward well‐being so closely round me. To me they were no more than

comforts, because all my life I had been used to them. To others they

would have seemed luxuries. When I used to go up to London alone to my

father’s house, and find all ready to my hand—well‐appointed servants,

large, warm rooms, and a good table, with nothing of meanness, or sparing,

or pinching in the unextravagant but perfectly organized home that was

open to me—I used often to lean back in my easy‐chair, and say to myself,

‘I am very unhappy; but, thank God, I am not uncomfortable!’ Later on, you

know, it was not so. I was a Catholic, and doors that had been open to me

before were closed for ever. Then came the time for discomfort. If I

wanted to go to London, I had to go to a lodging. The furniture was shabby

and dirty; the fires smoked; the food was badly cooked. I drove about in

hired vehicles, perished with cold, and shaken to death. I knew I was in

no way degraded by it all; but it was new and painfully strange to me, and

I _felt_ degraded by an amount of discomforts which in my youth I had

never approached. It did not, in itself, make me unhappy, but it added a

thousandfold to the suffering from real causes for unhappiness. I used to

say they were the splinters of my cross, though not my cross itself. Ever

since then, I never see a person in sorrow without being anxious to make

them at least comfortable. There is nothing, you see, approaching to

asceticism in my view, dear Jane; but, at any rate, one is not bound to be

ascetic for others.”

Mary and I were sitting side by side in the railway‐carriage, I having

come from my seat opposite in order the better to hear. But now I returned

to my old place, just as we paused at the station of Caserta, and saw the

largest palace in Europe, now empty and almost deserted, not far off.

The great object in our visit to Naples was to be as near as possible to

our friends, the Vernons. We were to go first to a hotel, and then look

out for a villa at Posilippo, near the one occupied by themselves, which

was called Casinelli, from the family of that name to whom it belonged. We

had written to Ida Vernon to beg she would choose our hotel and our rooms.

She had lodged us at a very comfortable _pension_ on the Chiaja, and wrote

us word we must, on reaching the station at 10 o’clock at night, look out

for their servant, Monica; and that she would wear a red handkerchief

pinned across, gold earrings, and a blue skirt. We were not to expect the

universal black hair and eyes of the Italian woman, as hers were soft

brown. The station is very large and very badly lighted. But as soon as I

got out, I ran to the grating—a high iron railing, behind which stood the

crowd of people, friends, servants, porters, and mere lookers‐on, all

pushing and squeezing to catch sight of those they expected by the train.

I soon made out the blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the amiable, smiling

face of Monica. She welcomed us exactly as if we had been old friends, and

that it was a personal pleasure to herself that we had arrived. She had

brought a carriage for us the size of a small house, but which refused

(through the coachman) to take luggage. That was to follow in another kind

of conveyance immediately after us. Every sort of injunction was given as

to its destination, and, persuaded all was right, we rumbled over the

large flags of the streets of Naples to the far end of the Chiaja, where

we were to lodge. There were flowers in our room and a note from Ida; and

the next morning we were to meet, after a separation of seven years.

Meanwhile, our _impedimenta_ was slowly grinding its way past our door, up

the steep hill of Strada Nuova, on to Posilippo, where our friends

reside—a good twenty minutes from our abode—down the hill, through the

vineyard, and up to the door of the Villa Casinelli, where, arriving about

midnight, they thundered and thumped till the tired Monica had donned once

more the blue skirt, while Lucia was screaming that there were robbers.

Ida came forth in a warm wrapper; Elizabeth’s tall figure was draped in

white; Helen peeped out of the half‐open door; and the good Padre Cataldo,

their chaplain, in _beretta_ and _soutane_, had to emerge from his little

sanctum, at the furthest end of the long, narrow house, before peace could

be restored, and our mountain of huge black trunks, portmanteaus, and

leather bags could be induced to retrace their needless steps, climb again

that zig‐zag road up the steep tufa rock, and reach us, worn out with

waiting and feverish with impatience for night‐gear, at about one o’clock

in the morning.

Brilliant sunshine, streaming into the room the next day, woke us up to

the sense of the joyous, bounding life of these delicious climes. O noisy

Naples! what clamorous cries, what vibrating shouts, what shrill feminine

voices, fill thy glaring streets through the livelong day and far into the

unrestful night. The horses neigh as they do not neigh in any more

tranquil climes. The usually silent ass is here a garrulous animal. The

dogs bark and snarl in a dialect special to Naples. The women scream like

cockatoos, and never address each other in lower tones than as if shouting

a word of command on board a man‐of‐war in a gale of wind. Their habits

are not conversational, but _scream_ational; and the most cordial civility

is communicated like a threat, while an affectionate compliment is

conveyed in sounds sufficient to startle the most supine into lively

attention. Young girls hiss and squeal; infants bellow and roar. It is

noise, noise, all day long; and over all a remorseless sunshine on white,

glaring pavements of flag‐stones a quarter of a yard square and more, like

the pavement of the ancient Romans, such as we still see it in the Via

Sacra near the Colosseum, and which resounds to the metallic tread of

donkey, mule, and horse, or to the softer, shuffling pit‐a‐pat of the

herds of bearded goats that traverse the city at early morn and eventide.

Mary’s bed‐room opened into a large _loggia_ full of flowers—geraniums,

petunias, and carnations in full blossom, though it was only the month of

March; but so had they blossomed more or less all through the winter. A

few orange‐trees in tubs were there with golden fruit and star‐like

flowers. Then the blue sky and the bluer bay! Yes, it was the plenitude of

life that one only knows in the South, with the delicious sense of the

pleasure of mere existence, which tempts one to adopt the _dolce far

niente_, and makes living and breathing seem a full accomplishment of the

day’s duties.

Ida and Elizabeth Vernon came early to carry us off to Posilippo; first to

call on Mrs. Vernon at Villa Casinelli, and then to decide on a lodging as

near to them as possible. We found them living in a house whose

foundations are washed by the sea, and commanding a view of wonderful

beauty. The descent from the main road was too steep for any carriage,

winding in and out through vines and fig‐trees, oranges and Japanese

medlars, ending in a closely‐knit avenue of the white mulberry, which in

the summer makes a dense shade.

Our friends wanted us to take the villa next to theirs, if only the

proprietor, a poor and proud _marchese_, would let it to us. We went over

to look at it, but came away in disgust. There was scarcely any furniture,

and none that would have satisfied even the most modest requirements. I do

not remember seeing any beds, although it is certain the family come there

from time to time for a few days. I asked Ida where they slept, and she

pointed to some roomy sofas and wide divans, on which had been flung the

ashes and the ends of cigars, as the probable resting‐place of the

proprietors. We could only shake our heads in horrified astonishment, and

think what a lovely place might be made of this quaint old house. It

stands partly on the rock and partly on arcades, through which the sea

comes rushing when the waves are high, but where, when it is calm, you may

sit on silver sands or on the stone steps that lead down from the house

and the upper terraced gardens. We had been so fascinated by the

appearance of this residence, which looks outside like the fragment of an

old feudal castle, and inside is bright with sunshine and the glorious

view it commands, that we had requested Padre Cataldo to write and ask the

terms before we had gone over it. On our return from doing so, shocked at

the dirt and disorder we had witnessed, we were amused to find a

magniloquent reply to the effect that the titled owner would “condescend”

to let us his dwelling for (and here he named an exorbitant price), solely

out of an amiable desire to make himself agreeable; and that he would call

the following morning to receive the ten weeks’ rent in advance! We

finally decided on the villa next but one to that of our friends—the Villa

R—— R——. We did not require more than one floor of the house. The rest was

occupied by the family, and had a second entrance. We came into our part

straight from the Strada Nuova, down a few steps, and in at a large

folding door flanked by a Stone seat and two vases with huge aloes. We had

a lovely view of the bay in front, a little garden on a sloping bank on

one side, full of oranges and lemons, now in full fruit and flower; a

_loggia_—that great desideratum of an Italian house—and a view of Naples

and Mount Vesuvius. On our return to our apartments, we were met by the

woman who attends upon us, telling us that Ann was in her room with a bad

headache. Little did we guess what had befallen her! We went in to see

what was the matter, and found her flung upon the bed, with her clothes

on, in a profound stupor. In vain we called her and shook her; we could

not rouse her. The landlady presently came and told us that an hour

previous poor Ann had been brought home by a _gendarme_ in a carriage;

that she was unable to walk up‐stairs without assistance, and seemed

completely dazed when spoken to. The _gendarme_ said he had noticed a

young person sitting on a bench in the Villa Reale, the long, narrow

garden which runs for a mile along the Chiaja by the sea‐shore; that she

looked extremely ill; and that, noticing she had valuables about her

(alluding to her watch and chain), he had asked her address, put her into

a carriage, and brought her home. It was a mercy he had done so. The

Neapolitan police are not always so honest. But our dismay was increased

when at length, having awakened her, she did not know any of us. She kept

entreating Mary, who held her in her arms, to take her back to her own

Mrs. Gordon, her good Mrs. Gordon. In vain Mary replied, “But I am Mrs.

Gordon, Ann. Look at me; don’t you know me?”

“No, no; you look something like her, but you have not her voice. Oh!

where is she. Where is Miss Jane, and where is Lulu?”

Fortunately, Lulu, Mary’s dog, was in her room, and the probability was

that, though she failed to know us, she would recognize Mary’s Lulu from

any other Lulu. I flew to fetch the little animal, and threw it into her

arms, to poor Lulu’s great astonishment. It succeeded perfectly. She knew

the dog, and thus recovered her memory of the faces around her, and her

conviction that she was in her own room. Evidently she had a vague horror

that she might have been taken to the wrong house, and that she had

awakened among strangers. When she had entirely recovered herself, we

found that no trace of what had happened to her remained on her memory

from the moment that she entered the Villa Reale; yet she was found more

than half way down it! She must have wandered on partially insensible; and

it is a blessing that, when the _gendarme_ found her, she had enough

consciousness left to give the right address. She had already been out in

the morning, and a second walk in the hot sun had been too much for her.

It was a sun‐stroke; and strangers are more subject to such accidents than

persons who have become habituated to the climate. It was, however, long

before Ann really shook off the effects of gratifying her over‐curiosity

to visit the beauties of Naples on first arriving.

In a very short time, we were comfortably settled at Villa R—— R——. The

Vernons had arranged everything for us with a forethought for which we

could not be too grateful. They lent us the services of Monica as cook,

assuring us that, if we took a Neapolitan, we should be cheated and

tormented out of our lives. Monica was a Piedmontese, and as good and

simple‐hearted a girl as any one could wish to find. Her economical

scruples were positively amusing. We could hardly induce her to buy the

particular articles we desired for our dinner, because, in her estimation,

they were at too high a price in the market; and she would beg and entreat

of us to wait patiently a little longer until they should have gone down.

If it had been her own money she was spending, she would not have been so

economical; for, as we found out later, she was always ready to lend to

those less well off than herself, and would give away more than she could

afford. The name of the young lad whom the Vernons engaged to act as

servant was Paolino, a boy of eighteen, with glorious, large brown eyes

and bright complexion. It was some time before we taught him manners, as

he had never been in a gentleman’s family before. His father was a

_vignaiuolo_ of the name of Camerota. He had several sons and daughters,

some of them married. He rented the vineyards of the _marchese_ whose

dilapidated house we had declined to hire, and each of his children

married from their home with a good substantial dower and a large

_trousseau_. The eldest girl had not long been a bride when we arrived;

and, after making the acquaintance of the other members of the family, we

one day called upon her. Their dwelling was built against the tufa rock

which skirts the Strada Nuova. She had three rooms, nicely furnished, with

marble tops to the chest of drawers and the table, such as we in England

should only expect to find in the houses of the rich, but which here are

common enough. The bedstead was of walnut, and the sheets like the driven

snow for whiteness. Ida, who had known the girl for years, told us that

her _trousseau_ contained a dozen of every necessary article of dress and

house‐linen, even to a dozen pairs of stays!—enough to last a life‐time.

There hung a crucifix at the head of the bed, and a few colored engravings

ornamented the walls of the sitting‐room, in which also there stood a tiny

altar with a statue of the Mater Dolorosa and a few flowers.

The lower classes here have what we should call strange notions with

respect to the sacrament of marriage. It is treated as a deed of darkness.

The bride is conveyed late in the evening, or by cock‐crowing, to church,

by her mother and a few respectable matrons. No young girl, not even a

sister, is allowed to be present, and would endanger her reputation were

she to appear on such an occasion. A few days later, the bride once more

puts on her wreath, and her veil, and her wedding‐dress. All the family

and friends of both sexes are gathered together, and the women and men, in

separate carriages, drive fast and furious along the Chiaja up the Strada

Nuova, past Posilippo, by the hour, and finally pause at the Taberna del

Capo di Posilippo, or some other house of entertainment, and have a merry

feast. We held this said Taberna somewhat in horror. On Sundays—the day on

which everybody seems to think his honor and reputation are engaged in

galloping up hill and down dale at a break‐neck pace for the whole

afternoon—this was the chief place of meeting; and in the lovely starlight

evenings, the returning guests would come back with a sadly rollicking

air, hat on one side, a long cigar in the mouth, and a leg hanging over

the side of the frail vehicle, while the spirited little Sardinian horse,

all blood and sinew, would fly along, with jingling bells and bright brass

harness, as if his hoofs hardly struck the earth. The drivers of these

_cittadine_, as the little hired open carriages are called, take great

pride in their harness. The horse‐collar more resembles a yoke; and where

it meets over the horse’s neck, there is often a little brass image of the

angel guardian—a very necessary angel, indeed, considering the pace they

go, and whose guardianship must be severely put to the test by the mad

risks of the half‐inebriated coachmen. It is very rare to see a Neapolitan

really drunk. The wine they take produces a light, joyous, but brief

intoxication, which makes dare‐devils of them for the time, but soon loses

its effects, and is rarely stupefying. It is the divine _inflatus_ of the

Bacchus of old, and not the coarse, heavy incapacity of the snoring

Silenus. Nevertheless, though I have spoken so indulgently of the Taberna

del Capo di Posilippo, it formed a not unfrequent subject of grave rebuke

and expostulation in the discourses of our good Padre Cataldo to his

little group of listeners in the chapel in the rock belonging to Villa

Casinelli. And probably he knew more of its evil influences than we did. I

remember, one Sunday afternoon, being particularly struck by a carriage

full of merry‐makers, drawn by the most miserably thin gray mare my eyes

had ever beheld. She was nothing but a bag of bones, and must have reached

the utmost age that horse ever attains. I was horrified to see so old and

pitiable an object driven so hard and fast, and could only console myself

by thinking the gallop I then witnessed must surely be the last. But it

was not so; far from it. Day after day, but on Sundays especially, my

Rosinante might be seen flinging her wild hoofs into space, amid a cloud

of dust, and generally in competition with a beautiful, wicked‐looking

black horse, sleek and well cared for, in dazzling harness, with red

ribbons in his mane—a perfect little devil, as he took the bit between his

teeth, and seemed to enjoy the eagerness of his driver, albeit the lash

fell often on his sleek and steaming flanks. I delighted in that little

black horse. But to the last Sunday of our abode at Posilippo poor

Rosinante held her ground. And I can see her now, awful to behold, neither

fatter nor thinner—that she could hardly be—than the first day, devouring

the ground beneath her, and flinging out her skeleton leg straight from

the shoulder, so that I could hardly see she touched the ground.

The chief amusement on Sunday afternoons of our own humbler friends and

neighbors, the _vignaiuoli_,(91) was a game of bowls by the side of the

road, and in front of the wide‐gaping wooden doors of the strange

dwellings cut in the rock where the inhabitants of Posilippo reside. Many

of these are restaurants and taverns on a small and humble scale; and

Padre Cataldo had been making vigorous efforts, not to discourage the game

of bowls, but to induce the men to play in an open space near the Villa

Casinelli, and consequently at some distance from the taverns. Like all

Italians, and chief amongst them all, the Neapolitans are great gamblers.

The tavern‐keepers encourage this, because it promotes their trade; and

the games being carried on in front of their caverns (for such they really

are) leads to incessant “treating.” In this way, what between entertaining

his friends and losing his money at play, it often happens that the ill‐

advised _vignaiuolo_ returns to his home with his pockets empty; and the

next day the wife would come in tears to tell her sorrows to the good

father. Even our Paolino was never contented without an hour or two at

bowls on Sunday afternoon. And we did not like to refuse him, for we were

obliged to take him somewhat on his own terms; and these involved a very

small sense of servitude, and a very large one that he had put us under

something of an obligation by coming to us at all. Had he been a year or

two older, his parents would not have allowed him to enter service,

thinking it a degradation. But as he was very young, and rather restless

and wanting change, it was decided that he might be allowed to work off a

little of the exuberance of boyhood in our service. Even this could not

have been allowed had we not been friends of the Vernons; but as they are

adored by all the _vignaiuoli_ and the inhabitants of Posilippo generally,

their request could not be overlooked. Accordingly, Paolino, blushing and

grinning, was admitted to form one of our household. His father told us

exactly what his son’s labor was worth to himself, and that we were to

hand over to him. It was all to go to the making‐up of Paolino’s marriage‐

portion. We were then to pay the lad a little over for himself, as pocket

money. And this was to be done with discretion; not to prove a temptation

to lavish expenditure. This is the way in which the marriage‐portions of

both boys and girls are made up. They work for their own parents, and the

latter put by the wages for them. When old enough, they are at liberty to

undertake other and more profitable work. And from time to time there

comes a windfall—a little work to be done in addition; or a specially good

harvest, when the parents add something of the surplus to the portion of

the girl or boy then marriageable. There was a deep, dark‐eyed maiden, of

the ripe age of fifteen, with wayward black locks and a furtive glance in

her liquid eyes like a startled fawn, about whose conduct there was a

slight demur. Venturella (for such was her name, and it struck me at the

time as of evil omen) was at heart as innocent as a child of five. But

there was something in her shy yet daring nature which caused a certain

uneasiness as to the fate of the timid, impulsive girl in this evil world.

Venturella was fond of leaning over the low parapet which divided her

father’s vineyard from the highroad; and when the brief Italian twilight

had sunk in the shades of night, and the brilliant stars, that seem so

near in those southern lands, had spangled the dense blue heavens with

their myriad fires, Venturella would pretend she did not hear her mother’s

voice calling her to come home. With arms crossed, she would lean on the

wall, just breast high, and her star‐like eyes would seek their sister‐

stars above with a vague, dream‐like wonder. What the stars—and perhaps

even more the moon—said to Venturella we shall never know; but one of them

must have carried a message to a certain youthful Franceschino, whose

hyacinthine locks clustered low over a brow of ivory, beneath which lay

two eyes like the evening sky Venturella was so fond of; and whose teeth

gleamed in the soft light like the white sea‐foam. Nobody knew; and as the

birds had all long ago gone to bed, none of them were there to whisper

tales.

Franceschino was the son of a _vignaiuolo_ who lived on the Vomero, the

heights above Posilippo; and the little stolen interviews took place as he

came back from the city, whither he had been sent on his father’s

business. From time to time the mother wondered what made her son so late

in coming home; and one night she thought she would find out for herself

whether the dry bush hanging out before the wide doors of one of those

cavernous taverns had tempted Franceschino to try the red wine within, and

perhaps take a hand at cards with some other loiterers. Alas! for

Venturella when the indignant matron found out the charm which had led to

the boy’s delay. She was not likely to hold her tongue about it. Nor was

his father, who beat and cuffed him well; for boys of nineteen at

Posilippo will meekly bear a cuffing from a parent, when they would not

tolerate a finger’s weight from any one else. Then came the rage of

Venturella’s mother; and spite of Padre Cataldo’s having elicited the fact

that no greater wrong had been done than a few silly promises and one shy

kiss, all Posilippo was loud in crying, Fie for shame! on the fawn‐eyed

Venturella. At length those older than herself and wiser than her mother

took the matter in hand. Could nothing be done? Stern fortune answered,

Nothing. Venturella’s marriage‐portion was far from being made up. She was

an idle hussy, and only worked when she could not help it. The rest of the

time she paddled with naked feet in the silver sands, tempting the tiny

waves to kiss them, or gathered scarlet poppies from among the green corn

and twisted them in her raven hair. Worse than all, Franceschino was

equally behindhand with his fortune; and nineteen was too young for a lad

to marry, though fifteen was none too soon for a Neapolitan maiden.

There was, however, something in the silent _sauvagerie_ of the strange

girl which made it evident to her betters that she could not be thwarted

with safety. There was something deeper than words in the sudden flash of

those wild eyes when they looked up fiercely, and then fell beneath the

long, fringed lids, and lay in shadow like pools in some dense forest.

Venturella shrank, half angry, half ashamed, at every breath of blame;

while her eyes grew larger and deeper, and the round, full cheeks became

pallid and sunken.

“What is to be done with that wayward girl?” was the ever‐recurring

question among the Vernons, who seemed to take upon their own charitable

shoulders every burden that weighed upon their numerous friends, the

Posilippians. At length a suggestion was made that Venturella should be

sent to school far away from present associations, where she would have

numerous girls of her own age to divert her, and where she might learn

fine needle‐work and embroidery—the only thing, besides paddling in the

sea and weaving wreaths of wild flowers, for which she had ever shown any

disposition. Meanwhile, a _dot_ was to be thought of for her; not so very

much was wanted to make up the necessary sum—about 4,500 francs. And then,

when Venturella should be wiser and Franceschino older, who knows but what

love’s young dream may turn out true at last?

It did not take us long to get intimate with the names and habits of the

rural population around us. They were quite willing to receive us as

friends, and seemed to expect a ready sympathy from us in all their

concerns. Unlike the peasants of an English village, the best of whom, at

least amongst the women, cultivate so little acquaintance with each other,

here everybody knew everybody else; and though I do not pretend to say

there was less gossiping among them, it always struck me that there was

less of that sour ill‐nature which is apt to characterize the English

cottager’s comments on her neighbors. No doubt this arises in a greater

degree from the nature of the people than from acquired virtue. It is only

in northern, damp climes, like the English, that the necessary ills of

life are so heightened and intensified by the general sense of moral and

physical discomfort which a heavy atmosphere and a gray sky produce. We

all know what it is to wake in the morning with a vague sense of

apprehension, as if the post were about to bring us a distressing letter

which our imagination foresaw. We all know the ceaseless and unreasoning

feeling of being out of spirits which also tempts us to be out of temper.

We are acquainted with the blue‐devils, and we are generally taciturn and

inclined to gloom. The Italian knows nothing of this. The very great and

constantly‐pervading influence these feelings have over our daily life is

absolutely beyond the limits of his experience, unless, of course, he is

suffering from a deep sorrow or a real physical malady. To the age of

eighty, he wakes in the morning with the same sensation of joyous energy

or placid pleasure which we were beginning to lose before we were eight.

He is passionate; but he is not irritable. He has paroxysms of despair,

but he knows no constant gloom. Our impatience, our tendency to being “put

out,” are enigmas to him. The small hindrances of every day and every hour

are less a great deal to him than the swarms of his pestering southern

flies are to us. _Pazienza_ (patience) is for ever on his lips; and it is

no vain word, for patient he is to a degree which is exasperating to

behold. When he is waiting, he is not gnawing an invisible bit, as we are

doing, and grinding his teeth to powder. He is simply enjoying the being

alive; and it does not much matter to him whether he chews the delicious

cud of existence waiting at your door or sitting in his own home. You may

make him furiously angry; and as likely as not he will stab you in the

back and in the dark. But you cannot make him cross, or fretful, or

peevish, or low‐spirited. Depend upon it, if he is ever any one of these

things, it is high time to call in the doctor, who probably will declare

his case already hopeless. On the other hand, if anything—and it may often

be a trifle—thoroughly rouses a Neapolitan, it is fearful. It becomes a

_rabbia_ (a rage), as they themselves express it; and then they are blind

and deaf to reason and expostulation, and run amuck of all that comes in

their way. It is possible that the extraordinary violence which seizes

them is, in a measure, purely physical, and that that also in a measure

diminishes their responsibility. Evidently, they think so themselves. _Era

una rabbia_(92) is considered almost an excuse for the worst crimes, so

long as these were committed in the heat of passion. And probably, in the

long run, this has seriously affected the moral sense; so that good and

reasoning people fail to be as much horrified at some murder committed in

a brawl as we should be. They look upon an event of the kind almost in the

light of a mutual misfortune between the murdered and the murderer. It is

at least certain that the line of demarcation which separates inward

resentment from the outward act of guilt is more easily crossed by these

children of the sun, and does not presume the existence of so much

previous demoralization as it would do with us. Yet I am far from

intending to write an apology for the Neapolitan character. There is a

great deal about them which is very graceful and very attractive; and when

they are really good and refined, they are most lovable. But this is

exceedingly rare. As a people, they are venal, deceitful, mercenary, and

treacherous. But with it all, they are exactly like children; good or

naughty, as the case may be, but always children.

Frank not being with us, the Vernons had undertaken to procure for us a

carriage and a pair of horses, with a well‐conducted coachman, to hire by

the month. Indeed, had Frank been there, he could not have done it half as

well as they did; for all these transactions require you to be acquainted

with the current charges and with the character of the people; and Frank

had no experience in either. The Vernons concluded the bargain for us with

Pascarillo, the man from whom they always hired a vehicle when they wanted

one; and a fine, handsome‐looking fellow he was, with the reputation of

being rather a gay Lothario, but, on the whole, an honest man as

Neapolitans go. Our carriage was delightfully roomy. It held four with

admirable ease, and five at a pinch, together with cloaks and cushions,

luncheon and drawing materials, whenever we went on an excursion. In the

evening, we could close it. We had two very fleet horses, not at all fine‐

looking, and rather undersized for the carriage, but the best little

beasts to go I ever saw. Our coachman was a veritable son of Jehu. He was

a miserable object, mean and despicable to look at, diminutive, with

bleared eyes, a beardless chin, and the expression of a low coward. But

never have I sat behind such a coachman as that. I believe he would have

taken us up the wall of a house and down the other side in perfect safety.

It did not signify what his horses did, or what evident peril we got into,

he always managed quite quietly to bring us right again without any

expression of vehemence or alarm. Suddenly, one day, our coachman

vanished. An old man appeared in his stead, and a pair of grays, larger

than the little brown horses. We made no remark, supposing it was an

accident, and that our former equipage would return in time. That day we

set out for the Vomero—the height above Posilippo, covered with beautiful

villas, and commanding a superb view, or rather many views. The horses

jibbed. We were greatly alarmed. They could not be got up the hill, and we

had to go home. We sent an indignant message to Pascarillo, and hoped it

would never happen again. But it did happen; not once nor twice only. And

then Pascarillo was sent for in person to render an account of himself.

There he stood, six foot two, with broad chest, a forest of hair, and an

august presence. Ida, the universal spokeswoman, with her fluent Italian

and her determined energy, left him in no doubt as to her opinion of his

conduct. He heard her out silently and calmly, and then replied that the

_signorina_ was quite right; he was conscious that his conduct had been

inexcusable, and that we had serious cause for displeasure. He had not

kept to his bargain, and he was aware of it. It should not happen again;

and with a polite bow, he retired. It did not happen again. He had tried

to take us in, and he had not succeeded—just a little speculation that had

failed, and that was all! As for any rancor at being scolded, or any

humiliation at having to make an apology, such sentiments did not trouble

the breast of Pascarillo for a second. He probably only said to himself,

“Better luck next time.” Our little horses came back, and our impish young

coachman with them. We had never again to complain. But the impression

made on Mary’s imagination by our coachman’s face was such that she had

scruples of conscience about Paolino being allowed to converse with him on

the coach‐box. Paolino was, therefore, seriously informed that for a

footman to talk to the coachman when the ladies were in the carriage was

not good manners. And from that moment silence was maintained; and

Paolino’s morals were left untainted, as he sat, radiant in clean white

cotton gloves and a new necktie, enjoying the delights of drives and

picnics at least as much as the persons on whose account they were

undertaken.

The Female Religious Of America.

In this busy world of labor, where mankind seems exclusively bent on the

acquisition of wealth, fame, or power, on fashion, folly, and empty

pleasures, how seldom we pause to consider seriously the diversity and

multiplicity of the elements of humanity by which we are surrounded! How

few, in their headlong career after vain desires, ask themselves if this

world were made for them alone; if the end and object of life, the first

gift of a merciful Creator, is merely selfish enjoyment, or whether the

social compact, as well as the laws of God, do not require of us to assist

in every way possible our less fortunate or more afflicted fellow‐

creatures.

It requires little reflection or effort to distinguish the favorites of

fortune—those whose lot having been cast in pleasant places, shine in the

public regard like beings of a superior order. Worldly success is ever

prominent, and its devotees are always ready to court its notice and extol

its merits. To be fashionable is to be fawned upon; to be influential,

sought after; to wield power is to be placated. Not so with the humble,

the poor, the ignorant, and the obscure; the victims of physical

affliction or of moral degradation. They are usually shunned, often

despised, and, as far as possible, contemptuously ignored. They constitute

the outcasts of “society,” and, when they come betwixt the wind and its

nobility, are merely objects of contempt, barren pity, or downright

loathing. Yet these very unfortunates comprise, even in our own favored

land, a very large and, in an indirect sense, a potent constituent of our

population. Always with us, no matter how much we may attempt to separate

ourselves from them, they appeal to us for help in the name of all we hold

sacred; and their supplications, no matter how mutely made, if unheeded,

are certain to be followed, even in this life, by a blight on our souls as

well as a curse to our bodies. The heart of man becomes hardened, the fine

perception of fraternal love and charity with which he is naturally

blessed withers and shrivels up, and he becomes a mere embodiment of self,

an arid isolation, in proportion as he steels himself against the cries

and sufferings of his kind. The very ignorance he will not help to remove,

the want and squalor he refuses to alleviate, rise up in judgment against

him, and, developing into crimes against life and property, haunt his

footsteps, and but too often mark him for their prey.

As in all things else, if we want an exemplar for our conduct in relation

to our fellow‐beings, we must look to the church. Following the teachings

of her divine Founder, from the earliest ages she has recognized the

existence of the vast amount of misery, poverty, vice, and ignorance which

underlies the surface of civilization, ancient and modern, and has used

every effort to mitigate it. While yet the successors of S. Peter were

struggling with the effete though polished paganism of the dismembered

Roman Empire, and the greater part of Europe was enshrouded in the

darkness of barbarism, societies of holy men and pious women were

established and sustained by the popes and the fathers of the church, to

mitigate in some degree, by their prayers and good works, the evils which

beset society in its earliest transition state. The principal evils to be

combated at that time were the ferocity of heathenism outside the confined

limits of Christendom, and, within, the mental obscurity of the barbaric

catechumens and neophytes. Physical destitution, in our signification of

the term, was but little known beyond the limits of a few great cities;

for men’s wants were few and easily supplied before the increase of

population and the unequal distribution of property became general in the

Old World. Therefore we find that the monks and nuns of the IVth century,

and for many hundreds of years afterwards, devoted themselves mainly to

preaching and teaching, to the multiplication of copies of the Holy

Scriptures, and to praying for the conversion of mankind. Thus the order

founded by S. Basil, Archbishop of Cæsarea, in Cappadocia, Asia Minor,

A.D. 362, and that of S. Benedict, Abbot of Norcia, in Italy, in 529, and

the numerous cenobitic communities which sprang from them, all more or

less strictly observing the rules laid down by those great lights of the

church, considered prayer, humility, and obedience the essential

principles of their foundation.

Congregations of women devoted to the worship of God, prayer, and poverty

were coeval with, if not anterior to, those of men; for we find that S.

Anthony, in the latter part of the IIId century, placed his sister in a

“house of virgins,” of which she afterwards became abbess; and that on

Christmas day, 352, in S. Peter’s Church in Rome, Pope Liberius conferred

the habit and veil on Marcellina, enjoining on her a life of mortification

and prayer. A little later, mention is made of SS. Marcella, Lea, and

Paula as distinguished Roman women who forsook the world, and spent their

remaining life in prayer and good works; the latter especially, who, with

her daughter, built a hospital at Bethlehem, erected a monastery for S.

Jerome and his monks, and founded in Palestine three convents for female

recluses, of which she took personal charge. S. Basil found many such

convents in existence, and established several more within his

jurisdiction, one of which was presided over by his sister Macrina, at

Pontus. S. Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople, up to 407, writes

that in Egypt the congregations of women were as numerous as the

monasteries; and S. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (396‐430), built a convent

of nuns, of which his sister was superior, giving it, in 423, a written

rule, still followed by the religious who bear his name. Four years after,

S. Benedict founded his monastery at Monte Casino, the rules of which,

having been approved by Gregory the Great, in 595, have been very

generally adopted by many religious bodies of men and women in Europe and

America.

At first these religious institutions were confined to Italy and the East;

but as the light of the faith gradually extended over Europe, religious

houses were multiplied; and though for a long time each convent was

governed by its own inmates, and followed the ancient rules, modified in

many instances by peculiar circumstances, it was eventually found

judicious to form them into distinct orders or congregations, in which all

the establishments of a particular foundation were governed by a general

head or superior. The strict requirements of prayer, humility, and

obedience were still observed; but to these were added the education of

the children of the poor, alms‐giving, and other acts of external

devotion. Wherever a church was built, a monastery planted, or a number of

people gathered together to worship God, there was generally to be found a

convent, wherein the ailing might find relief; the afflicted, consolation;

and the ignorant of the female sex, enlightenment. There the young whose

parents were scarcely out of the slough of barbarism were taught their

catechism and the beautiful prayers and litanies of the church, as well as

to weave, spin, and all the other duties of a civilized housewife. While

the clergy, secular and regular, went among the adults, preaching,

instructing, and baptizing, holy women were near at hand to pray for the

success of their efforts, and to show, by their gentle charities and meek

demeanor, the loveliness and beneficence of the Christian religion.

One of the greatest glories of the Catholic Church is that she, and she

alone, freed woman from the grossest slavery, and placed her in her proper

sphere of usefulness and influence. By the sacrament of marriage, woman

was made the honored equal of man; by her commandments and precepts, the

church guarded her liberty and her purity, exalted her authority in the

family, and recognized in her, even in death, the loving protectress of

her offspring. But the church did more than all this. She gave to woman a

part in her divine mission, a share in the most glorious task ever

allotted to humanity—the propagation of the law of the Most High; and the

dispensation of his mercies and benevolence. We are not surprised, then,

to learn that in past ages, “when faith was young,” the most gifted and

high‐born of their sex in every Christian land, daughters of nobles and

princes, abandoning all the fascinations of the world, even those of

royalty itself, were to be found eager to take part in the great work of

religion, and consecrate their lives to prayer, penance, and charity, for

the sake of the poor and helpless.

Such humility and implicit faith in the goodness of God could not have

been unavailing; and we who now enjoy the blessings of true morality, with

the refinements and graces of true civilization, seldom cast a thought

back to the days of semi‐barbarism among our forefathers, when the only

light that illumined the gloom of the outer world proceeded from the lamp

of the sanctuary, and the only asylum open to the affectionate and modest

soul of woman was the humble convent, where she could surround herself

with the innocent and unstained children of both sexes, and teach them the

way of salvation. Beyond those sacred enclosures, in bygone days, were

little but passion, grossness, and self‐indulgence; while within reigned

peace, delicacy, and that knowledge which is justly called the beginning

of wisdom. The world at length commences to acknowledge the incomparable

services of the monks and doctors, the penmen and preachers of the so‐

called dark ages; but who shall count up the debt of gratitude we owe to

the thousands upon thousands of holy women who, spurning every earthly

allurement, abandoning home, friends, and country, have sought, generation

after generation, to win an eternal reward by unceasing prayer and

continuous acts of benevolence? Europe is still, as in the past, enjoying

the benefits of the labors of her pious daughters; India, China, and the

furthest confines of the eastern hemisphere are reaping the advantages of

the missionary efforts of the good nuns and Sisters; but America seems

destined to be in the future the field whereon the full effulgence of

God’s goodness is to be made manifest in the persons of his chosen

handmaids.

To us especially the presence of so many pious and educated women is of

incalculable advantage. The Catholic body in the United States has to

combat a much more insidious and dangerous foe than was ever arrayed

against the church, even in her darkest days of persecution. Then

Christianity had only to shatter the idol of imperial Rome, already

tottering to its base; now we have to fight against what may be termed

civilized paganism, energetic, unscrupulous, and worldly‐wise, which aims

at mere sensuous enjoyments, cultivates the intellect at the expense of

the soul, and even attempts to use the very evidences of God’s works as a

justification for their contempt of his law, and as argument against his

existence itself. At the worst, the rude pagan of Northern and Western

Europe had a belief in a superior Being, and an acknowledged, innate

dependence on his will; but the fashionable sceptic of to‐day, the learned

doubter of our schools and academies, believes in nothing but himself, and

obeys his own whims as his highest rule of morality. It is a melancholy

fact, but none the less true, that, according to official authority,

nearly one‐half of the people of this country, male and female,

practically believe in no form of religion whatever. Disgusted at the

perpetual wranglings and disagreements of the sects in the name of

Christianity; trained into mere cultivated animals by a system of public

tuition which ignores God, or recognizes his existence only to ridicule

and travesty his word; and freed from all the restraints which the church

so wisely throws around her children from their earliest infancy, is it

wonderful that the majority of the youth of this nation should grow up in

the actual deification of their own prejudices and passions? With so many

instances daily and hourly presented to our eyes, are we to be surprised

that persons thus reared should be so active in creating a public opinion

among us which is not Catholic, nor even Protestant, but simply and

absolutely heathenish, without the refinement of the ancient Greeks to

soften its grossness, or the pride of the Roman to save it from cupidity

and dishonor?

How all‐important is it, then, to parents to be able to find schools

wherein their children—those loved ones whom they have been instrumental

in bringing into the world, and for whose eternal welfare they are

responsible—will be cared for and instructed, taught habits of industry as

well as accomplishments, and in which bands of zealous, educated, and

religious women are ever ready to plant and nurture the seeds of virtue in

their hearts, while shielding their young minds from even the shadow of

contamination. Such guardians of the female youth can only be found in the

nunneries, convents, and schools of the Catholic Church. There their lives

are wholly and exclusively devoted to works of benevolence, of which the

religious instruction of the ignorant is by no means the least. The world

for them has neither cares nor attractions; they move, live, and have

their being in an atmosphere of order, prayer, and tranquillity, their

very appearance being in itself a homily of obedience and cheerful

reliance on the goodness of their Maker.

Even though the educational establishments of the nuns and Sisters are in

their infancy, there are few parents who need deprive their children of

the advantages to be gained only in them. A quarter of a century ago, we

could only boast of sixty‐six such institutions, while now we have nearly

four hundred academies alone. What excuse, therefore, is there for a

piously‐inclined mother or a discriminating father to imperil the

happiness and faith of her or his children by sending them to secular

schools where the training they receive is worse than artificial? In the

convents they can be taught every accomplishment that befits a young lady,

no matter how high her station in life, without being made the shallow

creature, the mere puppet of fashion, which we find so often “turned out”

by the modern secular school‐mistresses of our time; without heart,

feeling, and, we might almost say, with no fixed perception of right and

wrong.

Then we have two hundred and forty select schools, or an average of four

for each diocese, attended by boarders or those living with their

relations. These differ from the academies only in degree, being intended

for the benefit of children whose position in life does not demand the

same elaborate mental culture, or whose school‐days are necessarily short.

Still, they receive the same attention, and are subjected to precisely

similar moral influences, as the others. But the poor—those whose parents

are unable to pay for their education—are they to have none of the

advantages so freely accorded their wealthy neighbors? Must they be thrust

into the tainted atmosphere of our public schools, and left to shift for

themselves? Not so. The poor have ever been the primary objects of the

good Sisters’ solicitude; and though they count their academies by

hundreds, the number of their free schools, parish, orphan, and

industrial, may be reckoned by thousands, and the pupils by myriads.

In the Diocese of New York there are forty‐six of these female schools,

with over twenty thousand children, whose tuition is gratuitous, besides

some three thousand inmates of orphan asylums and other charitable

institutions for juveniles. In the Philadelphia diocese there are thirty‐

five Sisters’ free schools, containing nearly ten thousand scholars, in

addition to the orphans. In Cincinnati, where the school system has been

brought to a state of great efficiency, the proportion of the attendants

to the Catholic population is much greater. We have no means of

ascertaining the total number of pupils in the entire country; but if we

take the three dioceses above mentioned as a criterion, it will be found

that in the United States there are nearly three hundred thousand girls

daily receiving at the hands of the Sisters of various congregations a

free, thorough, and practical Catholic education. The expense alone of

this great work of charity, if not performed without compensation, would

be, judging from the cost of the public schools of New York, at least

eight millions of dollars annually. If we add to the number of girls in

the free schools the fifty or sixty thousand pupils in the six hundred and

forty academies and select schools, we will find that about three hundred

and fifty thousand female children are, in this year of grace 1874, under

the more than maternal care of the religious of the Catholic Church.

Who can estimate the immense amount of good which is accomplished in this

manner? Who can measure the beneficent effects to the country produced by

these institutions of learning, which annually send to their homes so many

thousands of children to gladden the hearts of fond parents, not so much

by their varied acquirements, as by their gentleness of disposition and

unaffected piety? If we cannot gauge the merits of the Sisters by what we

see before us, how much less capable are we of estimating the reward which

their long years of devotion will receive from Him who said of little

children, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

As to the efficiency of the nuns and Sisters as teachers of the young

people of their own sex, there is scarcely a second opinion, even among

non‐Catholics. Many Protestants and unbelievers, while professing little

or no religion themselves, but who would not see their fair daughters

follow their example, are careful to place them under the charge of the

daughters of the church, well knowing that, while their minds will be

amply stored with useful and elegant knowledge, their impressionable

hearts will be guarded against the follies and sins of the world. If all

the communities in the country—in number about forty‐five—were to devote

their entire labor alone to this great work of education, what a

benediction would they deserve from untold millions!

But they do not stop here. They go much further, and, with some few

exceptions, their charity takes a far wider range. There are the poor

waifs, left deserted on the highways, to be rescued from impending death

and nursed into consciousness; the orphan, who has been deprived of its

natural guardians, to be cared for; the unfortunate pariah of her sex, to

be consoled and encouraged to resume the path of virtue; the jails, where

lie the agents of passion and crime, to be visited; the aged and infirm to

be taken by the hand, and led down the slope of life with tender

solicitude. Again, the deaf, the blind, the insane, the wounded, the sick,

and even the incurable, are, according to their several needs, objects of

unremitting attention. No evil is so deep‐seated, no affliction so bitter,

no disease, whether of the mind or of the body, so loathsome, that the

holy women of the church, with God’s assistance, cannot assuage or cure.

To teach children is doubtless a responsible and laborious occupation, but

nevertheless not without attractions; but to walk day and night the wards

of a hospital, and breathe the dire contagion of disease, or, in the

reformatory, to have the ear filled with the blasphemies and ribaldries

learned in the lowest dens of vice, are surely trials to appall the

stoutest heart, and to test to the very utmost the constancy and zeal of

delicately‐nurtured women. Yet the capacious bosom of the church has room

enough, has rest and shelter, for all classes of unfortunates. In the

sixty‐two dioceses and vicariates into which the United States is divided,

there are nearly three hundred foundling, orphan, deaf, blind, and insane

asylums, reformatories, protectories, industrial institutions, homes for

the aged, houses of the Sisters of the Poor, as well as infirmaries and

hospitals; the former numbering over two hundred, and the latter about

ninety, or, collectively, an average of five charitable institutions for

each ecclesiastical division.

What a load of human misery is thus presented to the eye and committed to

the relief of the indefatigable followers of Christ! Who can imagine that

has not experienced it the daily round of toil, of watching, and

solicitude which constantly awaits the footsteps of the gentle Sister, as

she goes among her helpless clients in the foundling asylum, listens to

the tale of woe and crime from the still youthful lips of the repentant

Magdalene, or comforts the outcast of his kind at the very foot of the

scaffold. Watch how lovingly she hushes the deserted babe or the scarcely

less pitiable orphan to sleep; how kindly she takes the hand so long

stained by contact with the vicious and the guilty into her own soft palm,

and breathes words of comfort and encouragement into ears long used only

to curses and vile speech; how deftly she smoothes the pillow of the sick,

and smiles on the second childishness of her _protégés_, the aged and

infirm poor. At her approach, the suffering child forgets its pains and

stretches forth its little arms for her aid; the hospital loses half its

_ennui_ and gloom, and even the condemned cell is illumined by a ray of

sunlight when she enters it. In fact, wherever there is poverty, sickness,

or suffering of any kind, there is the place for the devoted Sister, and

there, in truth, she becomes “a ministering angel.”

The distribution of these asylums and hospitals is another interesting

feature in their capacity for general usefulness. In dioceses having an

estimated Catholic population of over one hundred thousand, they may be

thus classified: In Buffalo there is one to every 8,000 Catholics; in

Cleveland, St. Louis, and Louisville, one to 13,000; in San Francisco, one

to 15,000; Albany, one to 18,000; in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, New York,

Brooklyn, and Philadelphia, one to 23,000; Newark, Alton, and St. Paul,

one to 25,000; Boston, one to 30,000; Milwaukee, one to 40,000; Chicago,

one to 45,000; Galveston and Providence, one to 60,000; Hartford, one to

80,000; and in Springfield, one to every 150,000. Of the less populous

dioceses, Oregon has 1, Burlington 1, Columbus 2, Covington 3, Erie 1,

Fort Wayne 3, Grass Valley 3, Mobile 3, Monterey and Los Angeles 5,

Nashville 2, Natchez 2, Natchitoches 3, Nesqually 4, Portland 2, Richmond

3, Rochester 5, Santa Fé 2, Savannah 3, Vincennes 4, Wheeling 2,

Wilmington 1, Kansas 2, Nebraska 1, Charleston 2. Green Bay, Harrisburg,

La Crosse, Little Rock, Ogdensburg, Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, and North

Carolina, all small dioceses or sparsely‐settled vicariates, have none.

It is impossible to give anything like an approximate report of the vast

number of persons of all ages and sexes who find relief, advice, and

protection in these asylums and hospitals; for we are not aware that there

is in existence any general or full returns from one‐half of the

charitable institutions scattered so broadcast over the country. We can

therefore only attempt to form an estimate of the whole by taking the

statistics nearest us. For example, in this diocese there are 572 girls

and very young boys in the female protectory, 1,297 in seven orphan

asylums, 546 penitents in the House of the Good Shepherd; while in one of

the four city hospitals, S. Vincent’s, 950 patients were received during

last year. In Brooklyn there are 1,041 orphans, 208 penitents, 420

patients in two hospitals, in addition to nearly 3,000 externs who

received medical and surgical attendance, and 229 old men and women under

the charge of the Little Sisters of the Poor.

The care of these charitable institutions is not confined to any

particular community, but, according to locality or peculiar

circumstances, falls to the lot of different congregations. Thus of the

asylums, 5 per cent. are under the charge of the Sisters of Notre Dame; 14

per cent. under the Sisters of Mercy; 34 per cent. under the Sisters of

Charity; 8‐½ per cent. under the Sisters of the Good Shepherd; 6 per cent.

under the Little Sisters of the Poor; 2‐½ per cent. each under the Sisters

of Providence, Holy Cross, Sacred Heart, S. Teresa, and S. Dominic; 5‐½

per cent. under the Sisters of S. Francis; 10 per cent. under the Sisters

of S. Joseph; 1‐½ per cent. under the Sisters of the Holy Name, S.

Benedict, and the School Sisters of Notre Dame, besides a few others

belonging to different communities. Of hospitals, the Sisters of Mercy

have 18 per cent., the Sisters of Charity 37, Providence 2, Holy Cross 1,

S. Francis 7, Little Sisters of the Poor 2, S. Dominic 5, S. Joseph 11,

Sœur Hospitalières 2, Nazareth 5, and of all others 20 per cent.

Of the teaching orders and communities in the United States who devote

themselves solely to the higher branches of education and, when possible,

to the gratuitous instruction of poor children, we have the Ladies of the

Sacred Heart, the Ursulines, the Visitation, the Immaculate Conception,

Presentation, and the Sisters of the Precious Blood, Loretto, S. Clare,

Our Lady of Angels, S. Ann, S. Mary, Sacred Heart of Mary, Poor Handmaids

of Jesus Christ, Humility of Mary, S. Agnes, Incarnate Word, Holy Child,

and Daughters of the Cross. The Carmelites, Servite Nuns, and Sisters of

S. Anthony are contemplative communities, though, in some special

instances, the poor are taught and assisted in their convents.

A short account of the origin and growth in this country of some of the

most prominent orders and communities may be found acceptable to those who

take an interest in the successive developments in the church of works of

education and charity.

The first convent established within the present limits of the United

States—if we except some, perhaps, that might have existed long years

since in New Mexico and California—was that of the Ursulines, opened at

New Orleans in 1727, when that city was a portion of French territory. For

about sixty years, the nuns were either natives of France or of French

descent, till 1791, when, on the occasion of the revolt of the French

colonists in the West Indies, the convent, with its academy, hospital, and

asylum, received large accessions from San Domingo. This house still

exists, with an affiliation at Opelousas, and has branches in Pittsburg,

Cincinnati, St. Louis, Alton, Cleveland, Galveston, Green Bay, Mobile, and

several other dioceses; that of New York, situated in what was formerly a

portion of Westchester County, being the principal, containing forty‐seven

members. The Ursuline Order was founded in 1532, at Brescia, Italy, by S.

Angela of Merici, and was approved by Pope Paul III., in 1544, as a

religious congregation under the name of S. Ursula. Eighteen years after,

at the request of S. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, it was obliged

to enclosure, created an order, and placed under the rule of S. Augustine

by Pope Gregory XIII. Its special duty is the education of young ladies;

but a poor school is, when necessary, attached to each house.

Next in point of time was the Carmelite Nunnery, erected in 1790, near

Port Tobacco, Maryland, through the exertions of the Rev. Charles Neale.

That zealous clergyman, having visited Europe in that year, returned with

four nuns, of whom three are said to have been Americans and one English.

On account of the difficulties surrounding their locality, the community

was afterwards transferred to Baltimore, in 1831, and permitted to open a

school, which, however, was soon after discontinued. There are now in all

eight houses of this order in America, of which two—the mother‐house and

one in St. Louis—are of the reform of S. Teresa; the others, following the

less strict rule, add the care of outside schools, asylums, and hospitals

to their other duties. The Carmelite order of monks was founded in the

early part of the XIIIth century under the rule of S. Basil, which was

exceedingly strict as regards mortification, prayer, and fasting. The

order of nuns was not created for two centuries after, when John Lorett,

twenty‐sixth general, founded a female institute under the rule of his

order, and established several convents in France. In 1452, Pope Nicholas

V. approved the foundation; and in 1457 Françoise d’Amboise, the widowed

Duchess of Brittany, built the house at Vannes, in her own possessions,

taking the veil and habit at the same time. A hundred years later, S.

Teresa of Castile, finding that many innovations and relaxations had crept

in, undertook the work of reform, and her efforts were eventually approved

by Pope Pius IV. in 1562. Thus there became two branches of the order—the

Mitigated Carmelites, whose rule is not so austere as those of the

Discalceated, who follow the reform of S. Teresa. The latter are obliged

to observe perpetual silence, abstain from the use of flesh‐meat, sleep on

straw, and wear habits of coarse serge and sandals instead of shoes. Their

habit is a brown gown, scapular, and hood, and in choir a white cloak and

black veil.

Soon after the arrival of the Carmelites in Maryland, an effort was made

by a few Catholic young ladies in Philadelphia to establish a religious

community. The principal movers were Miss Alice Lalor and a couple of

friends. Her companions, however, having died before anything tangible

could be effected, Miss Lalor left Philadelphia for Georgetown, D. C., in

1798, and established herself there as a teacher. Gradually she drew

around her young persons of similar views and tastes, and a community was

formed, at first simply for the purpose of prayer and education; but when,

in 1816, their rules had been approved by the Most Rev. Leonard Neale,

Archbishop of Baltimore, and recognized by the Holy Father, they became a

regular branch of the Visitation Order, and submitted to solemn vows and

enclosure. Their houses now number about twenty, and are to be found in

Baltimore, Brooklyn, St. Louis, Mobile, Covington, Dubuque, and several

dioceses in the South and Southwest. The order dates back to 1610, when it

was founded by S. Francis de Sales and S. Jane Frances, Baronne de

Chantal. It was at first merely a congregation, but by permission of Pope

Paul V. it was changed into a regular order, the essential principles of

its rule being the education of the children of the rich, though many free

schools for the poor are found attached to its convents.

While Miss Lalor was working silently in the District of Columbia, there

was another pious woman—one whose name is destined to be for ever

illustrious in the annals of the church in America—nobly struggling

against innumerable difficulties in the same holy cause. This was Mrs.

Eliza A. Seton, the foundress, in the United States, of the glorious

Sisterhood of Charity. Like all men or women whom Providence selects for

great ends, Mrs. Seton passed through a long novitiate of sorrow and

trials before she was found qualified to lay the corner‐stone of an

institution which, above all others, has made Catholic charity and womanly

self‐sacrifice most useful, most respected and beloved amongst us. Born in

New York on the 28th of August, 1774, of wealthy Protestant parents, her

infancy and girlhood were passed amid all the scenes of pleasure and

luxury that family position and affluence could command; and it was not

till she had married and entered upon matronhood that she experienced her

first great grief. This arose out of the death of her father, Dr. Bayley,

who, in his devotion to the sick immigrants, at that time very numerous,

fell a victim to ship‐fever. His daughter, it would appear, felt for him

even more than filial affection and respect, and his sudden death made

such an impression on her spirits and such inroads on her health that she

was obliged to make a tour in Europe in company with her husband, also an

invalid. Her mind had early been imbued with strong religious impressions,

as well as cultivated by careful study and extensive reading; and during

her stay in Southern Europe, where she had ample opportunities of visiting

the churches and convents, and of seeing for herself the beauties and

glories of Catholicity, she first began to long for that rest for the

weary and doubt‐distracted soul which is only found in the bosom of the

church. Her husband, dying in December, 1802, was buried in Italy; and

she, now left the sole guardian of her children, returned to America. But

the thoughts that had come to her in the solemn basilicas of the Old World

followed her to the New, and would not be dismissed. She struggled much

with them, prayed fervently, sought the spiritual advice of many pious

friends, and finally, in 1805, entered the church. We of this generation

can hardly conceive the sacrifices Mrs. Seton made in thus becoming a

Catholic. So rife and uncompromising was the spirit of Protestant bigotry

in those days that the moment it was known that she had become a convert,

every friend and relative, the companions of her youth and the sharers of

her blood, shrank from her with positive loathing, as if her touch was

infectious. All forsook her except her children. But she was a woman of

undaunted courage as well as of implicit faith. She resolved to leave New

York, and take up her residence in Baltimore, then the only city in the

country where Catholics had either influence or social standing. Here, by

the advice of the archbishop, she determined to devote herself to

teaching, and, to carry out her idea more fully, to establish a community.

Accordingly, in May, 1809, we find her, with four companions, setting out

for Emmittsburg to take possession of a log house and commence her grand

enterprise. On the first of June, these pioneers of the Sisters of Charity

in the United States arrived at their destination, and on the day

following, the Feast of Corpus Christi, they appeared in the little church

of the college in their habits—“white muslin caps with crimpt borders,

black crape bands round the head and fastened under the chin, black

dresses, and short capes similar to those of the religious of Italy.”

At first the community was called the Sisters of S. Joseph; but in 1810,

it was agreed to assimilate it to the Congregation of Charity in Europe,

and, through the influence of the Rev. F. Flaget, it was hoped that some

Sisters might be induced to come from France to take charge of the little

community. Owing to the disturbed state of the times, F. Flaget failed to

procure the desired aid; but he brought with him the rule of the Sisters,

which, having been adopted by the community, was approved by Archbishop

Neale, January 17, 1812.

The growth of the new congregation was slow, for many unforeseen

difficulties had to be encountered; but having been planted deep in the

soil, it gradually grew strong and vigorous, and, when it once commenced

to throw out offshoots in every direction, they took root and flourished

with wonderful vitality. In 1814, some Sisters were sent to Philadelphia

to take charge of the new Catholic orphan asylum; and in 1817, Mother

Seton, with Sisters Cecilia O’Conway and Felicité Brady, came to New York,

at the request of Bishop Connolly, to superintend a similar institution

established by the New York Catholic Benevolent Society. They selected a

small frame house on Prince Street, where now stands their noble asylum.

How the houses of this illustrious community have multiplied during the

last half‐century is truly astonishing, and can only be attributed to the

help of a Power more than human. Nearly one hundred asylums and hospitals

are now under their charge; about the same number of academies and select

schools claim their care; free schools and scholars beyond computation

enjoy the blessings of their pious instruction; and their convents and

establishments dot the country in every direction. In New York alone,

where the mother‐house of the province is situated at Font Hill, Yonkers,

there are attached to it 409 professed Sisters, 92 novices, and 13

postulants, who conduct 72 different establishments in New York, Jersey

City, Brooklyn, New Haven, Providence, and Columbia. In Newark, in the

mother‐house of the diocese, at Madison, N. J., there are 190 members; and

in almost every section of the country where Catholicity is at all known,

the simple black dress and cape, and the small white collar, of the

daughters of S. Vincent de Paul are familiar objects. This congregation,

though dating only from March 25, 1634, when Louise de Marillac, widow of

Antoine Le Gras, secretary to Marie de Medicis, the first mother of the

Daughters of Charity, consecrated her life to God, has now, it is said,

more than twenty thousand members throughout the world, all, like their

sainted founder, Vincent, unremittingly employed in works of divine

charity.

Next in order of usefulness, though not in age, come the Sisters of Mercy.

This congregation is of Irish origin, having been founded in Dublin, as

late as 1827, by Catharine McAuley, a native of that county. Miss McAuley

was born September 17, 1787, of Catholic parents; but they dying when she

was quite young, her guardianship was assumed by a Protestant family, who

brought her up in their own faith—if faith it may be called; but the girl

early developed a remarkable inclination towards Catholicity, and, when of

proper age, reunited herself to the church of her fathers. At thirty‐four

she found herself the possessor of a large fortune bequeathed to her by

her adopted father, who had become a Catholic on his death‐bed; and this,

with all her subsequent life, she resolved to dedicate to the service of

the Almighty. She therefore built at her own expense, in the most

fashionable part of the city, a magnificent convent, and, associating with

herself several other ladies, commenced the work of instruction and the

visitation of the sick poor in their homes and in the public hospitals.

The Most Rev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of Dublin, gave her all the

assistance in his power, and, after consulting with the Holy See, approved

the new foundation. In 1841, Pope Gregory XVI. confirmed the congregation,

which is now so strong in the United Kingdom that it numbers 133 convents,

besides numerous charitable institutions. Unlike the Sisters of Charity,

this congregation has no superior‐general, each convent being independent

and self‐governing.

Though introduced into this country by the late Bishop O’Connor, of

Pittsburg, about thirty years ago, the Sisters of Mercy have spread

rapidly over the United States. They have already nearly 50 asylums and

hospitals, 80 academies and select schools, an immense number of free

schools, convents almost as numerous as those of the Sisters of Charity,

and considerably over 1,300 members. They are to be found in New York, the

New England dioceses, Albany, Philadelphia, Louisville, Pittsburg, most of

the old dioceses, and many of the newer ones.

There are other orders and congregations among us, if not so numerous,

equally meritorious; for instance, the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, who

conduct about 30 academies and select schools, in which the very highest

order of education is imparted; the Sisters of Notre Dame, also a teaching

order, having the care of 20 houses, in which there are 431 boarders and

over 1,200 day scholars, besides about 14,000 pupils attending the free

schools, half that number in the Sunday‐schools, in addition to those

taught in evening schools and instructed in various other ways. This

congregation, though founded in 1804, by Mother Julia Billiart, assisted

by Marie‐Louise‐Françoise, Vicomtesse Blin de Bourbon, and Catharine

Duchâtel, at Amiens, has so extended its labors that it now counts in

Belgium, England, and Central America 68 establishments, 12,000 scholars

in its boarding and day schools, and over 32,000 children gratuitously

taught in its free schools. It was introduced into the United States, in

1840, by the Most Rev. Dr. Purcell, Archbishop of Cincinnati, and, in

connection with its convents and academies, has charge of 70 asylums. The

Sisters of S. Joseph, numbering about sixty communities, have, by the

latest returns, 42 academies, 20 select schools, 20 asylums, and 9

hospitals. These latter are specially charged with the instruction of the

colored children of the South. Then there are the congregations of the

Third Order of S. Francis and of S. Dominic, whose duties are equally

multifarious; the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, whose mission it is to

receive and reform the very outcasts of female society, and to save young

women from lives of vice and crime; and the meek Little Sisters of the

Poor, who actually go about from door to door, from store to market‐place,

begging, in the name of holy charity, for the crumbs of our tables to feed

their aged and decrepit dependents who are tottering on the verge of the

grave. Besides these, there are many other communities of pious women in

our midst, quietly and unostentatiously pursuing their career of goodness,

the history of whose foundation the limits of an article will not allow us

to descant upon. Their actions are doubtless recorded in another world,

where lie their trust and promised reward.

Thus we have seen how our glorious land is twice blessed by the presence

of those pure‐minded, zealous, and meek followers of their Saviour. We are

blessed in their prayers and in their active charity. No one is so rich as

to be independent of their good offices; no one so poor, afflicted, or

degraded that they cannot succor and console. The vilest dens of infamy in

our crowded cities are made almost sacred by their tread; the far‐away

prairies and forests resound with their chants and songs of praise; while

the daintily‐nurtured daughter of the aristocracy is taught, in some

convent of the Sacred Heart, or of the Ursulines, to shine in and adorn

her social sphere without forgetting that she is a Christian; the poor

little negro children of the everglades of Florida, or the savage Indian

babes of the Pacific slope, are kneeling at the feet of some Sister of S.

Joseph or of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, lisping their first prayer.

Without exaggeration, it may be said that there is no ignorance so dense

that they will not succeed in expelling; none of the many ills to which

flesh is heir that they cannot assuage; and that they, and they alone, of

all their sex, “can minister to a mind diseased, and pluck from the heart

a deep‐rooted sorrow.”

And yet all this toil and pain and solicitude bring with them, even in

this world, abundant rewards. Who that has ever entered a convent or a

religious house has not been impressed by the gentle air of cheerfulness

and inward peace that sits on the faces of its inmates? We look in vain

for the anxious glance that betrays an unsatisfied mind, or the deep‐drawn

lines that tell a tale of worldly struggle and discontent. No; every

countenance is serene, placid, and healthful. This is the reward of noble

works well performed, the luxury of doing good, to which the women of the

outer world are for the most part strangers. But what shall be the eternal

recompense for those who thus abandon kindred and home, friends and

companions, the pleasures of the world and the passions of the heart, to

follow in the footsteps of the Saviour who was crucified for us, and to

carry out his precepts, regardless of all consequences, to the end? Such

is the holy nun who storms heaven with her prayers for the salvation of

mankind and the pardon of national crimes; such the humble Sister who

devotes the energies of her mind, the years of her life, nay, her very

life itself, to the service of God’s poor, helpless, and sinful creatures.

Can a nobler ambition than this find place in the human mind? Can the

glory, the charity, and the all‐absorbing beneficence of the Christian

faith find brighter examples and purer exponents than within the convents

which so numerously overspread and are continuing to increase on the soil

of our young republic?

Switzerland In 1873.

“Going to Lyons to‐morrow! Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. C——, whom my friend

and I accidentally met in the hall of the Berner Hof Hotel at Berne this

autumn. “You cannot surely go without seeing the Lake of Lucerne! I should

be quite ashamed to confess that I had been so long in Switzerland and was

leaving without having been up the Rigi. In fact, if you persist in this

resolution, you will have to come back again next summer expressly for

that, and for nothing else. Think what trouble that may be! And all from

want of a little energy now; for I feel quite certain you have no

appointment to take you to Lyons in such a hurry. I know you cannot have,”

she added smiling, and noticing some hesitation on our part, “so you must

just change your plans again and come off to Lucerne with our party this

afternoon! You may go to Lyons later, if you like, but there will be time

enough to think about that!”

It was quite true. There was no special reason for our starting for Lyons

that day, no pressing necessity for our leaving Switzerland just then. The

Lake of Lucerne, moreover, had originally a prominent place in our

itinerary, and the weather was so fine that there seemed fair hope of the

prescribed sunrise from the Rigi. But, if the truth were told, we were

weary—weary not in body but in soul; and had taken such an aversion to the

country, from a spiritual point of view, that a strong antidote—such as

Lyons with its Notre Dame de Fourvières and general Catholic life would

afford—had become to us absolutely essential.

Six weeks previously we entered Switzerland—two ladies overflowing with

enthusiasm. The picturesque was certainly a main object in our journey;

for where else can it be equalled, or found in such variety? Still, we had

no intention whatever of leaving religion and devotion behind us, and

never doubted for a moment that we should succeed in finding means of

satisfying our desires.

It was our first visit to this region, and our knowledge of it, we are

bound to confess, was most superficial. But how little does one know of a

foreign country until either long residence or some special circumstance

excites the curiosity or rouses the attention! Catholics even, who as a

rule interest themselves more than all others about the religious state of

countries outside their own—instigated by that principle of universal

brotherhood, that bond of spiritual union, which the church so effectually

promotes—seldom know, notwithstanding, the details of current

ecclesiastical foreign events, unless accident brings them to the spot. A

great commotion like the warfare going on in Geneva, and the fact that the

attitude of the Catholic community in that town was most noble, and those

willing “to suffer persecution for justice’ sake” neither few nor faint‐

hearted, had of course a large place in our view of the case. But except

this, and the broad facts that Geneva, Berne, and Zurich were Protestant,

Lucerne and its neighborhood Catholic, we are constrained to admit that

our acquaintance with Swiss matters, geographical, historical, or

ecclesiastical, was very limited. It is little wonder, therefore, that we

lent a willing ear to the thoughtless assertions of fellow‐travellers, who

told us we should find Catholic churches scattered all over these

districts. Without further questioning, then, we proceeded, commencing by

a few days at Lausanne and along the shores of the lovely Lake of Geneva.

Thence we made our way to Bellalp, Zermatt, the Eichhorn, and, finally,

passing round to the northern side of the great mountains, wandered on

from the Faulhorn, Scheideck, and Wengern Alps to Mürren, where we rested

for several days, having “done” sunsets and sunrises, peaks and glaciers,

until our minds were filled with the most magnificent images. Still,

despite all these wonderful beauties of nature, which seemed every day to

draw us more closely and more humbly towards the Creator, an irrepressible

dreariness had crept over us, from the absence of all visible signs of

union with him or of grateful worship on the part of man. Certain it is

that the result our present wanderings had produced by the time we reached

Berne was a longing for a Catholic land and Catholic churches, where we

might pour forth our praises, and give utterance to our thanksgivings for

the glorious sights we had seen; a longing that had grown stronger than

the mere love of the sublime and beautiful, for its own sake, of which we

were, nevertheless, most ardent votaries.

It may be said that, coming to Protestant cantons as we did, we ought not

to have expected a profusion of Catholic churches; the Catholic population

is small, especially in the highland districts, and labors under many

disadvantages. True, and after the first disappointment was over, we were

ready to study our excursions, and often to shorten them, in order to hear

Mass on Sundays. Yet even so, more than once we could not even accomplish

this; and the difficulty of approaching the sacraments under these

circumstances is most distressing to travellers. Besides, to an outside

observer, piety does not seem to flourish; or, where it does, the Catholic

congregations have that subdued look peculiar to all persecuted

communities, so extremely depressing to witness. Many believe that, for

this and other reasons, the battle now raging in Geneva and elsewhere will

be productive of great gain, and that Switzerland and Germany will emerge

from a life resembling that of the early Christians in the Catacombs, only

with tenfold power and vigor. At the present moment, one is chiefly led to

reflect on the false interpretation of that freedom so much boasted of by

the Swiss Protestants—if one may so style the advanced liberals and free‐

thinkers who come to the surface nowadays—and remember how easily an

American Catholic could make them blush by his report of how differently

these matters are treated across the Atlantic.

Our path had nowhere, as yet, it is true, touched on a Catholic canton;

and there all _might_ be different, though everything we could glean led

us to a contrary expectation. An old German who had been coming to

Switzerland for the last thirty years, and whom we met _en route_, told us

it was all the same. “No religion anywhere. Nothing can be more

uninteresting than the people,” he asserted. “Bent only on money‐making

and fighting about religion—religion, that is to say, in name, but not in

deed; the disputes are purely party questions, and have no real,

substantial foundation. Peaks and passes are alone worth a thought,” he

added. On these he was inexhaustible, but always dismissed the other

subject with contempt. Later, when our own observations in the Catholic

cantons completely altered our opinions, we also ascertained that he, like

so many of the summer tourists one encounters nowadays, was perfectly

indifferent to all forms of worship, and blind to those signs and

manifestations of the inner being which still abound in all that region.

Meanwhile, however, his report, coming from one familiar with every part

of Switzerland, carried conviction to our untutored minds, as, no doubt,

happens in similar cases every day.

But it was not, perhaps, the difficulty about, and paucity of, Catholic

service which so much roused our indignation, once we saw the small number

of our co‐religionists, as the universal aridity, tepidity, nay, coldness,

of all the inhabitants of these favored regions. Nor could we gain much

knowledge about them. The ordinary tourist never meets a Swiss above the

class of guides and hotel‐keepers; the former, in the Protestant cantons,

are a stolid, uncommunicative race of men, with all their intellects

apparently given to their horses and _Trinkgeld_; the latter too much

engrossed in the feverish anxiety of drawing up large bills and providing

for the passing crowd to give attention to any other matter during the

summer season. Besides, the line of interest does not run in the direction

of the “people”; if it did, these men would no doubt also labor to supply

the demand; as it is, few have time, or, having time, inclination, for

anything but scenery, and next to scenery—sometimes first—come food and

lodging.

It was unreasonable, many observed, to aspire to more. “A thorough

knowledge of a nation is not to be picked up in passing”; “One comes to

Switzerland for the scenery only”; “The people cannot be judged by outward

appearances,” were phrases which met us at every turn whenever we ventured

to make a remark. “Doubtless the people _may_ be excellent,” was our

reply; “but outward appearances _are_ an index to their minds. In the

Tyrol, Bohemia, Brittany, and other Catholic lands, all who ‘run may

read.’ ” Mountain chapels, wayside crosses, holy pictures inside and

outside their dwellings, speak a language common to all Christian hearts;

and the indifferentism and dryness of soul which their absence betokens in

the Bernese Oberland, especially amidst its grandest scenes and greatest

dangers, cannot fail to leave a most painful impression on every

thoughtful traveller.