A year elapsed betwixt the period of the so brief, but to me so
memorable, visit of the welcomest guests our house ever received--to
wit, my Lady Mounteagle and her grand-daughters--and that in which I
met with an accident, which compelled my parents to carry me to
Lichfield for chirurgical advice. Four times in the course of that
year I was honored with letters writ by the hand of Mistress Ann
Dacre; partly, as the gracious young lady said, by reason of her
grandmother's desire that the bud acquaintanceship which had sprouted
in the short-lived season of the aforesaid visit should, by such
intercourse as may be carried on by means of letters, blossom into a
flower of true friendship; and also that that worthy lady and my good
mother willed such a correspondence betwixt us as would serve to the
sharpening of our wits, and the using our pens to be good servants to
our thoughts. In the course of this history I will set down at
intervals some of the letters I received at divers times from this
noble lady; so that those who read these innocent pictures of herself,
portrayed by her own hand, may trace the beginnings of those virtuous
inclinations which at an early age were already working in her soul,
and ever after appeared in her.
On the 15th day of January of the next year to that in which my eyes
had feasted on this creature so embellished with rare endowments and
{85} accomplished gracefulness, the first letter I had from her came
to my hand; the first link of a chain which knit together her heart
and mine through long seasons of absence and sore troubles, to the
great comforting, as she was often pleased to say, of herself, who was
so far above me in rank, whom she chose to call her friend, and of the
poor friend and servant whom she thus honored beyond her deserts. In
as pretty a handwriting as can well be thought of, she thus wrote:
"MY SWEET MISTRESS CONSTANCE,
--Though I enjoyed your company but for the too brief time during
which we rested under your honored parents' roof, I retain so great
a sense of the contentment I received therefrom, and so lively a
remembrance of the converse we held in the grounds adjacent to
Sherwood Hall, that I am better pleased than I can well express that
my grandmother bids me sit down and write to one whom to see and to
converse with once more would be to me one of the chiefest pleasures
in life. And the more welcome is this command by reason of the hope
it raises in me to receive in return a letter from my well-beloved
Mistress Constance, which will do my heart more good than anything
else that can happen to me. 'Tis said that marriages are made in
heaven. When I asked my grandam if it were so, she said, 'I am of
opinion, Nan, they are made in many more places than one; and I
would to God none were made but such as are agreed upon in so good a
place.' But methinks some friendships are likewise made in heaven;
and if it be so, I doubt not but that when we met, and out of that
brief meeting there arose so great and sudden a liking in my heart
for you, Mistress Constance,--which, I thank God, you were not slow
to reciprocate,--that our angels had met where we hope one day to be,
and agreed together touching that matter.
"It suits ill a bad pen like mine to describe the fair seat we
reside in at this present time--the house of Mr. James Labourn,
which he has lent unto my grandmother. 'Tis most commodious and
pleasant, and after long sojourn in London, even in winter, a
terrestrial paradise. But, like the garden of Eden, not without
dangers; for the too much delight I took in out-of-doors pastimes--
and most of all on the lake when it was frozen, and we had merry
sports upon it, to the neglect of my lessons, not heeding the lapse
of time in the pursuit of pleasure--brought me into trouble and sore
disgrace. My grandmother ordered me into confinement for three days
in my own chamber, and I saw her not nor received her blessing all
that time; at the end of which she sharply reproved me for my fault,
and bade me hold in mind that 'twas when loitering in a garden Eve
met the tempter, and threatened further and severe punishment if I
applied not diligently to my studies. When I had knelt down and
begged pardon, promising amendment, she drew me to her and kissed
me, which it was not her wont often to do. 'Nan,' she said, 'I would
have thee use thy natural parts, and improve thyself in virtue and
learning; for such is the extremity of the times, that ere long it
may be that many first shall be last and many last shall be first in
this realm of England. But virtue and learning are properties which
no man can steal from another; and I would fain see thee endowed
with a goodly store of both. That great man and true confessor, Sir
Thomas More, had nothing so much at heart as his daughter's
instruction; and Mistress Margaret Roper, once my sweet friend,
though some years older than my poor self, who still laments her
loss, had such fine things said of her by the greatest men of this
age, as would astonish thee to hear; but they were what she had a
right to and very well deserved. And the strengthening of her mind
through study and religious discipline served {86} her well at the
time of her great trouble; for where other women would have lacked
sense and courage how to act, she kept her wits about her, and
ministered such comfort to her father, remaining near him at the
last, and taking note of his wishes, and finding means to bury him
in a Christian manner, which none other durst attempt, that she had
occasion to thank God who gave her a head as well as a heart. And
who knows, Nan, what may befal thee, and what need thou mayst have
of the like advantages?'
"My grandmother looked so kindly on me then, that, albeit abashed at
the remembrance of my fault, I sought to move her to further
discourse; and knowing what great pleasure she had in speaking of
Sir Thomas More, at whose house in Chelsea she had oftentimes been a
visitor in her youth, I enticed her to it by cunning questions
touching the customs he observed in his family.
"'Ah, Nan!' she said, that house was a school and exercise of the
Christian religion. There was neither man nor woman in it who was
not employed in liberal discipline and fruitful reading, although
the principal study was religion. There was no quarrelling, not so
much as a peevish word to be heard; nor was any one seen idle; all
were in their several employs: nor was there wanting sober mirth.
And so well-managed a government Sir Thomas did not maintain by
severity and chiding, but by gentleness and kindness.'
"Methought as she said this, that my dear grandam in that matter of
chiding had not taken a leaf out of Sir Thomas's book; and there was
no doubt a transparency in my face which revealed to her this
thought of mine; for she straightly looked at me and said, 'Nan, a
penny for thy thoughts!' at the which I felt myself blushing, but
knew nothing would serve her but the truth; so I said, in as humble
a manner as I could think of, 'An if you will excuse me, grandam, I
thought if Sir Thomas managed so well without chiding, that you
manage well with it.' At the which she gave me a light nip on the
forehead, and said, 'Go to, child; dost think that any but saints
can rule a household without chiding, or train children without
whipping? Go thy ways, and mend them too, if thou wouldst escape
chastisement; and take with thee, Nan, the words of one whom we
shall never again see the like of in this poor country, which he
used to his wife or any of his children if they were diseased or
troubled, "We must not look at our pleasures to go to heaven in
feather-beds, or to be carried up thither even by the chins."' And
so she dismissed me; and I have here set down my fault, and the
singular goodness showed me by my grandmother when it was pardoned,
not thinking I can write anything better worth notice than the
virtuous talk with which she then favored me.
"There is in this house a chapel very neat and rich, and an ancient
Catholic priest is here, who says mass most days; at the which we,
with my grandmother, assist, and such of her servants as have not
conformed to the times; and this good father instructs us in the
principles of Catholic religion. On the eve of the feast of the
Nativity of Christ, my lady stayed in the chapel from eight at night
till two in the morning; but sent us to bed at nine, after the
litanies were said, until eleven, when there was a sermon, and at
twelve o'clock three masses said, which being ended we broke our
fast with a mince-pie, and went again to bed. And all the
Christmas-time we were allowed two hours after each meal for
recreation, instead of one. At other times, we play not at any game
for money; but then we had a shilling a-piece to make us merry;
which my grandmother says is fitting in this time of mirth and joy
for his birth who is the sole origin and spring of true comfort. And
now, sweet Mistress Constance, I must bid you farewell; for the
greatest of {87} joys has befallen me, and a whole holiday to enjoy
it. My sweet Lord Dacre is come to pay his duty to my lady and tarry
some days here, on his way to Thetford, the Duke of Norfolk's seat,
where his grace and the duchess my good mother have removed. He is a
beauty, Mistress Constance; and nature has so profusely conferred on
him privileges, that when her majesty the queen saw him a short time
back on horseback, in the park at Richmond, she called him to her
carriage-door and honored him with a kiss, and the motto of the
finest boy she ever beheld. But I may not run on in this fashion,
letting my pen outstrip modesty, like a foolish creature, making my
brother a looking-glass and continual object for my eyes; but learn
to love him, as my grandam says, in God, of whom he is only
borrowed, and not so as to set my heart wholly on him. So beseeching
God bless you and yours, good Mistress Constance, I ever remain,
your loving friend and humble servant,
"ANN DACRE."
Oh, how soon were my Lady Mounteagle's words exalted in the event! and
what a sad brief note was penned by that affectionate sister not one
month after she writ those lines, so full of hope and pleasure in the
prospect of her brother's sweet company! For the fair boy that was the
continual object of her eyes and the dear comfort of her heart was
accidentally slain by the fall of a vaulting horse upon him at the
duke's house at Thetford.
"MY GOOD MISTRESS CONSTANCE"
(she wrote, a few days after his lamentable death),--"The lovingest
brother a sister ever had, and the most gracious creature ever born,
is dead; and if it pleased God I wish I were dead too, for my heart
is well-nigh broken. But I hope in God his soul is now in heaven,
for that he was so young and innocent; and when here, a short time
ago, my grandmother procured that he should for the first, and as it
has pleased God also for the only and the last, time, confess and be
absolved by a Catholic priest, in the which the hand of Providence
is visible to our great comfort, and reasonable hope of his
salvation. Commending him and your poor friend, who has great need
of them, to your good prayers, I remain your affectionate and humble
servant,
"ANN DACRE."
In that year died also, in childbirth, her grace the Duchess of
Norfolk, Mistress Ann's mother; and she then wrote in a less
passionate, but withal less comfortable, grief than at her brother's
loss, and, as I have heard since, my Lady Mounteagle had her
death-blow at that time, and never lifted up her head again as
heretofore. It was noticed that ever after she spent more time in
prayer and gave greater alms. Her daughter, the duchess, who at the
instance of her husband had conformed to the times, desired to have
been reconciled on her deathbed by a priest, who for that end was
conducted into the garden, yet could not have access unto her by
reason of the duke's vigilance to hinder it, or at least of his
continual presence in her chamber at the time. And soon after, his
grace, whose wards they were, sent for his three step-daughters to the
Charterhouse; the parting with which, and the fears she entertained
that he would have them carried to services and sermons in the public
churches, and hinder them in the exercise of Catholic faith and
worship, drove the sword yet deeper through my Lady Mounteagle's
heart, and brought down her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave,
notwithstanding that the duke greatly esteemed and respected her, and
was a very moral nobleman, of exceeding good temper and moderate
disposition. But of this more anon, as 'tis my own history I am
writing, and it is meet I should relate in the order of time what
events came under my notice whilst in {88} Lichfield, whither my
mother carried me, as has been aforesaid, to be treated by a famous
physician for a severe hurt I had received. It was deemed convenient
that I should tarry some time under his care; and Mr. Genings, a
kinsman of her own, who with his wife and children resided in that
town, one of the chiefest in the county, offered to keep me in their
house as long as was convenient thereunto a kindness which my parents
the more readily accepted at his hands from their having often shown
the like unto his children when the air of the country was desired for
them.
Mr. and Mrs. Genings were of the religion by law established. He was
thought to be Catholic at heart; albeit he was often heard to speak
very bitterly against all who obeyed not the queen in conforming to
the new mode of worship, with the exception, indeed, of my mother, for
whom he had always a truly great affection. This gentleman's house was
in the close of the cathedral, and had a garden to it well stored with
fair shrubs and flowers of various sorts. As I lay on a low settle
near the window, being forbid to walk for the space of three weeks, my
eyes were ever straying from my sampler to the shade and sunshine out
of doors. Instead of plying at my needle, I watched the bees at their
sweet labor midst the honeysuckles of the porch, or the swallows
darting in and out of the eaves of the cathedral, or the butterflies
at their idle sports over the beds of mignonette and heliotrope under
the low wall, covered with ivy, betwixt the garden and the close. Mr.
Genings had two sons, the eldest of which was some years older and the
other younger than myself. The first, whose name was Edmund, had been
weakly when a child, and by reason of this a frequent sojourner at
Sherwood Hall, where he was carried for change of air after the many
illnesses incident to early age. My mother, who was some years married
before she had a child of her own, conceived a truly maternal
affection for this young kinsman, and took much pains with him both as
to the care of his body and the training of his mind. He was an apt
pupil, and she had so happy a manner of imparting knowledge, that he
learnt more, as he has since said, in those brief sojourns in her
house than at school from more austere masters. After I came into the
world, he took delight to rock me in my cradle, or play with me as I
sat on my mother's knee; and when I first began to walk, he would lead
me by the hand into the garden, and laugh to see me clutch marigolds
or cry for a sunflower.
"I warrant thou hast an eye to gold, Con," he would say; "for 'tis the
yellow flowers that please thee best."
There is an old hollow tree on the lawn at Sherwood Hall where I often
hid from him in sport, and he would make pretence to seek me
elsewhere, till a laugh revealed me to him, and a chase ensued down
the approach or round the maze. He never tired of my petulance, or
spoke rude words, as boys are wont to do; and had a more serious and
contemplative spirit than is often seen in young people, and likewise
a singular fancy for gazing at the sky when glowing with sunset hues
or darkened by storms, and most of all when studded at night with
stars. On a calm clear night I have noticed him for a length of time,
forgetting all things else, fix his eyes on the heavens, as if reading
the glory of the Lord therein revealed.
My parents did not speak to him of Catholic faith and worship, because
Mr. Genings, before he suffered his sons to stay in their house, had
made them promise that no talk of religion should be ministered to
them in their childhood. It was a sore trial to my mother to refrain,
as the Psalmist saith, from good words, which were ever rising from
her heart to her lips, as pure water from a deep spring. But she
instructed him in many things which belong to gentle learning, and in
French, which she knew well; and {89} taught him music, in which he
made great progress. And this wrought with his father to the
furtherance of these his visits to us. I doubt not but that, when she
told him the names of the heavenly luminaries, she inwardly prayed he
might one day shine as a star in the kingdom of God; or when she
discoursed of flowers and their properties, that he should blossom as
a rose in the wilderness of this faithless world; or whilst guiding
his hands to play on the clavichord, that he might one day join in the
glorious harmony of the celestial choirs. Her face itself was a
preachment, and the tones of her voice, and the tremulous sighs she
breathed when she kissed him or gave him her blessing, had, I ween, a
privilege to reach his heart, the goodness of which was readable in
his countenance. Dear Edmund Genings, thou wert indeed a brother to me
in kind care and companionship whilst I stayed in Lichfield that
never-to-be-forgotten year! How gently didst thou minister to the sick
child, for the first time tasting the cup of suffering; now easing her
head with a soft pillow, now strewing her couch with fresh-gathered
flowers, or feeding her with fruit which had the bloom on it, or
taking her hand and holding it in thine own to cheer her to endurance!
Thou wert so patient and so loving, both with her who was a great
trouble to thee and oftentimes fretful with pain, and likewise with
thine own little brother, an angel in beauty and wit, but withal of so
petulant and froward a disposition that none in the house durst
contradict him, child as he was; for his parents were indeed weak in
their fondness for him. In no place and at no time have I seen a boy
so indulged and so caressed as this John Genings. He had a pretty
wilfulness and such playful ways that his very faults found favor with
those who should have corrected them, and he got praise where others
would have met with chastisement. Edmund's love for this fair urchin
was such as is seldom seen in any save in a parent for a child. It was
laughable to see the lovely imp governing one who should have been his
master, but through much love was his slave, and in a thousand cunning
ways, and by fanciful tricks, constraining him to do his bidding.
Never was a more wayward spirit enclosed in a more winsome form than
in John Genings. Never did childish gracefulness rule more absolutely
over superior age, or love reverse the conditions of ordinary
supremacy, than in the persons of these two brothers.
A strange thing occurred at that time, which I witnessed not myself,
and on which I can give no opinion, but as a fact will here set it
down, and let such as read this story deem of it as they please. One
night that, by reason of the unwonted chilliness of the evening, such
as sometimes occurs in our climate even in summer, a fire had been lit
in the parlor, and the family were gathered round it, Edmund came of a
sudden into the room, and every one took notice that his face was very
pale. He seemed in a great fear, and whispered to his mother, who said
--"Thou must have been asleep, and art still dreaming, child."
Upon which he was very urgent for her to go into the garden, and used
many entreaties thereunto. Upon which, at last, she rose and followed
him. In another moment she called for her husband, who went out, and
with him three or four other persons that were in the room, and I
remained alone for the space of ten or fifteen minutes. When they
returned, I heard them speaking with great fear and amazement of what
they had seen; and Edmund Genings has often since described to me what
he first, and afterward all the others, had beheld in the sky. He was
gazing at the heavens, as was his wont, when a strange spectacle
appeared to him in the air. As it were, a number of armed men with
weapons, killing and murdering others that were disarmed, and great
store of blood running everywhere about them. His parents and those
with them witnessed the same thing, and a great {90} fear fell upon
them all. I noticed that all that evening they seemed scared, and
could not speak of this appearance in the sky without shuddering. But
one that was more bold than the rest took heart, and cried, "God send
it does not forbode that the Papists will murder us all in our beds!"
And Mistress Genings, whose mother was a French Huguenot, said,
"Amen!" I marked that her husband and one or two more of the company
groaned, and one made, as if unwittingly, the sign of the cross. There
were some I know in that town, nay and in that house, that were at
heart of the old religion, albeit, by reason of the times, they did
not give over attending Protestants' worship.
A few days later I was sitting alone, and had a long fit of musing
over the many new thoughts that were crowding into my mind, as yet too
childish to master them, when Edmund came in, and I saw he had been
weeping. He said nothing at first, and made believe he was reading;
but I could see tears trickling down through his fingers as he covered
his face with his hands. Presently he looked up and cried out,
"Cousin Constance, Jack is going away from us."
"And if it please God, not for a long time," I answered; for it
grieved me to see him sad.
"Nay, but he is going for many years, I fear," Edmund said. "My uncle,
Jean de Luc, has asked for him to be brought up in his house at La
Rochelle. He is his godfather, and has a great store of money, which
he says he will leave to Jack. Alack! cousin Constance, I would that
there was no such thing in the world as money, and no such country as
France. I wish we were all dead." And then he fell to weeping again
very bitterly.
I told him in a childish manner what my mother was wont to say to me
when any little trouble fell to my lot--that we should be patient, and
offer up our sufferings to God.
"But I can do nothing now for Jack," he cried. "It was my first
thought at waking and my last at night, how to please the dear urchin;
but now 'tis all over."
"Oh, but Edmund," I cried, "an if you were to be as good as the
blessed saints in heaven, you could do a great deal for Jack."
"How so, cousin Constance?" he asked, not comprehending my meaning;
and thereupon I answered:
"When once I said to my sweet mother, 'It grieves me, dear heart, that
I can give thee nothing, who gives me so much,' she bade me take heed
that every prayer we say, every good work we do, howsoever imperfect,
and every pain we suffer, may be offered up for those we love; and so
out of poverty, and weakness, and sorrow, we have wherewith to make
precious and costly and cheerful gifts."
I spoke as a child, repeating what I had heard; but he listened not as
a child. A sudden light came into his eyes, and methinks his good
angel showed him in that hour more than my poor lips could utter.
"If it be as your sweet mother says," he joyfully cried, "we are rich
indeed; and, even though we be sinners and not saints, we have
somewhat to give, I ween, if it be only our heartaches, cousin
Constance, so they be seasoned with prayers."
The thought which in my simplicity I had set before him took root, as
it were, in his mind. His love for a little child had prepared the way
for it; and the great brotherly affection which had so long dwelt in
his heart proved a harbinger of the more perfect gift of charity; so
that a heavenly message was perchance conveyed to him that day by one
who likewise was a child, even as the word of the Lord came to the
prophet through the lips of the infant Samuel. From that time forward
he bore up bravely against his grief; which was the sharper inasmuch
that he who was the cause of it showed none in return, but rather joy
in the expectancy of the change which was to part them. He {91} would
still be a-prattling on it, and telling all who came in his way that
he was going to France to a good uncle; nor ever intended to return,
for his mother was to carry him to La Rochelle, and she should stay
there with him, he said, and not come back to ugly Lichfield.
"And art thou not sorry, Jack," I asked him one day, "to leave poor
Edmund, who loves thee so well?"
The little madcap was coursing round the room, and cried, as he ran
past me, for he had more wit and spirit than sense or manners:
"Edmund must seek after me, and take pains to find me, if so be he
would have me."
These words, which the boy said in his play, have often come back to
my mind since the two brothers have attained unto a happy though
dissimilar end.
When the time had arrived for Mistress Genings and her youngest son to
go beyond seas, as I was now improved in health and able to walk, my
father fetched me home, and prevailed on Mr. Genings to let Edmund go
back with us, with the intent to divert his mind from his grief at his
brother's departure.
I found my parents greatly disturbed at the news they had had touching
the imprisonment of thirteen priests on account of religion, and of
Mr. Orton being likewise arrested, who was a gentleman very dear to
them for his great virtues and the steadfast friendship he had ever
shown to them.
My mother questioned Edmund as to the sign he had seen in the heavens
a short time back, of which the report had reached them; and he
confirming the truth thereof, she clasped her hands and cried:
"Then I fear me much this forebodes the death of these blessed
confessors, Father Weston and the rest."
Upon which Edmund said, in a humble manner:
"Good Mistress Sherwood, my dear mother thought it signified that
those of your religion would murder in their beds such as are of the
queen's religion; so maybe in both cases there is naught to
apprehend."
"My good child," my mother answered, "in regard of those now in
durance for their faith, the danger is so manifest, that if it please
not the Almighty to work a miracle for their deliverance, I see not
how they may escape."
After that we sat awhile in silence; my father reading, my mother and
I working, and Edmund at the window intent as usual upon the stars,
which were shining one by one in the deep azure of the darkening sky.
As one of greater brightness than the rest shone through the branches
of the old tree, where I used to hide some years before, he pointed to
it, and said to me, who was sitting nearest to him at the window:
"Cousin Constance, think you the Star of Bethlehem showed fairer in
the skies than yon bright star that has just risen behind your
favorite oak? What and if that star had a message for us!"
My father heard him, and smiled. "I was even then," he said, "reading
the words of one who was led to the true religion by the contemplation
of the starry skies. In a Southern clime, where those fair luminaries
shine with more splendor than in our Northern heavens, St. Augustine
wrote thus;" and then he read a few sentences in Latin from the book
in his hand,--"Raising ourselves up, we passed by degrees through all
things bodily, even the very heavens, whence sun and moon and stars
shine upon the earth. Yea, we soared yet higher by inward musing and
discourse and admiring of God's works, and we came to our own minds
and went beyond them, so as to arrive at that region of never-failing
plenty where thou feedest Israel for ever with the food of truth."
These words had a sweet and solemn force in them which struck on the
ear like a strain of unearthly music, such as the wind-harp wakes in
the silence of the {92} night. In a low voice, so low that it was like
the breathing of a sigh, I heard Edmund say, "What is truth?" But when
he had uttered those words, straightway turning toward me as if to
divert his thoughts from that too pithy question, he cried: "Prithee,
cousin Constance, hast thou ended reading, I warrant for the hundredth
time, that letter in thine hand? and hast thou not a mind to impart to
thy poor kinsman the sweet conceits I doubt not are therein
contained?" I could not choose but smile at his speech; for I had
indeed feasted my eyes on the handwriting of my dear friend, now no
longer Mistress Dacre, and learnt off, as it were by heart, its
contents. And albeit I refused at first to comply with his request,
which I had secretly a mind to; no sooner did he give over the urging
of it than I stole to his side, and, though I would by no means let it
out of my hand, and folded down one side of the sheet to hide what was
private in it, I offered to read such parts aloud as treated of
matters which might be spoken of without hindrance.
With a smiling countenance, then, he set himself to listen, and I to
be the mouthpiece of the dear writer, whose wit was so far in advance
of her years, as I have since had reason to observe, never having met
at any time with one in whom wisdom put forth such early shoots.
"DEAR MISTRESS CONSTANCE"
(thus the sweet lady wrote),--"Wherefore this long silence and
neglect of your poor friend? An if it be true, which pains me much
to hear, that the good limb which, together with its fellow, like
two trusty footmen, carried you so well and nimbly along the alleys
of your garden this time last year, has, like an arrant knave,
played fast and loose, and failed in its good service,--wherein, I am
told, you have suffered much inconvenience,--is it just that that
other servant, your hand, should prove rebellious too, refuse to
perform its office, and write no more letters at your bidding? For
I'll warrant 'tis the hand is the culprit, not the will; which
nevertheless should be master, and compel it to obedience. So, an
you love me, chide roundly that contumacious hand, which fails in
its duty, which should not be troublesome, if you but had for me
one-half of the affection I have for you. And indeed, Mistress
Constance, a letter from you would be to me, at this time, the
welcomest thing I can think of; for since we left my grandmother's
seat, and came to the Charterhouse, I have new friends, and many
more and greater than I deserve or ever thought to have; but, by
reason of difference of age or of religion, they are not such as I
can well open my mind to, as I might to you, if it pleased God we
should meet again. The Duke of Norfolk is a very good lord and
father to me; but when there are more ways of thinking than one in a
house, 'tis no easy matter to please all which have a right to be
considered; and, in the matter of religion, 'tis very hard to avoid
giving offence. But no more of this at present; only I would to God
Mr. Fox were beyond seas, and my lady of Westmoreland at her home in
the North; and that we had no worse company in this house than Mr.
Martin, my Lord Surrey's tutor, who is a gentleman of great learning
and knowledge, as every one says, and of extraordinary modesty in
his behavior. My Lord Surrey has a truly great regard for him, and
profits much in his learning by his means. I notice he is Catholic
in his judgment and affections; and my lord says he will not stay
with him, if his grace his father procures ministers to preach to
his household and family, and obliges all therein to frequent
Protestant service. I wish my grandmother was in London; for I am
sometimes sore troubled in my mind touching Catholic religion and
conforming to the times, of which an abundance of talk is ministered
unto us, to my exceeding great discomfort, by my Lady Westmoreland,
his grace's {93} sister, and others also. An if I say aught thereon
to Mistress Fawcett (a grave and ancient gentlewoman, who had the
care of my Lord Surrey during his infancy, and is now set over us
his grace's wards), and of misliking the duke's ministers and that
pestilent Mr. Fox--(I fear me, Mistress Constance, I should not have
writ that unbeseeming word, and I will e'en draw a line across it,
but still as you may read it for indeed 'tis what he is; but 'tis
from himself I learnt it, who in his sermons calls Catholic religion
a pestilent idolatry, and Catholic priests pestilent teachers and
servants of Antichrist, and the holy Pope at Rome the man of sin)
she grows uneasy, and bids me be a good child to her, and not to
bring her into trouble with his grace, who is indeed a very good
lord to us in all matters but that one of compelling us to hear
sermons and the like. My Lord Surrey mislikes all kinds of sermons,
and loves Mr. Martin so well, that he stops his ears when Mr. Fox
preaches on the dark midnight of papacy and the dawn of the gospel's
restored light. And it angers him, as well it should, to hear him
call his majesty King Philip of Spain, who is his own godfather,
from whom he received his name, a wicked popish tyrant and a son of
Antichrist. My Lady Margaret, his sister, who is a year younger than
himself, and has a most admirable beauty and excellent good nature,
is vastly taken with what she hears from me of Catholic religion;
but methinks this is partly by reason of her misliking Mr. Fulk and
Mr. Clarke's long preachments, which we are compelled to hearken to;
and their fashion of spending Sunday, which they do call the
Sabbath-day, wherein we must needs keep silence, and when not in
church sit still at home, which to one of her lively disposition is
heavy penance. Methinks when Sunday comes we be all in disgrace;
'tis so like a day of correction. My Lord Surrey has more liberty;
for Mr. Martin carries him and his brothers after service into the
pleasant fields about Westminster Abbey and the village of Charing
Cross, and suffers them to play at ball under the trees, so they do
not quarrel amongst themselves. My Lord Henry Howard, his grace's
brother, always maintains and defends the Catholic religion against
his sister of Westmoreland; and he spoke to my uncles Leonard,
Edward, and Francis, and likewise to my aunt Lady Montague, that
they should write unto my grandmother touching his grace bringing us
up as Protestants. But the Duke of Norfolk, Mrs. Fawcett says, is
our guardian, and she apprehends he is resolved that we shall
conform to the times, and that no liberty be allowed us for the
exercise of Catholic religion."
At this part of the letter I stopped reading; and Edmund, turning to
my father, who, though he before had perused it, was also listening,
said: "And if this be liberty of conscience, which Protestants speak
of, I see no great liberty and no great conscience in the matter."
His cheek flushed as he spoke, and there was a hoarseness in his voice
which betokened the working of strong feelings within him. My father
smiled with a sort of pitiful sadness, and answered:
"My good boy, when thou art somewhat further advanced in years, thou
wilt learn that the two words thou art speaking of are such as men
have abused the meaning of more than any others that can be thought
of; and I pray to God they do not continue to do so as long as the
world lasts. It seems to me that they mostly mean by 'liberty' a
freedom to compel others to think and to act as they have themselves a
mind to; and by 'conscience' the promptings of their own judgments
moved by their own passions."
"But 'tis hard," Edmund said, "'tis at times very hard, Mr. Sherwood,
to know whereunto conscience points, in the midst of so many inward
clamors as are raised in the soul by conflicting passions of dutiful
affection {94} and filial reverence struggling for the mastery. Ay,
and no visible token of God's will to make that darkness light. Tis
that," he cried, more moved as he went on, "that makes me so often
gaze upward. Would to God I might see a sign in the skies! for there
are no sign-posts on life's path to guide us on our way to the
heavenly Jerusalem, which our ministers speak of."
"If thou diligently seekest for sign-posts, my good boy," my father
answered, "fear not but that he who said, 'Seek, and you shall find,'
will furnish thee with them. He has not left himself without
witnesses, or his religion to be groped after in hopeless darkness, so
that men may not discern, even in these troublous times, where the
truth lies, so they be in earnest in their search after it. But I will
not urge thee by the cogency of arguments, or be drawn out of the
reserve I have hitherto observed in these matters, which be
nevertheless the mightiest that can be thought of as regards the
soul's health."
And so, breaking off this discourse, he walked out upon the terrace;
and I withdrew to the table, where my mother was sitting, and once
more conned over the last pages of _my lady's_ letter, which, when the
reader hath read, he will perceive the writer's rank and her right to
be thus titled.
"And now, Mistress Constance, I must needs inform you of a matter I
would not leave you ignorant of, so that you should learn from
strangers what so nearly concerns one whom you have a friendship to--
and that is my betrothal with my Lord Surrey. The ceremony was
public, inasmuch as was needful for the solemnising of a contract
which is binding for life--'until death us do part,' as the marriage
service hath it. How great a change this has wrought in my thoughts,
none knows but myself; for though I be but twelve years of age (for
his grace would have the ceremony to take place on my birthday), one
year older than yourself, and so lately a child that not a very long
time ago my grandmother would chastise me with her own hands for my
faults, I now am wedded to my young lord, and by his grace and all
the household titled Countess of Surrey! And I thank God to be no
worse mated; for my lord, who is a few months younger than me, and a
very child for frolicksome spirits and wild mirth, has,
notwithstanding, so great a pleasantness of manners and so forward a
wit, that one must needs have pleasure in his company; and I only
wish I had more of it. Whilst we were only friends and playmates, I
used to chide and withstand him, as one older and one more staid and
discreet than himself; but, ah me! since we have been wedded, 'tis
grand to hear him discourse on the duty of wives, and quote the
Bible to show they must obey their husbands. He carries it in a very
lordly fashion; and if I comply not at once with his commands, he
cries out what he has heard at the play-house:
'Such duty as the subject owes the prince
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she's froward, peevish sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, or sway,
Where they are bound to serve, love, and obey.'
He has a most excellent memory. If he has but once heard out of any
English or Latin book so much read as is contained in a leaf, he
will forthwith perfectly repeat it. My Lord Henry, his uncle, for a
trial, invented twenty long and difficult words a few days back,
which he had never seen or heard before; yet did he recite them
readily, every one in the same order as they were written, having
only once read them over. But, touching that matter of obedience,
which I care not to gainsay, 'tis not easy at present to obey my
lord my husband, and his grace his father, and Mistress Fawcett,
too, who holds as strict a hand over the Countess of Surrey as over
Mistress Ann Dacre; for the commands of these my rulers do not at
all times accord: but I pray to God I may do my duty, and be a good
wife to my lord; and I {95} wish, as I said before, my grandmother
had been here, and that I had been favored with her good counsel,
and had had the benefit of shrift and spiritual advice ere I entered
on this stage of my life, which is so new to me, who was but a child
a few weeks ago, and am yet treated as such in more respects than
one.
"My lord has told me a secret which Higford, his father's servant,
let out to him; and 'tis something so weighty and of so great
import, that since he left me my thoughts have been truants from my
books, and Monsieur Sebastian, who comes to practice us on the lute,
stopped his ears, and cried out that the Signora Contessa had no
mercy on him, so to murther his compositions. Tis not the part of a
true wife to reveal her husband's secrets, or else I would tell you,
Mistress Constance, this great news, which I can with trouble keep
to myself; and I shall not be easy till I have seen my lord again,
which should be when we walk in the garden this evening; but I pray
to God he may not be off instead to the Mall, to play at kittlepins;
for then I have small chance to get speech with him to-day. Mr.
Martin is my very good friend, and reminds the earl of his duty to
his lady; but if my lord comes at his bidding, when he would be
elsewhere than in my company, 'tis little contentment I have in his
visits.
"'Tis yesterday I writ thus much, and now 'tis the day to send this
letter; and I saw not my lord last night by reason of his
grandfather my Lord Arundel sending to fetch me unto his house in
the Strand. His goodness to me is so great, that nothing more can be
desired; and his daughter my Lady Lumley is the greatest comfort I
have in the world. She showed me a fair picture of my lord's mother,
who died the day he was born, not then full seventeen years of age.
She was of so amiable a disposition, so prudent, virtuous, and
religious, that all who knew her could not but love and esteem her.
And I read a letter which this sweet lady had written in Latin to
her father on his birthday, to his great contentment, who had
procured her to be well instructed in that language, as well as in
her own and in all commendable learning. Then I played at primero
with my Lord Arundel and my Lady Lumley and my uncle Francis. The
knave of hearts was fixed upon for the quinola, and I won the flush.
My uncle Francis cried the winning card should be titled Dudley.
'Not so,' quoth the earl; 'the knave that would match with the queen
in the suit of hearts should never win the game.' And further talk
ensued; from which I learnt that my Lord Arundel and the Duke of
Norfolk mislike my Lord Leicester, and would not he should marry the
queen; and my uncle laughed, and said, 'My lord, no good Englishman
is there but must be of your lordship's mind, though none have so
good reason as yourself to hinder so base a contract; for if my Lord
of Leicester should climb unto her majesty's throne, beshrew me if
he will not remember the box on the ear your lordship ministered to
him some time since;' at which the earl laughed, too; but my Lady
Lumley cried, 'I would to God my brother of Norfolk were rid of my
Lord Leicester's friendship, which has, I much fear me, more danger
in it than his enmity. God send he does not lead his grace into
troubles greater than can well be thought of!' Alack, Mistress
Constance, what uneasy times are these which we have fallen on! for
methinks 'troubles' is the word in every one's mouth. As I was about
to step into the chair at the hall-door at Arundel House, I heard
one of my lord's guard say to another, 'I trust the white horse will
be in quiet, and so we shall be out of trouble.' I have asked Mr.
Martin what these words should mean; whereupon he told me the white
horse, which indeed I might have known, was the Earl of Arundel's
cognisance; and that the times were very troublesome, and plots were
spoken of in the North anent the Queen of Scots, her majesty the
{96} queen's cousin, who is at Chatesworth; and when he said that,
all of a sudden I grew red, and my cheeks burned like two hot coals;
but he took no heed, and said, 'A true servant might well wish his
master out of trouble, when troubles were so rife.' And now shame
take me for taking up so much of your time, which should be spent in
more profitable ways than the reading of my poor letters; and I must
needs beg you to write soon, and hold me as long as I have held you,
and love me, sweet one, as I love you. My Lady Margaret, who is in a
sense twice my sister, says she is jealous of Mistress Constance
Sherwood, and would steal away my heart from her; but, though she is
a winsome and cunning thief in such matters, I warrant you she shall
fail therein. And so, commending myself to your good prayers, I
remain
"Your true friend and loving servant,
"ANN SURREY."
As I finished and was folding up my letter the clock struck nine. It
was waning darker without by reason of a cloud which had obscured the
moon. I heard my father still pacing up and down the gravel-walk, and
ever and anon staying his footsteps awhile, as if watching. After a
short space the moon shone out again, and I saw the shadows of two
persons against the wall of the kitchen garden. Presently the
hall-door was fastened and bolted, as I knew by the rattling of the
chain which hung across it. Then my father looked in at the door and
said, "'Tis time, goodwife, for young folks to be abed." Upon which my
mother rose and made as if she was about to withdraw to her
bed-chamber. Edmund followed us up stairs, and, wishing us both
good-night, went into the closet where he slept. Then my mother,
taking me by the hand, led me into my father's study.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
------
Translated from Der Katholik.
THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.
I.
The Church is, in a twofold respect, universal or catholic. While, on
the one hand, she extends herself over the whole earth, and encircles
the entire human race with the bond of the same faith and an equal
love, on the other she makes known, by this very act, the most special
inward character of her own being. Thus the Church is the Catholic
Church, both in her interior being and in her exterior manifestation.
The ground of the well-known saying of St. Ambrose, "Where Peter is,
there is the Church," [Footnote 7] lies in the thought, that the
nature of the Church admits of only one form of historical
manifestation. The idea of the true Church can only be realized where
Peter is, in the communion of the legitimate Pope as the successor of
Peter.
[Footnote 7: Ubi Petrus ibi ecclesia. In Ps. xl. No. 30.]
This proposition has its proximate justification in that clear
expression of the will of Jesus Christ, the founder of the Church, in
which he designates the Apostle Peter as the rock on which he will
build his Church. Moreover, it is precisely this rock-foundation which
is to make the Church indestructible. [Footnote 8] From this it
follows that, in virtue of the ordinance of Jesus, the office of
Peter, or the primacy given him in the Church, was not to expire with
the death of the apostle. For, if the {97} Church is indestructible
precisely on account of her foundation upon the rock-man Peter, he
must remain for all time the support of the Church, and historical
connection with him is the indispensable condition on which the Church
can be firmly established in any part of the earth. This constant
connection with the Apostle Peter is maintained through the bishop of
Rome for the time being. For these two offices, the episcopate of Rome
and the primacy, were connected with each other in the person of the
Apostle Peter. Consequently the same superior rank in the Church which
Peter possessed is transmitted to the legitimate bishop of Rome at the
same time with the Roman episcopal see. Thus the Prince of the
Apostles remains in very deed the rock-foundation of the Church,
continually, in each one of his successors for the time being.
[Footnote 8: Matt. xvi. 18.]
In the view of Christian antiquity, the unity of the Church was the
particular object for which the papacy was established. [Footnote 9]
This unity, apprehended in its historical development, gives us the
conception of catholicity. [Footnote 10]
[Footnote 9: St. Cyprian, _De Unit Eccl. Primatus Petro dafur, ut
una Christi ecclesia et cathedra una monstretur_. The primacy is
given to Peter, that the Church of Christ may be shown to be one,
and the chair one.]
[Footnote 10: Ibid. _Ecclesia quoque una est, quae in multitudinem.
latius incremento faeccunditatis extenditur.... ecclesia Domini luce
perfusa per obem totam radios suos porrigit. Unum tamen lumen est,
quod ubique diffunditur, nec unitas corporis separatur._
The Church also is one, which is extended to a very great multitude
by the increase of fruitfulness . . . the Church of the Lord
pervaded with light extends its rays over the whole world.
Nevertheless the light which is everywhere diffused is one, and the
unity of the body is never separated.]
Both these marks of the Church must embody themselves in the form of
an outwardly perceptible historical reality. The Church being indebted
for her unity, and by necessary consequence for her catholicity,
precisely to her historical connection with Peter, catholicity is thus
rooted in the idea of the papacy. But does its ultimate and most
profound principle lie therein?
The argument, briefly sketched above, obliges us to rest the
catholicity of the Church on the actual institution of Christ. We can,
however, inquire into the essential reason of this institution. Does
this reason lie simply in a free, voluntary determination of Christ,
or in the interior essence of the Church herself? In the latter case,
the Church would appear as Catholic, because the end of her
establishment could be fulfilled under no other condition. There would
be in her innermost being a secret determination, by force of which
the idea of the Church is completely incapable of realization under
any other form than that of catholicity. A Christian Church without
the papacy were, therefore, entirely inconceivable. If this is
actually the case, there lies hidden under the rind of the Church's
visible form of catholicity, a still deeper catholicity, in which we
are bound to recognize the most profound principle of the outward,
historical side of catholicity.
But that inward principle, the marrow of the Church, where are we to
look for it? Our theologians, following St. Augustine, teach that the
Church, like man, consists of soul and body. The theological virtues
form the soul of the Church, and her body is constituted by the
outward profession of the faith, the participation of the sacraments,
and exterior connection with the visible head of the Church.
[Footnote 11] St. Augustine, indeed, also designates the Holy Ghost as
the soul or the inner principle of the Church. This is the same
thought with the one which will be presently evolved, in which the
inner principle of catholicity will be reduced to the conception of
the _supernatural_. This, however, considered in itself, is withdrawn
from the region of historical manifestation. In order that it may pass
from the region of the invisible into that of apprehensible reality,
it needs a medium that may connect together both orders, the invisible
order of the supernatural and the order of historical manifestation.
It is only in this {98} way that catholicity can acquire for itself a
historical shape, and assume flesh and blood.
[Footnote 11: Bellarm., _De Eccl. milit._, cap. ii.]
We might be disposed to regard the sacraments as this medium, because
they are the instruments by which grace is conferred, in a manner
apprehensible through the senses. Nevertheless, we cannot find the
constitutive principle of the Church in the sacraments alone. It is
well known that Protestantism has set forth the legitimate
administration of the sacraments as a mark of the true Church. A
searching glance at the Protestant conception of the Church will
hereafter give us a proof that a bare communication in sacraments, at
least from the Protestant stand-point, cannot possibly verify itself
as making a visible Church. According to the Protestant doctrine of
justification, a sacrament is indebted for its grace-giving efficacy
solely to the faith of the receiver. In this view, therefore, the
connection of the invisible element of the supernatural with the
historically manifested reality, and consequently the making visible
of the true Church, is dependent on conditions where historical
fulfilment is not provable. Who can prove whether the recipient of a
sacrament has faith? It is true that, according to the Catholic view,
an objective efficacy is ascribed to the sacrament, i.e., the
outwardly perceptible completion of the sacramental action of itself
permits the invisible element of the supernatural to penetrate into
the sphere of the visible.
Notwithstanding this, the Catholic sacrament is, by itself alone, no
sufficient medium through which the being of the true Church can be
brought into visibility. Did she embody herself historically only in
so far as a sensible matter and an outward action are endued with a
supernatural efficacy, the element of the supernatural would come to a
historical manifestation only as the purely objective. A profound view
of the essence of the Church would not find this satisfactory. The
Church, even on her visible side, is not a purely objective, or merely
outward, institution. The ultimate principle of catholicity--and this
statement will make our conception intelligible--although implanted in
the world as a supernatural leaven from above, has nevertheless its
seat in the deepest interior of the human spirit. Thence it penetrates
upward into the sphere of historical manifestation, and thus proves
itself a church-constitutive principle. Such a connection of the
region of the interior and subjective with that of historical and
visible reality is caused by the objective efficacy of a sacrament,
only in the case where the same is productive of its proper effect.
This, however, according to Catholic doctrine, presupposes an inward
disposition on the part of the recipient, the presence of which cannot
be manifested to outward apprehension. A Church, whose essence
consisted merely in the bond established through the sacraments, could
either not be verified with certitude, or would have an exclusively
exterior character. Accordingly, we have not yet found, in the
Catholic sacramental conception, the middle term we are seeking, by
which the essence of catholicity can be brought into visible
manifestation. Rather, this process has to be already completed and
the conception of the Church to be actualized, before the sacrament
can manifest its efficacy. Through this last, the element of the
supernatural, i.e., the invisible germ of the Church, must be
originally planted or gradually strengthened in individual souls. But
this is effected by the sacrament as the organ and in the name of the
Church, though in particular cases outside of her communion.
The continuous existence of Catholicity is essentially the
self-building of the body of Christ. It produces its own increase
through the instrumentality of the sacraments. [Footnote 12] The
union between the supernatural and the historical actuality, or the
bond of {99} catholicity, is not then first established in the
sacraments. These only mediate for individual souls the reception into
the union, or confirm them in their organic relation to it, and are
signs of fellowship. In addition to what has been already said, there
is another reason, and one of wider application, to be considered, as
bearing on this point. The principle of a new life which has to be
infused into individual souls through the sacraments is sanctifying
grace. In this, therefore, by logical consequence, we should be
obliged to recognize the interior constitutive principle of the
Church, if it were true that the connection between the inner being of
the Church and her historical manifestation were brought to pass
through the efficacy of the sacraments. According to this apprehension
of the subject, only the saints would belong to the true Church.
[Footnote 12: Eph. iv. 16.]
One might seek to evade this last conclusion by averring that in the
instance of baptism, the sacrament produces in the soul of the
recipient, beside sanctifying grace, still another effect,
independently of the disposition, namely, the baptismal character.
This character is an indelible mark impressed on the soul. Here, then,
is given us a supernatural principle which penetrates the deepest
interior of the human spirit, and which is, at the same time, capable
of verifying itself as a historical fact; inasmuch as it is infallibly
infused into the soul through an outward, sensible action, and
thereby, through the medium of the latter, becomes visible. Beside
this, one might be still more inclined to regard the baptismal
character as the Church's formative principle, because the same is
stamped upon the soul through a sacrament, whose special end is to
incorporate with the body of Christ its individual members; for which
reason, also, baptism is designated in the language of the Church as
the gate of the spiritual life, _vitae spiritualis janua_. [Footnote
13]
[Footnote 13: _Decret. pro Armenia_.]
We must, however, in this immediate connection, put in a reminder,
that it is a disputed point in theology, whether baptism is really, in
all cases, the indispensably necessary condition of becoming a member
of the Church. In the opinion of prominent theologians, a mere
catechumen can, under certain circumstances, be a member of the
Church. [Footnote 14] Be that as it may, no one will certainly
dispute the fact that a catechumen, whose soul is glowing with divine
love, belongs at least to the soul of the Church. In him, therefore,
the inner germ of the Church's life really exists before the reception
of the baptismal character. Beside this, it appears to us that the
sacramental character, precisely in view of its determinate end, is
not so qualified that we can put it forward as the interior principle
of catholicity. The baptismal character is intended for a distinctive
mark; by it the seal of Church membership is stamped on the soul. It
is true that the same action by which the character is impressed on
the soul also makes the baptized person a member of the Church, or,
that in the same act which plants the inner germ of the Church's being
in the heart, the soul receives also the characteristic outward
impress of that being. But in so far as it is the immediate and proper
faculty of the baptismal character to impress the stamp of the Church
in indelible features upon the soul, the very conception of this
character presupposes necessarily the conception of the Church, as
prior to itself; which shows that we cannot find the principle of the
interior being of the Church in the baptismal character. This is
confirmed by the additional consideration that the baptismal character
is not effaced from those souls which have broken off every kind of
connection with the Church, and have absolutely nothing remaining in
them by which they communicate in her being. Finally, the existence of
the Church, at least so far as her inner being or soul is concerned,
{100} does not date its origin from the institution of baptism. We
must, therefore, go one step further, in order to discover the
interior source of catholicity. As has been heretofore pointed out,
this source lies in that region which we are usually wont to designate
as the Supernatural Order. Let us, therefore, make a succinct
exposition of the interior law of development in this order.
[Footnote 14: Suarez, _De Fide. Disp._ ix., Sec. i., No. 18.]
According to the Catholic doctrine, _faith_ is the beginning of human
salvation, the ground and root of justification, [Footnote 15] _i.e._,
of the supernatural life of the soul. St. Paul designates faith "the
substance of things hoped for." [Footnote 16] That is to say, the
beatific vision of God, and with it the point toward which the whole
supernatural order tends and in which it rests, has its foundation
laid in faith, and is already in germ contained in it. Christ, and
with him the fountain of our supernatural life, dwells in us through
faith. [Footnote 17] Is Christ, therefore, called the foundation,
beside which no other can be laid, [Footnote 18 ]then is faith
recognized in the basis of the supernatural order, because by faith we
are immediately brought into union with Christ. Wherefore the apostle
makes our participation in the fruits of the work of redemption
precisely dependent on the condition, "If so ye continue in the faith,
grounded and settled." [Footnote 19] The same portion as foundation,
which faith has in the inner life of grace in the soul, is also
accorded to it in relation to the exterior structure of the Church.
The visibility of the true Church is only the historical embodiment of
the element of the supernatural. The divine building of the Church has
for its foundation the apostles, [Footnote 20] that is, as the sense
of the passage evidently is, through the faith which they preached.
Very remarkable is the form of expression in the well-known saying of
the apostle: "One Lord, one faith, one baptism." [Footnote 21] Here
the unity of faith is given the precedence of the unity produced
through baptism, as being its necessary pre-requisite. The one baptism
is the bond of unity of the Church only in the second line. Through
it, namely, the fruitful germ of the one faith in which exclusively
the unity of the Church has its root, is continually planted in
individual souls, an actual confession of that faith being also
included in the ceremony of baptism itself.
[Footnote 15: _Trid. Sess._ vi., cap. 8.]
[Footnote 16: Heb. xi. i.]
[Footnote 17: Eph iii. 17.]
[Footnote 18: I Cor. iii. 11.]
[Footnote 19: Coloss. i. 23.]
[Footnote 20: Eph. ii. 20.]
[Footnote 21: Eph. iv. 5.]
The Church herself makes use of language which clearly shows that she
regards faith as the deepest principle of her being. [Footnote 22]
The Catechism of the Council of Trent defines the Church as "the
faithful dispersed throughout the world." [Footnote 23]
[Footnote 22: _Concil. Lateran., iv. cap. Firmiter: Una fidelium
universalis ecclesia_. ]
[Footnote 23: _Catech. Rom._, pars 1, cap. x. . qu. 2. ]
According to St. Thomas, also, the unity, and consequently the
catholicity of the Church, is radically grounded in faith. The angelic
doctor means here living faith, or _fides formata_. According to this
view, the principle of catholicity pervades the innermost depth of
subjectivity. At the same time it is clear how the same comes to an
historical manifestation. This takes place in the symbol of the
Church. The faith which finds its historical expression in the
ecclesiastical symbol is to be regarded as _fides formata_, [Footnote
24] for this reason, because it is a confession of faith made in the
name and by the personality of the collective Church, which possesses
its inward principle of unity in the _fides formata_, or living faith.
Moreover, the symbol of the Church is a constant warning for those of
her members who have not the grace of sanctification to make their
faith living through charity. [Footnote 25]
[Footnote 24: That is, faith made perfect by charity as it exists in
a person who is in the state of grace, in contradistinction from the
faith of a sinner.--TRANSLATOR ]
[Footnote 25: _Secunda Secundae_, qu. 1. a. q. ad 3. ]
In the foregoing doctrinal exposition St. Thomas has marked out for us
the path to be followed in seeking {101} for the medium of union
between the exterior and ulterior catholicity of the Church. Our
argument must start, therefore, from the position that the unity of
the Church in the first line is a unity in faith. In this notion we
have the speculative middle term between the inner being of the Church
and her historical form of manifestation. From the blending of both
these elements is formed the full, adequate idea of catholicity. This
last exhibits itself as a force acting in two distinct spheres, that
of the inward subjectivity and that of historical objectivity.
Consequently, the exterior and interior catholicity of the Church, or
the two sides of Catholicism, must be reduced to the same principle. A
further evolution of this thought will make it clear, why the being of
the true Church can only find its true actualization in the historical
form of Catholicism.
The catholic visible form of the Church, as pointed out above, is
indicated in the papacy. But in what relation does the latter stand to
the interior catholicity of the Church? In order to find the right
answer to this decisive question, we must first more exactly define in
what sense the papacy must be regarded as the bond of the historical
unity of the Church. It must be so regarded, precisely in so far as
the primacy has been instituted for the special end of preserving the
faith incorrupt. According to the teaching of the Fathers of the
Church, Peter is the Church's foundation of rock, in virtue of his
faith. [Footnote 26] By this, of course, is not meant the personal
confession of the Apostle Peter, but the object-matter of the same,
the contents of the faith to be preached by Peter and his successors.
Peter, says Leo the Great, is called by Christ the Rock, on account of
the solidity of the faith which he was to preach, _pro soliditate
fidei quam erat praedicaturus_. [Footnote 27 ] This is not the place
to develop further in what way the papacy proves itself in act the
cement of the unity of faith. We shall speak of that later. It is
enough for our purpose, in the meanwhile, to take note of the judgment
of the ancient Church. According to the doctrine of the Fathers of the
Church, the fundamental significance which the papacy has for the
Church, rests upon a relation of dependence between her faith and the
faith of Peter, including by consequence that of his successors. In
this sense St. Hilarius distinctly calls the faith of the Apostle
Peter the foundation of the Church. [Footnote 28] The same view is
found in St. Ambrose, [Footnote 29] expressed in nearly the same
words. But if Peter is the Church's foundation of rock precisely
through his faith, that mutual relation between the inner catholicity
of the Church and the papacy is no longer doubtful. For that the
Church, according to her inward essence, verifies herself as the
Catholic Church, she owes precisely to her faith, as likewise, on the
other side, her catholic visible form is conditioned by the outward
profession of the same faith. Consequently, the papacy as guardian of
the unity of faith, stands also in a necessary connection with the
inner being of the Church. Here then we have the uniting member we
have been seeking between inward and outward catholicity, the essence
and the manifestation of the Church. _In so far as the historical
connection with Peter must be conceived as a bond of faith, in this
same connection or in the form of Catholicism, the true Church, even
as to her inner being, comes historically into visible manifestation._
[Footnote 26: See the relevant passages from the fathers in
Ballerini, _De vi ac rations primatus Rom. Pont._, cap. xii., Sec. 1,
No. 1. ]
[Footnote 27: Serm. 62.]
[Footnote 28: _De Trin_., vi. 37. ]
[Footnote 29: _De Incarn_., cap. 5. ]
Faith, which we affirm to be the essential kernel of Catholicism, has
two sides, one which is interior and subjective, and another which
comes to outward manifestation. With the heart we believe unto
justification, but with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.
[Footnote 30] A revealed truth {102} corresponds to supernatural faith
as its necessary object. Therefore, it may be remarked in passing, the
subjective act of faith is equally infallible with the divine
testimony itself, upon which it is essentially based. [Footnote 31]
This revealed object of faith, without which a supernatural faith is
entirely inconceivable, is mediated or set forth through an organ
directly instituted by God for this purpose. An individual, who thinks
that he has discovered, through private investigation or in any other
way, a particular point of doctrine, which hitherto has not been
universally received as such, to be a revealed truth, can only make it
an object of supernatural faith, when he is able to judge with
certainty that this supposed new doctrine of faith would be approved
by the infallible, divinely appointed organ of revealed truth.
[Footnote 32]
[Footnote 30: Rom. x. 10.]
[Footnote 31: St. Thomas, _Secunda Secunda_, q. 1 a. 3.]
[Footnote 32: Suarez, _De Fide. Disp._ iii., Sect, xiii., No. 9.]
This mediating organ is, however, as we shall fully show in the course
of our further exposition, no other than the Apostle Peter, and
through the relation which he bears to him, his legitimate successor
in office. Peter is the support and the strength of his brethren,
inasmuch as _his_ faith, to which the dogmatic utterance of his
successors gives a new expression according to the needs of the
Church, forms a criterion for the faith of the Church. Peter,
preaching of the faith, continually apprehensible through the papal
definitions of faith, gives to the faith of the Church the specific
form under which the same incorporates itself historically in an
ecclesiastical confession. But in the Church-confession of faith, as
we have before shown, its inner being comes into visible
manifestation. As medium of Peter's preaching of the faith, the papacy
is consequently also a Church-constitutive principle, inasmuch as
through the actualization of the supreme power delegated to him by
Christ, the being of the Church is made visible, and obtains an
historical form. This is the sense of the words, "On this Rock I will
build my Church."
As we have, in the foregoing remarks, conceived of the papacy as the
angle at which the two sides of Catholicism meet, the uniting bond of
the outward and inward catholicity of the Church, we are further bound
to show why precisely the papacy is the appropriate organ to establish
that union between the essence and the manifestation of Catholicism,
and thereby to mediate the actualization of the true idea of the
Church. For this purpose we must endeavor to penetrate somewhat deeper
into the inner being or soul of the Church. We shall there find a
tendency which makes the Catholic form of manifestation of the Church
a postulate of her being. This tendency lies in the character of the
_supernatural_. In the conception of the supernatural we shall
endeavor to point out the radical conception of Catholicism. The
papacy, and the Catholic visible form of the Church mediated by it,
is, in our opinion, the necessary consequence of the supernaturality
of her being.
Thus far we have sketched in brief outlines the mutual relation of the
two sides of Catholicism. We must reserve for a subsequent article the
detailed theological proof of that which we have for the present
suggested as a new theory. Meanwhile we would like to exhibit, in a
few words, the interest which an investigation of this subject claims
for itself at this particular period of time.
II.
The distinction between an exterior and interior catholicity of the
Church is but slightly touched upon in our books of dogmatic
instruction. No one need wonder at this circumstance. It is well known
that the controversy with Protestantism gave occasion to the usual
modern method of treating of the marks of the Church. The {103} method
of the great controversialists of the age of the Reformation has, at
least in regard to the present question, remained, to a considerable
extent, the model for the dogmatic writers of the present time. The
theologians of a former time, however, found no necessity for
expressly distinguishing between the catholicity of the being of the
Church and that of her manifestation. It was enough for their purpose
to prove that the Church, in her historical manifestation, is the
Catholic Church.
The Protestantism of the epoch of the Reformation claimed for its
congregations the honor of having actualized the true idea of the
Church. The churches of Wittenberg, Zurich, and Geneva each pretended
to be the true copy of the evangelical primitive Church. It was easy
for Catholic polemics to destroy this pretension. It was only
necessary to inspect the particular Protestant churches a little
closely. Such a reconnoissance conducted necessarily to the
indubitable conclusion that none of those communions had the marks of
the true Church upon it, and that these were realized only in the
Church in communion with the Pope.
Modern Protestantism is much more modest in its pretensions. The
present champions of the Protestant cause characterize, without
disguise, the attempt of the Reformers to bring the essence of the
true Church historically into manifestation in their communions as a
gross error and a backsliding into Catholicism. They will have it,
that the characteristic principle of Protestantism lies precisely in
the acknowledgment that the true essence of the Church can find its
correlative expression in none of the existing churches. The true
Church, according to this notion, remains an unattainable ideal as
long as the world stands. Not to actualize the idea of the Church,
only to strive after its actualization, is the task of a religious
communion. The Protestantism of the day accordingly recognizes it as
its vocation "to give Christianity precisely the expression and form
which best corresponds to the necessities of the time, the demands of
an advanced science and culture, the grade of intellectual and moral
development of the Christian nations." [Footnote 33]
[Footnote 33: Schenkel, "Essence of Prot.," p. 4.]
Protestant polemic theology makes the following use of this view. Over
against the magnificent historical manifestation of the Catholic
Church, the torn and rent condition of the Protestant religious
community presents a striking contrast. The proximate conclusion that
the true Church can only be found within the circle of Catholicism,
they seek now to anticipate on the Protestant side by the observation
that already from the outset one makes a false start who would wish to
recognize the true Church by her form of historical manifestation.
According to the Protestant view, the mark of catholicity verifies
itself exclusively in the inner being of the Church, and not in her
outward manifestation. For, owing to the constant progress of human
development, and the extremely diversified individuality of single
nations, the historical manifestation of the Church must be multiform
to the same extent as the intellectual and moral wants of the
different peoples are various. Nevertheless, in spite of the manifold
differences which distinguish the particular churches in their
historical manifestation, the members of the same blend themselves
together into a great invisible spiritual kingdom. This is the _ideal_
Church.
This is the response which modern Protestantism makes when Catholic
criticism places before its eyes the melancholy picture of its inward
divisions and the history of its variations. From the historical
manifestation of a church to its inner being they say the conclusion
is invalid. In order, therefore, to make Catholic polemics effective,
the relation between the essence and the manifestation of the Church
must be first of all theologically {104} established. It is only after
this has been done that the comparison between "the Church and the
churches" can be exhibited in its entire argumentative force.
The theory of the ideal church is not yet effectively refuted, when we
on the Catholic side content ourselves with proving that the true
Church must become visible. This general proposition does not exclude
the proposition of our opponents. For, according to the Protestant
doctrine, also, the creative power of the spirit of Christianity
exhibits itself in the construction of visible congregations, and the
gradual actualization of the ideal Church is conditioned by a sensibly
apprehensible mediation. The final decision of this question must
therefore be sought in the demonstration of the proposition that the
inmost being of the Church can only realize itself historically in the
one specific form; that a catholicity of the essence of the Church
without a catholicity in her manifestation is entirely inconceivable.
Only by this demonstration will the retreat of Protestant polemics
into the ideal Church be for ever cut off.
Some have argued against the Protestant view, that as Christian truth
is one so the visible Church can also be but one. [Footnote 34] The
argument is valid only in the prior supposition that there can be but
a single form of historical manifestation for the inner being of the
Church. This, however, Protestantism denies in the sense, that from
its stand-point every particular church represents the idea of the
Church, [Footnote 35] even though it may be on one side only.
According to the diversified stages of cultivation in the Christian
people, so they say, now one, now another side of Christian truth
attains to its expression in the particular confessions, but in none
the full and entire truth. The contradiction existing between these,
therefore, in nowise falls back upon the Christian verity itself. This
Protestant evasion can also be alone met in the way above designated,
by establishing the relation between the essence and the manifestation
of Catholicism.
[Footnote 34: Moehler, "Symbolism."]
[Footnote 35: This is also the theory of High-Church
Episcopalianism. Mr. Sewall has defined it more logically than any
other writer of that school. According to him, the unity of the
Church consists in this, that all churches are formed after one
ideal model, or on one principle, and the separate churches of
individual bishops are each a perfect organic whole. That is,
Catholic unity is an _abstract_ unity, concreted in each particular
bishop and diocese. Hence there can be no organized unity of the
universal Church, but only _union_ or friendly communion of
independent churches. This notion was highly approved by Bishop
Whittingham, who expressed it in this way, that the true communion
of churches with each other is in _speculo Trinitatis_. It is pure
Congregationalism, bating the difference between a diocese governed
by a chief and inferior pastors, and a single congregation under one
pastor or several of the same order. But it is the only logical
conception of a visible church possible, when the papacy, or
principle of universal organic unity, is denied. It is the logical
result of the schismatical position of the Greeks, who have no unity
among themselves except that which is national, but are divided into
several independent bodies. Hence, the so-called "union movement,"
as clearly shown by Cardinal Patrizi in the Decree sent to the
English bishops, is one which proceeds from a denial of Catholic
unity, and therefore can never lead to unity, but only aim at union,
or voluntary co-operation of distinct churches with each other. The
High-Church theory differs from that of the German Protestants in
this that the former requires that all churches should be alike, and
each one represent completely the ideal Church; but both are based
on the same principle, that of an abstract, invisible unity and
catholicity, concreted in an individual and not a generic and
universal mode.--TRANSLATOR.]
It has been further argued that a Church of the Nations, which the
Christian Church must be, according to its idea, is entirely
inconceivable without the papacy at its summit. [Footnote 36] Here,
also, it is presupposed, as already proved, that the conception of
universality which is essentially connected with the idea of the true
Church must also necessarily impress itself upon her actual
explication of herself in time. But it is precisely against this
notion that modern Protestantism contends. Therefore, if our polemic
arms are to bring down their man, the affair must begin with a sharper
delineation of the mutual relation between the essence and the visible
form of the Church.
[Footnote 36: Doellinger, "The Church and the Churches."]
Beside the polemic advantages to be gained in the course which has
been suggested, there is another in the interest of pacification.
Under the rubbish of the Protestant Church-idea there still lies
buried a remnant of {105} Catholic truth. We ought not to shun the
trouble of bringing this to light. It is the Christian truth contained
in his confession which binds the believing Protestant to it. Catholic
theology has to reclaim this as its own property. It has the mission
intrusted to it to show how the religious satisfaction, which the
deeper Protestant mind thinks it finds in the doctrinal conception of
its confession, is imparted to it in richer abundance and morally
purified through the dogma of the Church. Through this conciliatory
method, an understanding of the Catholic truth can be much more easily
and effectually imparted to the unprejudiced Protestant mind than by a
rough polemical method. This end is most essentially served by the
distinction between the essence and the manifestation of Catholicism.
Protestant piety makes a great boast of its deep spirituality. The
modern ideal theory of the Church owes a great share of its popularity
to its aptitude of application in this direction. By means of this
conception, the Protestant Church is expected to exhibit itself in a
new light as the church of the interior and spiritual life. Does one
attain the same depth of view from the Catholic stand-point? All doubt
on this point must disappear on thorough consideration of what we have
above named, the inner side of Catholicism.
There is another ground for the favor with which this ideal theory of
the Church is at present received. Protestant theology regards it as a
means of its own resuscitation. The old doctrine of justification by
faith alone has in great part lost the charm it once exercised over
the hearts of the German people. The once mighty battle-cry of inward,
subjective faith is no longer to the taste of our age. Therefore, in
our time, instead of the antiquated idea of immediate union with
Christ, the world-moving power of the mind, the creative power of the
idea, is set up as the distinguishing principle of Protestantism. The
latter is thus made to appear as the most powerful protector of the
liberal aspirations of the age.
Catholic controversy must take some cognizance of this, if it would
make its own proper principle prevail. While Protestantism seeks to
gain the favor of the contemporary world by obsequiously yielding to
the caprices of the spirit of the age, the inner principle of
Catholicism raises it above the vacillations which sway particular
periods. Only a Church which, thanks to its native principle, is not
borne along by intellectual and social periodical currents, can
effectually correct their movement. In order, therefore, to measure
accurately the influence which the Church, by virtue of her
institution, is called to exercise upon human society, we must
penetrate into her innermost essence, to the very point where
Catholicism has its deepest principle. First from this point can we
correctly understand in how far the Church is a social power. From
this point of view alone can we comprehend her aptitude to be the
teacher of the nations. And precisely of this social and instructive
vocation have our contemporaries lost the right understanding to a
great extent. It is one of the mightiest tasks of our modern theology
to make the minds of men once more capable of apprehending this truth.
[Footnote 37]
[Footnote 37: A few sentences rather digressive from the main topic
of the article are hero omitted.--TRANSLATOR.]
The high importance of authority in the system of Catholicism is well
known. This fundamental principle runs a danger of being placed in a
false light, when it is depressed to the level of the historical and
exterior side of the Church. Ecclesiastical authority, separated from
the ground which lies back of it and which is above the temporal
order, may appear even to the well-disposed as a mere brake for the
stoppage of all intellectual progress. This suggests a temptation to
desire a compromise between the Church and the spirit of the age. When
one takes a merely exterior and {106} historical view of church
authority, the proper spirit of joyousness which ought to belong to
faith is wanting in the submission which is rendered to its decrees.
It is very easy, then, to fall into a sort of diplomatic way of acting
toward the Church as teacher of doctrine. One seeks to accommodate
one's self to her doctrine through subtile distinctions. On the
contrary, the boldest scientific mind frankly and cheerfully bows
itself under the yoke of the obedience of faith, when it sees that the
Church, in her doctrinal decision, is acting from her own interior
principle.
Our doctrinal exposition requires now that we should go into a more
thorough argument respecting the immanent principle of Catholicism,
which we shall first of all undertake to do on Scriptural grounds.
This part of the subject will be treated in an ensuing article.
------
From The Cornhill Magazine.
MONSIEUR BABOU.
I.
In the immediate vicinity of the capital of the kingdom of Lilliput
there is a charming village called "Les Grenouillettes." This rural
resort of the citizens of Mildendo consists, mainly, of three hotels,
thirty public-houses, and five ponds. The population I should reckon
at about ten millions, inclusive of frogs, who are the principal
inhabitants, and who make a great noise in the world there.
Hither flock the jocund burgesses, and dance to the sound of harp and
viol. . . .
It occurs to me that, sprightly as I may think it to call Belgium
Lilliput, the mystification might possibly become tiresome and
inconvenient if persisted in throughout this narrative, beside
becoming absolutely unnecessary. As for the village in question, I
have a reason or two for not calling it by its right name.
About half-a-dozen years ago, my brother (Captain John Freshe, R.N.),
his wife, and I had been wearily jogging all a summer's day in search
of country lodgings for a few weeks in the immediate neighborhood of
Brussels. Now nothing can be more difficult to find in that locality,
except under certain conditions.
You can live at a village hotel, and pay a maximum price for minimum
comfort.
You can, possibly, lodge in a public-house, where it will cost you
dear, however little you pay.
Or you can, in some villages, hire empty rooms in an entirely empty
house, and hire furniture from Brussels, and servants, if you have
none, by the month.
This last alternative has the advantage of ennobling your position
into a quasi-martyrdom, by, in a measure, compelling you to stay where
you are, whether you like it or not.
Toward the end of that longest of the long days, we began to regard
life and circumstance with the apathy of despair, and to cease to hope
for anything further from them except dinner.
The capital of the kingdom of Lilliput appeared to be partially
surrounded by a vast and melancholy campagna of turnips. These wilds,
immeasurably spread, seemed lengthening as we went. Village after
{107} village had we reached, and explored in vain. Judging by our
feelings, I should say we had ransacked at least half-a-hundred of
those rural colonies. Almost all these villages possessed at least six
public-houses and two ponds. Some few had no ponds, but all had six
public-houses. Rural, dusty, cracked public-houses; with frowzy
gardens, with rotten, sloppy tables and benches; with beery gorillas
playing at quoits and ninepins.
The names of none of these settlements seemed to us pronounceable by
human beings, with the exception of two, which sounded like Diggum and
Hittumontheback. But our city driver appeared to be acquainted with
the Simian tongue, and was directed from village to village by the
good-natured apes whom he interrogated.
About sunset we came to a larger and quite civilized place, with a
French name, signifying "The Tadpoles"--the place I have described at
the commencement of this narrative. Our dusty fly and dejected horse
turned into the carriage entrance of the first little hotel we saw. It
stood sideways to a picturesque little lake, with green shores. The
carriage entrance went through the house. Beyond, we had caught sight
of a paved yard or court, and of a vista of green leafiness that
looked cool and inviting. We heard the noisy jangling of a
barrel-organ playing a polka, and we found a performance going on in
the court that absorbed the attention of the whole household. No one
seemed to hear, or at least to heed, the sound of our wheels, but,
when our vehicle fairly stopped in the paved yard, a fishy-eyed waiter
came toward us, jauntily flipping time with his napkin. We begged him
to get us dinner instantly.
"Way, Mosou," replied that official, in the sweet Belgian-French
language, and let us out of the fly. We had been so long cramped up in
it that we were glad to walk, and stand, and look about the court
while our food was got ready.
The organ-grinder had not ceased grinding out his polka for a moment.
The wiry screams of his infernal machine seemed to charm him as much
as they did the rest of the company assembled. He was the usual
Savoyard, with a face like a burnt crust; all fire-brown eyes, sable
ringlets, and insane grimace. He leaned against a low stone post, and
ground out that horrible bray, like a grinning maniac. We walked to a
short distance, and took in the scene.
A little sallow young man, having a bushy mustache, stood near a door
into the house, with a dish in his hand, as if he had been transfixed
in the act of carrying it somewhere. Beside him, on the step of the
door, sat a blonde young woman, with large blue eyes and a little
mouth--as pretty and as _fade_ as a Carlo-Dolcian Madonna. Evidently
these were the landlord and his lady.
On a garden-bench, by the low wall that divided the court from the
garden beyond, sat, a little apart, a young person of a decidedly
French aspect, dressed quite plainly, but with Parisian precision, in
black silk. In her hand and on her lap lay some white embroidery. She
was not pretty, but had neat, small features, that wore a pleasant
though rather sad smile, as she suspended her work to watch what was
going on. An old woman in a dark-blue gown and a clean cap, with a
pile of freshly-ironed linen in her arms, stood at the top of some
steps leading into a little building which was probably the laundry.
She was wagging her old head merrily to the dance tune. Other
lookers-on lounged about, but some of them had vanished since our
arrival--for instance, the fishy-eyed waiter and a burly individual in
a white nightcap.
The centre of attraction remains to be described. Within a few paces
of the organ-grinder, a little girl and boy danced indefatigably on
the stones, to the unmusical music of his box. The little boy was a
small, fair, sickly child, in a linen blouse, and about four years
old. He jumped, and stamped, and {108} laughed excitedly. The little
girl looked about a year older. She was plump and rosy, dressed in a
full pink frock and black silk apron. She had light brown hair, cut
short and straight, like a boy's. She danced very energetically, but
solemnly, without a smile on her wee round mouth. She poussetted, she
twirled--her pink frock spread itself out like a parasol. Her fat
little bare arms akimbo, she danced in a gravely coquettish,
thoroughly business-like way; now crossing, changing places with her
partner; now setting to him, with little pattering feet; now suddenly
whisking and whirling off. The little boy watched her, and followed
her lead: she was the governing spirit of the dance. Both children
kept admirable time. They were dancing the tarantella, though they had
never heard of it; but of all the poetry of motion, the tarantella is
the most natural measure to fall into.
The organ-grinder ground, and grinned, and nodded; the landlord and
his wife exchanged looks of admiration and complacency whenever they
could take their eyes off the little dancing nymph: it was easy to see
they were her proud parents. The quiet young lady on the bench looked
tenderly at the tiny, sickly boy, as he frisked. We felt sure she was
his mother. His eyes were light blue, not hazel; but he had the same
neat little features.
All of a sudden, down from an open window looking into the court,
there came an enormous voice--
"Ah, ah! Bravo! Ah, ah, Monsieur Babebibo-BOU!"
The little boy stopped dancing; so did the little girl, and every one
looked up at the window. The little boy, clapping his hands and
screaming with glee, ran under it. No one could be seen at that
aperture, but we had caught a momentary glimpse of a big blond man in
a blue blouse, who had instantly dropped out of sight, and who was
crouching on the floor, for we saw, though the child below could not,
the top of his straw hat just above the window-edge. The little boy
screamed, "Papa, papa!" The great voice, making itself preternaturally
gruff, roared out--
"Qui est la? Est-ce par chance Monsieur Babebibo-BOU?" (The first
syllables very fast, the final one explosive.)
"Way, way! C'est Mosou Babi--_bou_!" cried the child, trying to
imitate the gruff voice, and jumping and laughing ecstatically.
Out of the window came flying a huge soft ball of many colors, and
then another roar: "Avec les compliments du Roi de tous les joujoux, a
Monsieur Babebibo-BOU!"
More rapture. Then a large white packet, palpably sugar-plums, "Avec
les compliments de la Reine de tous les bonbons, a Mademoiselle Marie,
et a Monsieur Babebibo-BOU!"
Rapture inexpressible, except by shrill shrieks and capers. The plump
little girl gravely advances and assists at the examination of the
packet, popping comfits into her tiny mouth with a placid melancholy,
which I have often observed in fat and rosy faces.
Meanwhile, the organ-grinder has at last stopped grinding, has lowered
his box, and is eating a plateful of cold meat and bread which the old
woman has brought out to him. The landlord and his wife have
disappeared. The young Frenchwoman on the garden-bench has risen, and
come toward the children; and now, from a doorway leading into the
house, issues the big blond man we caught a momentary glimpse of at
the window.
The little boy abandons the sugar-plums to his playfellow, and crying
"Papa! papa!" darts to the new comer, who stoops and gathers him up to
his broad breast, in his large arms and hands, kissing him fondly and
repeatedly. The child responds with like effusion. The father's great
red face, with its peaked yellow beard, contrasts touchingly, somehow,
with the wee pale phiz of his little son. {109} The child's tiny white
pads pat the jolly cheeks and pull the yellow beard. Then the man in
the blouse sets his son carefully on the ground, and kisses the young
Frenchwoman who stands by.
The big man has evidently been absent awhile from his family. "How
goes it, my sister?" says he.
"Well, my brother," she answers quietly. "Thou hast seen Auguste
dance. Thou hast seen how well, and strong, and happy he is--the good
God be thanked."
"And after him, thee, my good sister," says the big man,
affectionately.
We had been called in to dinner by this time, but the open window of
our eating-room looked into the court close to where the group stood.
We observed that Mademoiselle Marie had remained sole possessor of the
packet of sweets; and that the little boy, content to have got his
papa, made no effort to assert his rights in them. The big papa
interfered, saying, "Mais, mais, la petite.... Give at least of the
bonbons to thy comrade. It is only fair."
"Let her eat them, Jean," put in his sister, with naive feminine
generosity and justice. "They are so unwholesome for Auguste, seest
thou?"
The big man laughed, lit his pipe, and the three went away into the
little garden, where they strolled, talking in the summer twilight.
We came happily to an anchor here, in this foggy little haven, and
finding we could secure, at tolerably moderate charges, the
accommodation we required, made up our minds to stay at this little
hotel for the few weeks of our absence from Brussels.
II.
Next morning we were breakfasting in the garden under a trellis of
hop-leaves, when the big man in the blouse came up the gravel-walk,
with his small son on his shoulder.
They were making a tremendous noise. The little boy was pulling his
father's great red ear; he affected to bellow with anguish, his
roaring voice topped by the child's shrill, gleeful treble. We saluted
the new comers in a neighborly manner.
"A beautiful day, Madame," said the big man, in French, taking off his
hat and bowing politely to John's wife, at the same time surrounding
his son safely with his left arm.
"Madame and these Messieurs are English, is it not?"
"A pretty place," we went on to say, after owning our nationality,
"and very pleasant in this hot weather after the glare of Brussels."
"It is that; and I am here as often as possible," returned our new
acquaintance. "My sister is staying here for the advantage of this
little man. . . . Monsieur Auguste, at your service. Salute then the
society, Auguste. You must know he has the pretension to be a little
delicate, this young man. An invalid, if you please; consequently his
aunt spoils him! It is a ruse on his part, you perceive. Ah, bah! An
invalid! My word, he fatigues my poor arm. Ah--h! I cannot longer
sustain him. I faint--I drop him down he goes. . . la--a--a!"
Here, lowering him carefully, as if he were crystal, he pretended to
let his son suddenly tumble on a bit of grass-plot.
"At present" (grumbling) "here he is, broken to pieces probably; we
shall have the trouble of mending him. His aunt must bring her needle
and thread."
Monsieur Auguste was so enchanted with this performance that he
encored it ecstatically. His father obeyed, and then sent him off
running to call out his aunt to breakfast, which was laid under a
neighboring trellis.
"He is strong on his legs, is it not, Madame?" said the father,
looking after him; his jolly face and light blue eyes a little grave,
and wistful. "His spirits are so high, see you? He is {110} too
intelligent, too intellectual--he has a little exhausted his strength;
that says all. He is well enough; he has no malady; and every day he
is getting stouter, plainly to the eye."
Here the aunt and nephew joined us. Our new acquaintance introduced
her.
"Ma belle-soeur. Ma chere,--Madame and these Messieurs are English.
They are good enough to take an interest in this infant Hercules of
ours."