He tossed the child on his shoulder again; established on which throne

his little monarch amused himself by ornamenting the parental

straw-hat with a huge flaring poppy and some green leaves, beneath

which the jovial face bloomed Bacchic.

Meanwhile the quiet young French-woman, smiling affectionately at

those playfellows as they went off together, sat down on a chair we

offered her, and frankly entered into conversation.

In a few minutes we knew a great deal about this little family. The

man in the blouse was a Belgian painter, Jean Baudin, and "well seen

in the expositions of Paris and Brussels." "His wife was my sister: we

were of Paris. When our little Auguste was born, my poor sister died.

She was always delicate. The little one is very delicate. Ah, so

delicate, also. It is impossible to be over-careful of him. And his

father, who is so strong--so strong! But the little one resembles in

every manner his mother. His poor father adores him, as you see. Poor

Jean! he so tenderly loved his wife, who died in her first youth. . . .

She had but eighteen years--she had six years less than I. In dying

she begged me to be to her infant a mother, and to her poor Jean a

sister. Jean is a good brother, bon et brave homme. And for the little

one, he is truly a child to be adored--judiciously, it is understood,

madame: I spoil him not, believe me. But he is clever to astonish you,

that child. So spiritual, and then such a tender little good heart--a

disposition so amiable. Hardly he requires correction. . . . Auguste!

how naughty thou art! Auguste! dost thou hear? Jean! take him then off

the dusty wall, and wipe him a little. Mon ami, thou spoilest the

child; one must be judicious."

We presently left the garden, and, in passing, beheld Monsieur Auguste

at breakfast. He was seated between his papa and aunt, and was being

adored by both (judiciously and injudiciously) to the heart's content

of all three.

We stayed a month at this little hotel at The Tadpoles. The English

family soon fraternized with that of Jean Baudin, the Flemish painter,

also sojourning there, and the only other resident guests.

John's wife and Mademoiselle became good friends and gossips, and sat

at work and chat many a summer hour under the hop trellises.

Mademoiselle Rose Leclerc was the Frenchwoman's name, but her name of

ceremony was simply "Mademoiselle." John and I used to walked about

the country, among the lanes, and woods, and hamlets which diversify

the flats on that side of Brussels, accompanying Jean Baudin and his

paint-box. We sat under a tree, or on a stone fence, smoking pipes of

patience, while Jean made studies for those wonderful, elaborate tiny

pictures, the work of his big hands, by which he and his little son

lived. I remember, in particular, a mossy old cottage, rough and grey;

the front clothed with vines, the quaint long gable running down

behind to within a yard of the ground. Baudin sketched that cottage

very often; and often used its many picturesque features.

Sometimes it was the rickety, black-timbered porch, garlanded with

vine; a sonsy, blond-haired young Flemish maiden sat there, and

twirled the bobbins on a lace-cushion, in a warm yellow flicker of

sunshine. Sometimes Jean went right into the porch and into the

cottage itself, and presently brought us out an old blue-gowned,

black-coifed creature, knitting as she kicked the grand-babe's clumsy

cradle {111} with her clumsy sabot;--a ray through the leafy little

window-hole found the crone's white hair, and the infant cheek. Honest

Jean only painted what he saw with his eyes. He could copy such simple

poetry as this, and feel it too, though he could indite no original

poems on his canvas pages. He was a hearty good fellow, and we soon

got to like him, and his kindly, unpretentious, but not unshrewd,

talk--that is, when it could be got off the paternal grooves--which,

to say the truth, was seldomer than we (who were not ourselves at that

period the parents of prodigies) may have secretly desired.

In the summer evenings we used to sit in the garden all together, the

ladies graciously permitting us to smoke. We liked to set the children

a-dancing again on the grass-plot before us; and I must here confess

that they saltated to a mandolin touched by this hand. I had studied

the instrument under a ragged maestro of Naples, and flattered myself.

I performed on it with credit to both, and to the general delight.

Sometimes Jean Baudin would tie to his cane a little

pocket-handkerchief of Monsieur Auguste, and putting this ensign into

his hand, cause him to go through a certain vocal performance of a

martial and defiant character. The pale little man did it with much

spirit, and a truculent aspect, stamping fiercely at particular

moments of the strain. I can only remember the effective opening of

this entertainment. Thus it began--"_Les Belges_" (at this point the

small performer threw up the staff and flag of his country, and

shouted _ff_) "_SONT BRAVES!!"_ Papa and aunt regarded with pride that

ferocious champion of his valiant compatriots, looking round to read

our astonishment and rapture in our faces.

We all got on excellently with the hotel folk, ingratiating ourselves

chiefly by paying a respectful court to the solid and rosy little

princess of the house. Jean Baudin painted her, sitting placid, a

little open-mouthed, heavy-lidded, over-fed, with a lapful of

cherries. We all made much of her and submitted to her. John's wife

presented her with a frock of English print, of a charming

apple-green; out of which the fat pink face bloomed like a

carnation-bud out of its calyx.

The young landlord would bring us out a dish to our garden

dinner-table, on purpose that he might linger and chat about England.

That country, and some of its model institutions, appeared to excite

in his mind a mixture of awe and curiosity, wonder and horror. For

instance, he had heard--he did not altogether believe it

(deprecatingly)--that not only were the shops of London closed, with

shutters, on the Sunday, but also the theatres; and not only the

theatres, but also the expositions, the gardens and salons of dance,

of music, of play. How! it was actually the truth?

"Certainly, what Madame was good enough to affirm one must believe.

But then what do they? No business, no amusement what then do they,

mon Dieu!--"

"They go to church, read the Bible, and keep the Sabbath day holy,"

asserts Mrs. Freshe, in perfect good faith, and severely and proudly,

as becomes a Protestant Britishwoman.

"Tiens, tiens! But it is triste, that--. Is it not that it is triste,

Madame? Tiens, tiens! And this is that which is the Protestantism.

Since Madame herself affirms it, one can doubt no longer."

And he goes pondering away, to tell his wife; with no increased

tendency to the reformed faith.

Even Joseph, the stolid and fishy-eyed waiter, patronized us, and

gravely did us a hundred obliging services beyond his official duty.

On a certain evening, Mademoiselle, John, John's wife, and I, sat as

usual at book or work under the trellises; while the two children, at

healthful play, prattled under the shade of the laurel-bushes hard by.

As usual, the solid little Flemish maiden was {112} tyrannizing calmly

over her playfellow. We constantly heard her small voice, quiet, slow,

and dominating: "_Je le veux_." "_Je ne le veux pas_." They had for

playthings a little handbell and a toy-wagon, and were playing at

railways. Auguste was the porter, trundling up, with shrill cries,

heavy luggage-trucks piled with gravel, gooseberry-skins, tin

soldiers, and bits of cork. Marie was a rich and haughty lady about to

proceed by the next convoi, and paying an immense sum, in daisies, for

her ticket, to Auguste, become a clerk. A disputed point in these

transactions appeared to be the possession of the bell; the frequent

ringing of which was indeed a principal feature of the performance.

Auguste contended hotly, but with considerable show of reason, to this

effect:--That the instrument belonged to him, in his official

capacities of porter and clerk, rather than to the rich and haughty

lady, who as a passenger was not, and could not be, entitled to

monopolize the bell of the company. Indeed, he declared himself nearly

certain that, as far as his experience went, passengers never did ring

it at all. But Marie's "Je le veux" settled the dispute, and carried

her in triumph, after the crushing manner of her sex, over all

frivolous masculine logic.

Mademoiselle sat placid beside us, doing her interminable and

elaborate satin-stitch. She was working at a broad white slip,

intended, I understood, to form the ornamental base of a petticoat. It

was at least a foot wide, of a florid and labyrinthine pattern, full

of oval and round holes, which appeared to have been cut out of the

stuff in order that Mademoiselle might be at the pains of filling them

up again with thready cobwebs. She would often with demure and

innocent complacency display this fabric, in its progress, to John's

wife (who does not herself, I fancy, excel in satin-stitch), and

relate how short a time (four months, I think) she had taken to bring

it so near completion. Mrs. Freshe regarded this work of art with

feminine eyes of admiration, and slyly remarked that it was really

beautiful enough "meme pour un trousseau." At the same time she with

difficulty concealed her disapproval of the waste of precious time

incurred by the authoress of the petticoat-border. Not that

Mademoiselle could be accused of neglecting the severer forms of her

science; such as the construction of frocks and blouses for Monsieur

Auguste--adorned, it must be admitted, with frivolous and intricate

convolutions of braid. And the exquisite neatness of the visible

portions of Monsieur Jean's linen also bore honorable testimony to

Mademoiselle's more solid labors.

Into the midst of this peaceful garden-scene entered a new personage.

A man of middle height, with a knapsack at his back, came up the

gravel-walk: a handsome brown-faced fellow of five-and-thirty, with a

big black beard, and a neat holland blouse, and a grey felt hat.

Mademoiselle and he caught sight of each other at the same instant.

Both gave a cry. Her rather sallow little face flushed like a rose.

She started up; down dropped her petticoat-work; she ran forward,

throwing out her hands; she stopped short--shy, and bright, and

pretty as eighteen! The man made a stride and took her in his arms.

"Ma Rose! ma Rose! Enfin!" cried he in a strangled voice.

She said nothing, but hung at his neck, her two little hands on his

shoulders, her face on his breast.

But that was only for a moment. Then Mademoiselle disengaged herself,

and glanced shamefacedly at us. Then she came quickly up--came to

John's wife, slid an arm round her neck, and said rapidly,

tremulously, with sparkling, tearful eyes:

"C'est Jules, Madame. C'est mon fiance depuis quatre ans. Ah, Madame,

j'ai honte--mais,"--and ran back to him. She was transformed. In place

of that staid, almost old-maidish {113} little person we knew, lo! a

bashful, rosy, smiling girl, tripping, skipping, beside herself with

happy love! And her little collar was all rumpled, and so were her

smooth brown braids. Monsieur Jules took off his felt hat, and bowed

politely when she came to us, guessing that he was being introduced.

His brown face blushed a little, too: it was a happy and honest one,

very pleasant to see.

The children had left off playing, and stared wide-eyed at these

extraordinary proceedings. Mademoiselle ran to her little nephew, and

brought him to Jules.

"I recognize well the son of our poor Lolotte," said he, softly,

lifting and kissing him. "And that dear Jean, where is he?"

Even as he spoke there came a familiar roar from that window

overlooking the court-yard, by which the painter sat at his easel

almost all day. "Ohe! Monsieur Ba-Bou!" The little boy nearly jumped

out of his new friend's arms.

"Papa! papa! Laissez-moi, done, Mosou!--Papa!"

"Is it that thou art by chance this monsieur whom they call?" laughed

Jules, as he put him down.

"Way, way!" cried the little man as he pattered off, with that gleeful

shriek of his. "C'est moi, Mosou Ba-Bou! Ba-Bou!"

"Thou knowest that great voice of our Jean," said Mademoiselle; "when

he has finished his day's labor he always calls his child like that.

Having worked all day for the little one, he goes now to make himself

a child to play with him. He calls that to rest himself. And truly the

little one idolizes his father, and for him will leave all other

playfellows--even me. Come, then, Jules, let us seek Jean."

And with a smiling salute to us the happy couple went arm-in-arm out

of the garden.

III.

We did not see much of our friends the next day. After their early

dinner, Jean came up the garden all alone, to smoke a pipe, and

stretch his legs before he returned to his work. We thought his

good-natured face was a little sad, in spite of his cheerful _abord_,

as he came to our garden parlor and spoke to us.

"It is a pleasure to see them, is it not?" said he, looking after the

lovers, just vanishing under the archway of the court-yard, into the

sunny village road. Mademoiselle had left off her sober black silk,

and floated in the airiest of chintz muslins.

"My good little Rose merits well her happiness. She sent that brave

Jules marching four years ago, because she had promised my poor wife

not to abandon her helpless infant. Truly she has been the best of

little mothers to my Auguste. Jules went away angry enough; but

without doubt he must have loved her all the better when he came to

reflect. He has been to Italy, to Switzerland, to England--know I

where? He is artist-painter, like me--of France always understood. Me,

I am Flemish, and very content to be the compatriot of Rubens, of

Vandyke. But Jules has very much talent: he paints also the portraits,

and has made successes. He is a brave boy, and deserves his Rose."

"Will the marriage take place now, at last?" we ventured to ask.

"As I suppose," answered Jean, his face clouding perceptibly.

"But you will not separate; you will live together, perhaps,"

suggested John's wife.

"Ah, Madame, how can that be? Jules is of France and I of Belgium.

When I married I brought my wife to Brussels; naturally he will carry

his to Paris. C'est juste."

"Poor little Auguste will miss his aunt," said John's wife,

involuntarily, "and she will hardly bear to leave him, I think."

"Ah, Madame," said Jean, with ever so little bitterness in his tone,

"what would you? The little one must come second now; the husband will

{114} be first. Yes, yes, and it is but fair! Auguste is strong now,

and I must find him a good bonne. I complain not. I am not so

ungrateful. My poor Rose must not be always the sacrifice. She has

been an angel to us. See you, she has saved the life of us both. The

little one must have died without her, and apparently I must have died

without the little one. C'est simple, n'est ce pas?" smiling. Then he

gave a sigh, truly as if he could not repress it, and walked away

hastily. "We looked after him, compassion in our hearts.

"That sickly little boy will hardly live if his aunt leaves him," said

Mrs. Freshe, "_and his father knows it_."

"But what a cruel sacrifice if she stayed!" said John.

"And can her lover be expected to wait till Auguste has grown up into

a strong man?" I put in.

The day after was Sunday. Coming from an early walk, I heard a

tremendous clamor, of woe or merriment, proceeding from a small

sitting-room that opened into the entrance passage. The door was wide,

and I looked in. Jean Baudin was jammed up in a corner, behind a

barricade of chairs, and was howling miserably, entreating to be let

out. His big sun-browned face was crowned by a white coif made of

paper, and a white apron was tied round his great waist over his blue

blouse. Auguste and Marie danced about the barricade with shrill

screams, frantic with joy.

When Baudin saw me he gave a dismal yell, and piteously begged me to

come to his assistance. "See, then, my dear young gentleman, how these

bandits, these rebels, these demons, maltreat their poor bonne! Help,

help!" and suddenly, with a roar like a small Niagara, he burst out of

his prison and took to his heels, round and round the court and up the

garden, the children screaming after him--the noise really terrific.

Presently it died away, and he came back to the doorstep where I

stood, Auguste on his shoulder and the little maiden demurely trotting

after. "At present, I am the bonne," said he. "Rose and her Jules are

gone to church; so is our hostess. In the meanwhile, I undertake to

look after the children. Have you ever seen a little bonne more

pretty? with my coquette cap and my neat apron--hein?"

That evening the lovers went out in a boat on the great pond, or

little lake, at the back of the hotel. They carried Auguste with them.

We all went to the water's edge; the rest remained a while, leaning

over the rails that partly skirted the parapet wall except Jean, who

strolled off with his tiny sketch-book. A very peaceful summer picture

was before us, which I can see now if I shut my eyes--I often see it.

A calm and lovely August evening near sunset; a few golden feathers

afloat in the blue sky. Below, the glassy pond that repeats blue sky,

red-roofed cottages, green banks, and woody slopes--repeats, also, the

solitary boat rowed by Jules, the three light-colored figures it

contains, and a pair of swans that glide stately after. The little boy

is throwing bits of bread or cake to them.

As we stood there and admired this pretty little bright panorama,

John's wife observed that the child was flinging himself dangerously

forward, in his usual eager, excited way, at every cast he made.

"I wonder," said she, "that his aunt takes no notice. She is so

absorbed in talk with Jules she never turns her head. Look! look!

A--h!"

A dreadful shriek went up from lake and shore. The poor little fellow,

had overbalanced himself, and had gone headlong into the lake. Some

one had flashed over the parapet wall at the same moment, and struck

the water with a splash and a thud. Some one was tearing through it

like a steam-engine, toward the boat. It was my brother John. We saw

and heard Jules, frantic, and evidently impotent to save; we saw him

make a vain clutch at something that rose to the surface. At the same

time we {115} perceived that he had scarce power to keep Rose with his

left hand from throwing herself into the water.

Hardly three minutes had yet passed, yet half the population seemed

thronging to the lake-side, here, where the village skirted it.

And suddenly we beheld a terrible--a piteous sight. A big, bareheaded

man, that burst through the people, pale, furious, awful; his teeth

set, his light blue eyes flaring. He seemed to crash through the

crowd, splintering it right and left, like a bombshell through a wall,

and was going crazy and headlong over the parapet into the water. He

could swim no more than Jules.

"Sauve! sauve!" cried John's wife, gripping his hand and hanging to it

as he went rushing past. "My husband has found him. See! see there,

Jean Baudin! He holds up the dear child."

She could not have kept him back a moment--probably he did not feel her

touch; he was only dragging her with him. But his wild eyes, fixed and

staring forward, had seen for themselves what he never heard her say.

Fast, fast as one arm could oar him, my brother was bringing Jean his

little one, held above water by the other hand. Then that poor huge

body swayed and shivered; the trembling hands went out, the face

unlocked a little, there came a hoarse sob, and like a thin, strangled

cry in a dream--

"Mon petit! mon petit!"

But strong again, and savage with love, how he snatched the pale

little burden from John, and tore up the bank to the hotel. There were

wooden back-gates that opened into the court on the lake-side, but

which were unused and locked. At one mighty kick they yawned open

before Jean, and he rushed on into the house. Here all had been

prudently prepared, and the little dripping body was quickly stripped

and wrapped in hot blankets. The village doctor was already there, and

two or three women. Jean Baudin helped the doctor and the women with a

touching docility. All his noisy roughness was smoothed. He tamed his

big voice to a delicate whisper. He spoke and moved with an affecting

submissive gentleness, watching what there was he could do, and doing

it exactly as he was bid. Now and then he spoke a word or two under

his breath--"One must be patient, I know, Monsieur le Medecin; yes,

yes." And now and then he muttered piteously "Mon petit! mon petit!"

But he was as gentle as a lamb, and touchingly eager to be helpful.

In half an hour his pain got the better of him a little.

"Mais, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" he moaned, "how I suffer! Ah, Monsieur, is

it not that he breathes a little, my dear little one? Ah, my God, save

me him! Mon petit! mon petit!"

He went into a corner of the room, and stood with his forehead against

the wall, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Then he came back

quiet and patient again.

"Priez, priez pour moi, Madame," said he, once, to John's wife.

"I am praying without ceasing, my poor friend," said she. And once she

hastily laid a handkerchief soaked in essence on his forehead, for she

thought he was surely going to faint, when the hope, long, long

deferred, began to turn his heart sick.

All this time John and I lingered in the dusky passage, in which that

door ajar made a cleft of yellow light. Every now and then a dim

figure stole up to us with an eager sad whisper, asking, "How goes it?

how goes it?" and slipped away down-stairs with the comfortless

answer.

It was poor Jules, who could do nothing for his Rose but this. She had

thrown herself on the floor in a darkening room, and lay there

moaning. Her dire anguish, sharp as a mother's for the little one, was

cruelly and unduly aggravated by self-reproach, and by the

self-inflicted agony of her exile from that room up-stairs. She dared

not enter Jean's presence. She felt that he must for ever abhor the

sight of her; she was afraid he {116} might curse her! She rejected

all kindness, all sympathy, especially from Jules, whom she quite

fiercely ordered to quit her. But when it got quite dark, the poor

fellow took in a candle, and set it on a table; and he spent the time

in going up and down-stairs to fetch her that whisper of news, which,

perhaps, he sweetened with a little false hope before he offered it to

her.

At last we outside heard a movement--a stifled exclamation; and then

one of the women ran out.

"The child has opened his eyes!" said she, as she hurried down-stairs

for some article required.

Presently we heard a man sobbing softly; and then--yes, a faint tiny

voice. And after that--nothing, for a long while. But at last at last!

a miserable, awful cry, and a heavy, heavy fall. And then came out

John's wife, at sight of whose face we turned sick at heart, and

followed her silently down-stairs. We knew what had happened: the

little one was dead.

He had opened his eyes, and had probably known his father; for the

light that his presence always kindled there had come into the little

white face. Jean, too ready to clutch the delusive hope, fell

a-sobbing with rapture, and kissing the little fair head. The child

tried to speak, and did speak, though but once.

"He said, 'Ba-Bou' quite distinctly," said John's wife, "and then such

a pretty smile came; and it's--it's there still, on his little dear

_dead_ face, John."

Here she broke down, and went into a passion of tears, sobbing for

"poor Jean! poor Jean!"

He had fainted for the first time in his strong life, and so that

blessed unconsciousness was deadening the first insupportable agony of

his dreadful wound. They carried him out, and laid him on his bed, and

I believe the doctor bled him. They hoped he would sleep afterward

from sheer exhaustion.

Presently poor Jules came to us, crying like a child, and begging us

to go to his Rose to try to rouse her, if only to make her weep. She

had fallen into a dry depth and abyss of despair--an icy crevasse,

where even his love could not reach her.

Since she had known the child was dead, she had not stirred, except to

resist, moaning, every attempt to lift her from the floor, where she

had cast herself, and except that she shuddered and repulsed Jules,

especially, whenever he went near her.

We went into the room where she lay. My good brother stooped, and

spoke to her in his tender, manly fashion, and lifted her, with a

resolution to which she yielded, and seated her on a sofa beside his

wife, whose kind arms closed round her suffering sister.

And suddenly some one had come in whom Rose could not see, for her

eyes were pressed to that womanly bosom. John's wife made a little

warning gesture that kept us others silent.

It was poor Jean himself; he came in as if in search of somewhat; he

was deadly pale, and perhaps half unconscious what he did. He was

without shoes, and his clothes and blond hair and beard were tumbled

and disordered--just as when they had laid him on his bed. When he saw

Rose, he came straight up to her, and sat down on her other side.

"Ma pauvre Rose," said he piteously--

She gave a cry and start of terror, and turned and saw him. The poor

fellow's broken heart was in his face; she could not mistake the

sweet-natured anguish there. Half bewildered by his inconceivable

grief, he had gone to her, instinctively, like a child, for sympathy

and comfort.

"Ma pauvre Rose," said he, brokenly; "notre petit--"

Passionately she took his great head between her hands, and drew it

down on her bosom, and kissed it passionately weeping at last.

And we all came out softly, and left them--left them to that Pity

which sends us the wholesome agony of such tears.

------

{117}

CARDINAL WISEMAN IN ROME.

"It was in the year 1863," says Monsignore Manning, in his funeral

oration on the great prince of the Church whose loss the whole

Catholic world is now deploring, "that the sovereign pontiff, speaking

of the cardinal, described him as 'the man of divine Providence for

England.'" And truly it seems to us that the direct inspiration of the

Holy Ghost has seldom been so clearly apparent in the choice of a

bishop as it was in the case of him who has filled the cathedral chair

of Westminster for the last fifteen years. When we remember the

peculiar circumstances under which he began his pastorship--the

reaction which was steadily, though as yet almost imperceptibly, going

on in favor of the Church; the doubt and perplexity and wavering with

which a crowd of wandering souls were groping in darkness for the

portals of divine truth; and then the outburst of anger with which the

nation at large read the bulls of the Holy Father, raising up the

English Church from the humiliation in which she had lain for three

hundred years, we shall readily understand that a rare union of

qualities was required in the man who should understand and direct

those honest seekers after truth, and breast successfully that storm

of popular fury. That Nicholas Wiseman, who had left England at the

age of sixteen, and passed twenty years of his youth and early manhood

at Rome--absorbed, just at the time when the character is most liable

to be moulded by external associations, in the theological studies and

ceremonies and sacred traditions of the ecclesiastical capital--that

he, we say, should have displayed such a remarkable fitness for both

these works, is not only an indication of the great qualities of the

man, but an instructive commentary on the school in which he had been

formed. It shows us that a Roman education, while it enlarges the view

and sweeps away local prejudices, yet leaves untouched the salient

points of national character. For his success in dealing with the

Catholic movement which followed the emancipation act of 1829,

Cardinal Wiseman was largely indebted to the quickness and accuracy of

perception in theological matters which he had acquired during his

long residence at the centre of the Christian Church; what helped him

most in his victory over the burst of Protestant fury which followed

the restoration of the English hierarchy, and found official

expression in the ecclesiastical titles bill, was his thorough English

boldness and honesty of speech and manly bearing. He appealed to his

countrymen's traditional love of fair-play; they heard him; and before

long all classes learned to love and respect him.

Of the twenty years' schooling by which he prepared himself for his

work in England, the cardinal has left us some admirable sketches,

scattered through his books. Dr. Manning alluded briefly to the

influence of his Roman education. We propose to gather up what the

cardinal himself has said about it; to paint with his own pencil a

picture of his life of preparation; leaving other hands, if they will,

to paint his subsequent life of labor.

Nicholas Wiseman was born at Seville, in Spain, on the second of

August, 1802. His father was an English merchant, his mother an Irish

lady. He lost his father in infancy, and at the age of six, in

consequence of those wars of invasion which for a time made Spain no

longer habitable, was taken to Ireland to be educated. After spending

one or two years at a boarding-school near Waterford, his mother went

with him to England, and {118} placed him at St. Cuthbert's college,

Ushaw, near Durham. Dr. Lingard was then vice-president of the

college, "and I have retained upon my memory," wrote the cardinal,

nearly fifty years afterward, "the vivid recollection of specific acts

of thoughtful and delicate kindness, which showed a tender heart,

mindful of its duties amidst the many harassing occupations just

devolved on him through the death of the president and his own

literary engagements; for he was reconducting his first great work

through the press. But though he went from college soon after, and I

later left the country, and saw him not again for fifteen years, yet

there grew up an indirect understanding first, and by degrees a

correspondence and an intimacy which continued to the close of his

life." [Footnote 38]

[Footnote 38: _Recollections of the Last Four Popes_. Leo XII. Chap.

vii.]

It was in the course of the eight years which he passed at this

reverend seat of learning--lineal descendant of the old English

college of Douay--that he determined to become a priest. Here he first

began to manifest that deep affection for the city of St. Peter which

distinguished him down to the end of his life. "Its history," he says,

"its topography, its antiquities, had formed the bond of a little

college society devoted to this queen of cities, while the dream of

its longings had been the hope of one day seeing what could then only

be known through hearsay tourists and fabulous plans." But the hope

was fulfilled soon and unexpectedly. In 1818, Pope Pius VII. restored

the English college at Rome, "after it had been desolate and

uninhabited during almost the period of a generation." Nicholas

Wiseman was one of a band of young men sent out to colonize it. He

gives a charming description of the arrival of the little party at

their Roman home, and the delight and surprise with which they roamed,

alone and undirected, through the solemn building, with its wide

corridors; its neat and cheerful rooms; its wainscotted refectory,

from whose groined ceiling looked down St. George and the dragon; its

library heaped with tumultuous piles of unorganized volumes; its

garden, glowing with the lemon and orange, and presenting to one's

first approach a perspective in fresco by Pozzi; and, above all, its

chapel, illuminated from floor to roof with saints of England and

celestial glories;--or, better still, adjoining the college, the old

roofless church of the Holy Trinity, where in generations long past

many a pilgrim from the British Isles had knelt to pray when the good

priests of his nation fed and lodged him on his visit to the tomb of

the apostles. Pleasant must have been the meeting, on that December

afternoon in the year 1818, between these six young men and their

appointed rector Dr. Gradwell, who, being absent when they arrived,

came home that evening and found himself at the head of a college, and

his frugal meal appropriated by the hungry students.

The happiness of that day casts a glow over the page on which, when he

was an old man, the cardinal recorded the incidents. On Christmas eve

he was presented, with some of his companions, to the venerable Pius

VII. We can imagine the feelings of awe with which he approached this

saintly man, released only a few years before from the French

captivity. "There was the halo of a confessor round the tiara of Pius

that eclipsed all gold and jewels.... Instead of receiving us, as was

customary, seated, the mild and amiable pontiff rose to welcome us,

and meet us as we approached. He did not allow it to be a mere

presentation, or a visit of ceremony. It was a fatherly reception, and

in the truest sense our inauguration into the duties that awaited us.

.... The friendly and almost national grasp of the hand, after due

homage had been willingly paid, between the head of the Catholic

Church, venerable by his very age, and a youth who had nothing even to

promise; {119} the first exhortation on entering a course of

ecclesiastical study--its very inaugural discourse from him whom he

believed to be the fountain of spiritual wisdom on earth;--these

surely formed a double tie, not to be broken, but rather strengthened,

by every subsequent experience."

Doubtless his early dreams of Rome were now surpassed by the reality

of his daily life. It was unalloyed spiritual and intellectual

enjoyment. Study was no task; it was only a sort of pleasure; and the

hours of relaxation became a source of mental schooling, even while he

was pursuing the most delightful recreations. It is not difficult to

imagine how he must have spent his holidays--roaming through the field

of art, or resting at some seat of the Muses, or wandering along the

stream of time, bordered by monuments of past greatness--every

footstep awakening the echoes of classic antiquity, or calling up the

most sacred memories of the early suffering Church. Even the solitude

of buried cemeteries, "where the tombs themselves are buried, where

the sepulchres are themselves things decayed and mouldering in

rottenness," is no solitude to him; for he peoples it with the shadowy

forms of the Scipios and Nasones whose ashes are there deposited. How

often, in after years, did he not recur with fond delight to the

"images of long delicious strolls, in musing loneliness, through the

deserted ways of the ancient city; of climbings among its hills, over

ruins, to reach some vantage-ground for mapping the subjacent

territory, and looking beyond on the glorious chains of greater and

lesser mountains, clad in their imperial hues of gold and purple; and

then perhaps of solemn entrance into the cool solitude of an open

basilica, where the thought now rests, as the body then did, after the

silent evening prayer, and brings forward from many well-remembered

nooks every local inscription, every lovely monument of art, the

characteristic feature of each, or the great names with which it is

associated.... Thus does Rome sink deep and deeper into the soul,

like the dew, of which every separate drop is soft and weightless, but

which still finds its way to the root of everything beneath the soil,

imparting there to every future plant its own warm tint, its own balmy

fragrance, and its own ever rejuvenescent vigor."

Such were his hours of recreation: still more delightful were his

hours of study, especially in "the great public libraries, where

noiseless monks brought him and piled round him the folios which he

required, and he sat as still amidst a hundred readers as if he had

been alone." Every day his love, his enthusiasm, for his work seemed

to increase. So he passed six or seven years, "lingering and lagging

behind others," and revelling in spiritual and intellectual luxury.

"Every school-fellow had passed on, and was hard at his noble work at

home, was gaining a crown in heaven to which many have passed." Our

young student had kissed the feet of the dead Pius VII., as he lay in

state in one of the chapels of St. Peter's; had mourned over the

departure of the great minister Consalvi; had presented himself to Leo

XII., and told him, "I am a foreigner who came here at the call of

Pius VII., six years ago; my first patrons, Pius VII., Cardinals

Litta, De Pietro, Fontana, and now Consalvi, are dead. I therefore

recommend myself to your Holiness's protection, and hope you will be a

father to me at this distance from my country." He had obtained the

Holy Father's promise. Already he was known for a youth of marvellous

talents and learning. He had maintained a public disputation in

theology, and been rewarded for his success by the title of D.D. At

last came the jubilee-year of 1825. "The aim of years, the goal of

long preparation, the longed-for crown of unwavering desires, the only

prize thought worthy of being aspired to, was attained in the bright

jubilee spring of Rome. It marks a blessed epoch in a {120} life to

have had the grace of the priesthood superadded to the exuberant

benedictions of that year."

Fortunately for the English college,--and fortunately, perhaps we

should add, for England,--he was not yet to depart for the field of

his great labor. To use his own modest words, he was found to be at

hand in 1826, when some one was wanted for the office of vice-rector

of the English college, and so was named to it; and when, in 1828, the

worthy rector, Dr. Gradwell, was appointed bishop, Dr. Wiseman was, by

almost natural sequence, named to succeed him.

Thus he continued to drink in the spirit of catholicity, and devotion,

and steadiness in faith, of which Rome is the fountain on earth. With

reverent affection he traced out the mementos of primitive

Christianity, the tombs of the martyrs and saints, the altars and

hiding-places and sacred inscriptions of the catacombs. These holy

retreats had for him a fascination such as no other spot even in Rome

possessed. Again and again he recurs to them in his writings,

lingering fondly around the hallowed precincts, and inspiring his

readers with the love for them that burned so ardently in his own

breast. One of the last pieces that came from his pen was the little

story of a martyr's tomb, which we have placed in this number of our

magazine.

Other studies were not neglected. While his companions were indulging

in the mid-day sleep, which almost everybody takes in Rome, he was at

his books. Often he passed whole nights in study, or walking to and

fro, in meditation, through the corridors of the English college. The

seasons of vacation he would often spend collating ancient manuscripts

in the Vatican library, and one of the fruits of that labor was his

_Horae Syriacae_, published when he was only twenty-five years old. In

the same year (1827), he was appointed--though without severing his

connection with the English college--professor of oriental languages

in the Roman university. It is no doubt to these two events that he

alludes in the following extract from his "Recollections" of Leo XII.,

though he tells the story as if he had been only a witness of the

circumstances: "It so happened," he says, "that a person connected

with the English college was an aspirant to a chair in the Roman

university. He had been encouraged to compete for it, on its

approaching vacancy, by his professors. Having no claims of any sort,

by interest or connection, he stood simply on the provision of the

papal bull, which threw open all professorships to competition. It was

but a secondary and obscure lectureship at best; one concerning which,

it was supposed, few would busy themselves or come forward as

candidates. It was, therefore, announced that this rule would be

overlooked, and a person every way qualified, and of considerable

reputation, would be named. The more youthful aspirant unhesitatingly

solicited an audience, at which I was present. He told the Pope

frankly of his intentions and of his earnest wish to have carried out,

in his favor, the recent enactments of his Holiness. Nothing could be

more affable, more encouraging, than Leo's reply. He expressed his

delight at seeing that his regulation was not a dead letter, and that

it had animated his petitioner to exertion. He assured him that he

should have a fair chance, 'a clear stage and no favor,' desiring him

to leave the matter in his hands.

"Time wore on; and as the only alternative given in the bull was

proof, by publication of a work, of proficiency in the art or science

that was to be taught, he quietly got a volume through the

press--probably very heavy; but sprightliness or brilliancy was not a

condition of the bull. When a vacancy arrived, it was made known,

together with the announcement that it had been filled up. All seemed

lost, except the honor of the pontiff, to which alone lay any appeal.

Another audience was asked, and {121} instantly granted, its motive

being, of course, stated. I was again present, and shall not easily

forget it. It was not necessary to re-state the case. 'I remember it

all,' the Pope said most kindly; 'I have been surprised. I have sent

for C----, through whom this has been done; I have ordered the

appointment to be cancelled, and I have reproved him so sharply that I

believe it is the reason why he is laid up to-day with fever. You have

acted fairly and boldly, and you shall not lose the fruits of your

industry. I will keep my word with you and the provisions of my

constitution.' With the utmost graciousness he accepted the

volume--now treasured by its author, into whose hands the copy has

returned--acknowledged the right to preference which it had

established, and assured its author of fair play.

"The Pope had, in fact, taken up earnestly the cause of his youthful

appellant; instead of annoyance, he showed earnestness and kindness;

and those who had passed over his pretensions with contempt were

obliged to treat with him and compromise with him on terms that

satisfied all his desires. Another audience for thanksgiving was

kindly accorded, and I witnessed the same gentle and fatherly temper,

quietly cheerful, and the same earnest sympathy with the feelings of

him whose cause had been so graciously carried through. If this young

client gained no new energies, gathered no strength from such repeated

proofs of interest and condescension; if these did not both direct and

impel, steer and fill, the sails of his little bark through many

troubled waters; nay, if they did not tinge and savor his entire

mental life, we may write that man soulless and incapable of any noble

emotions."

We must not suppose, however, that all this while he was so lost among

his books as to have forgotten that land for whose conversion he was

destined to labor through the best part of his life. He told a dear

friend how, having to wait one day at the Sapienza for the Hebrew

lecture, he went into the Church of St. Eustachio to pray; and there,

before the altar of the Blessed Sacrament and the altar of the Holy

Virgin Mother, the thought came into his mind that, as his native

country, in the oath which she imposes upon the chief personages of

the state, solemnly abjures these sacred mysteries, it was his duty to

devote himself to the defense and honor of those very doctrines in

England. And no one who has read his sermons and lectures and

pastorals can have failed to notice the burning love for the Eucharist

and the Blessed Virgin which inspired him.

The time was not yet for his mission to England; and it is so hard,

when the mind has been long running in one groove, to break out of it

and take a totally different course, that perhaps he might have come

in time to look upon the Roman theological schools as the ultimate

sphere of usefulness for which God had destined him, had he not been

suddenly called forth from his studious retirement by the voice of the

supreme pontiff. It was in 1827 that Leo XII. determined to institute

in the church of Gesu e Maria a course of English sermons, to be

attended by all colleges and religious communities that spoke the

language, and by as many other persons as chose to listen. It was

intended, of course, principally for the benefit of strangers. His

Holiness appointed Dr. Wiseman preacher. "The burden was laid there

and then," says the cardinal, describing the audience at which he

received this commission, "with peremptory kindness, by an authority

that might not be gainsaid. And crushingly it pressed upon the

shoulders. It would be impossible to describe the anxiety, pain, and

trouble which this command cost for many years after. Nor would this

be alluded to were it not to illustrate what has been kept in view

through this volume--how the most insignificant life, temper, and mind

may be moulded by the action of a {122} great and almost unconscious

power. Leo could not see what has been the influence of his

commission, in merely dragging from the commerce with the dead to that

of the living one who would gladly have confined his time to the

former,--from books to men, from reading to speaking. Nothing but this

would have done it. Yet supposing that the providence of one's life

was to be active, and in contact with the world, and one's future

duties were to be in a country and in times where the most bashful may

be driven to plead for his religion or his flock, surely a command

overriding all inclination and forcing the will to undertake the best

and only preparation for those tasks, may well be contemplated as a

sacred impulse and a timely direction to a mind that wanted both. Had

it not come then, it never more could have come; other bents would

have soon become stiffened and unpliant; and no second opportunity

could have been opened after others had satisfied the first demand."

From this time it would seem as if England had a stronger hold upon

his heart than ever. The noble purpose--which worldly men have since

laughed at as a wild dream--of devoting himself to the conversion of

England, became the ruling idea of his life. And often alone at night

in the college chapel he would "pour out his heart in prayer and

tears, full of aspirations and of a firm trust; of promptings to go,

but fear to outrun the bidding of our divine Master." He offered

himself to the Pope for this great work; but still the time was not

come; and he was told to wait.

But if he was not to go yet himself, he had his part to perform in

making others ready. He well knew that to fit his pupils for their

work, he must teach them something beside theology. Englishmen were a

sort of Brahmins; the missionary who went among them must go as one

versed in all learning, or he would not be listened to. He saw how the

natural sciences were growing to be the favorite pursuit--we may

almost say the hobby--of modern scholars, and in a preface to a thesis

by a student of the English college he insisted on the necessity of

uniting general and scientific knowledge to theological pursuits. As

another instance of the personal influence which several successive

pontiffs exercised over his studies, and the many kind marks of

interest which contributed to attach him so strongly to their persons,

we may repeat an anecdote which he tells in reference to this little

essay. He went to present it to Pius VIII., but the Holy Father had it

already before him, and said, "You have robbed Egypt of its spoil, and

shown that it belongs to the people of God." The same idea which he

briefly exposed in this essay, he developed more fully and with great

wealth of illustration in a course of lectures on the Connection

between Science and Revealed Religion, delivered first to his pupils

and afterward to a distinguished audience at the apartments of

Cardinal Weld. It was partly with a view to the revision and

publication of these lectures that he visited England in 1835.

During his stay in London, he preached a series of controversial

discourses in the Sardinian chapel during the Advent of 1835, and

another in St. Mary's, Moorfields, in Lent, 1836. The latter were

published under the title of _Lectures on the Principal Doctrines and

Practices of the Catholic Church_. They exhibit in a remarkable degree

the qualities, so rare in polemical literature, of kindness,

moderation, and charity for all men. The _odium theologicum_, indeed,

has less place at Rome than anywhere else in the Christian world. It

was at the very centre and chief school of the science of divinity

that he learned to fight against error without temper, and expose

falsehood without hard language. "I will certainly bear willing

testimony," he says, "to the absence of all harsh words and

uncharitable insinuations against others in public lectures or private

teaching, or even {123} in conversation at Rome. One grows up there in

a kinder spirit, and learns to speak of errors in a gentler tone than

elsewhere, though in the very centre of highest orthodox feeling." Dr.

Wiseman went back to the English college, leaving among his countrymen

at home an enviable reputation for honesty, learning, and good sense.

A few years more passed in frequent contact with the Holy Father, and

under the continuous influence of the sacred associations with which

eighteen centuries have peopled the Christian capital, and Nicholas

Wiseman was then ready to go forth to his work. The recollection of

numberless favors and kind words from the supreme pontiff went with

him, and strengthened him, and colored his thoughts. He has told of

the cordial and paternal treatment with which he was honored by

Gregory XVI. in particular. "An embrace would supply the place of

ceremonious forms on entrance. At one time a long, familiar

conversation, seated side by side; at another a visit to the

penetralia of the pontifical apartment (a small suite of entresols,

communicating by an internal staircase) occupied the time.

.....

What it has been my happiness to hear from him in such visits, it

would be betraying a sacred trust to reveal; but many and many words

there spoken rise to the mind in times of trouble, like stars, not

only bright in themselves, but all the brighter in their reflection

from the brightness of their mirror. They have been words of mastery

and spell over after events, promises, and prognostics which have not

failed, assurances and supports that have never come to naught."

[Footnote 39]

[Footnote 39: He gives an amusing account of a perplexing situation

from which this same Pope once unwittingly delivered him, while he

was engaged in his course of lectures on Science and Revealed

Religion at the apartments of Cardinal Weld. "On one of the days of

delivery," says he, "I had been prevented from writing the lecture

in time, and was laboring to make up for my delay, but in vain.

Quarter after quarter of each hour flew rapidly on, and my advance

bore no proportion to the matter before me. The fatal hour of twelve

was fast approaching, and I knew not what excuse I could make, nor

how to supply, except by a lame recital, the important portion yet

unwritten of my task--for an index to the lectures had been printed

and circulated. Just as the last moment arrived, a carriage from the

palace drove to the door, with a message that I would step into it

at once, as His Holiness wished to speak to me. This was, indeed, a

_deus ex machina_--the only and least thought of expedient that

could have saved me from my embarrassment. A messenger was

despatched to inform the gathering audience of the unexpected cause

of necessary adjournment of our sitting till the next day. The

object of my summons was one of very trifling importance, and

Gregory little knew what a service he had unintentionally rendered

me."]

In 1840 it was determined to increase the number of vicars apostolic

in England from four to eight, and Dr. Wiseman, at the same time, was

appointed coadjutor to Bishop Walsh at Wolverhampton. "It was a

sorrowful evening," he says, "at the beginning of autumn, when, after

a residence in Rome prolonged through twenty-two years, till affection

clung to every old stone there, like the moss that grew into it, this

strong but tender tie was cut, and much of future happiness had to be

invested in the mournful recollections of the past."

Here we leave him. It was not until ten years later that he became

cardinal, but though from 1840 to 1850 he filled only a subordinate

position, he was working hard and well during this period, and fast

rising to be the foremost man of all the Catholics of England. And his

work never ceased. He lived to see the hierarchy established, and the

conversion of his countrymen making steady if not rapid progress; but

his energy never flagged when a part of his task was done; he passed

on from one labor to another, until that last day, when "he entered

into the sanctuary of God's presence, from which he never again came

forth."

------

{124}

From All The Year Bound.

THE NICK OF TIME.

Let us suppose a case that might occur if it has not occurred.

John Mullet, immersed (say) in the button trade at Birmingham, has

made money in business. He bequeaths his property by will, and is in

due time gathered to his fathers. His two sons, Jasper and Josiah,

take certain portions; and other portions are to go either to the

family of Jasper or to that of Josiah, according as either one of

those brothers survives the other. Jasper remains in England; but

Josiah goes out to Australia, to establish something that may make his

children great people over there. Both brothers, twelve thousand miles

apart, die on the same day, May 1st, one at noon (Greenwich time), the

other at noon (Sydney time). Jasper's children have been on pleasant

cousinly terms with Josiah's; but they are aware of the fact that it

would be better for them that Josiah should die before their own

father, Jasper. Josiah's children, on the other hand, be they few or

many, although they always liked uncle Jasper, cannot and do not

ignore the fact that their interests would be better served by the

survivorship of Josiah than that of Jasper. The two sets of cousins,

therefore, plunge into a contest, to decide the question of

survivorship between the two sons of old John Mullet.

This is one variety of a problem which the courts of law and equity

are often called upon to settle. Occasionally the question refers to

two persons who die at the same time, and in each other's company. For

instance: Toward the close of the last century, George Netherwood, his

children by his first wife, his second wife, and her son, were all

wrecked during a voyage from Jamaica to England. Eight thousand pounds

were left by will, in such a way that the relations of the two wives

were greatly interested in knowing whether the second Mrs. Netherwood

did or did not survive her husband, even by one single minute--a

matter which, of course, could not be absolutely proved. Again, in

1806, Mr. Mason and one son were drowned at sea; his remaining eight

children went to law, some of them against the others; because, if the

father died before the son, L5,000 would be divided equally among the

other eight children; whereas, if the son died before the father, the

brothers only would get it, the sisters being shut out. A few years

afterward Job Taylor and his wife were lost in a ship wrecked at sea;

they had not much to leave behind them; but what little there was was

made less by the struggles of two sets of relatives, each striving to

show that one or other of the two hapless persons _might_ possibly

have survived the other by a few minutes. In 1819 Major Colclough, his

wife, and four children, were drowned during a voyage from Bristol to

Cork; the husband and wife had both made wills; and there arose a

pretty picking for the lawyers in relation to survivorships and next

of kin, and trying to prove whether the husband died first, the wife

first, or both together. Two brothers, James and Charles Corbet, left

Demerara on a certain day in 1828, in a vessel of which one was master

and the other mate; the vessel was seen five days afterward, but from

that time no news of her fate was ever received. Their father died

about a month after the vessel was last seen. The ultimate disposal of

his property depended very much on the question whether he survived

his two sons or they survived him. Many curious arguments were used in

court. Two or three captains stated that from August to January are

hurricane {125} months in the West Indian seas, and that the ship was

very likely to have been wrecked quite early in her voyage. There

were, in addition, certain relations interested in James's dying

before Charles; and they urged that, if the ship was wrecked, Charles

was likely to have outlived by a little space his brother James,

because he was a stronger and more experienced man. Alas for the

"glorious uncertainty!" One big-wig decided that the sons survived the

father, and another that the father survived the sons. About the

beginning of the present reign, three persons, father, mother, and

child, were drowned on a voyage from Dublin to Quebec; the husband had

made a will, leaving all his property to his wife; hence arose a

contest between the next of kin and the wife's relations, each

catching at any small fact that would (theoretically) keep one poor

soul alive a few minutes longer than the other. About ten years ago, a

gentleman embarked with his wife and three children for Australia: the

ship was lost soon after leaving England; the mate, the only person

who was saved among the whole of the crew and passengers, deposed that

he saw the hapless husband and wife locked in each other's arms at the

moment when the waves closed over them. There would seem to be no

question of survivorship here; yet a question really arose; for there

were two wills to be proved, the terms of which would render the

relatives much interested in knowing whether husband or wife did

really survive the other by ever so small a portion of time.

These entangled contests may rest in peace, so far as the actual

decisions are concerned. And so may others of a somewhat analogous

nature. Such, for instance, as the case of an old lady and her

housekeeper at Portsmouth. They were both murdered one night. The lady

had willed all her property to the housekeeper, and then, the lawyers

fought over the question as to which of the women died first. Or, the

case of a husband who promised, on his marriage-day, to settle L1,200

on his wife "in three or four years." They were both drowned about

three years after the marriage; and it was not until after a tough

struggle in chancery that the husband's relatives conquered those of

the wife--albeit, the money had nearly vanished in law expenses by

that time. Or, the case of a man who gave a power of attorney to sell

some property. The property was sold on the 8th of June, but the man

was never seen after the 8th of the preceding March, and was supposed

to have been wrecked at sea; hence arose a question whether the man

was or was not dead on the day when the property was sold--a question

in which the buyer was directly interested. The decisions in these

particular cases we pass over; but it is curious to see how the law

sometimes tries to _guess_ at the nick of time in which either one of

two persons dies. Sometimes the onus of proof rests on one of the two

sets of relations. If they cannot prove a survivorship, the judgment

is that the deaths were simultaneous. Sometimes the law philosophizes

on vitality and decay. The Code Napoleon lays down the principle that

of two persons who perish by the same calamity, if they were both

children, the elder probably survived the younger by a brief space, on

account of having superior vital energy; whereas, if they were elderly

people, the younger probably survived the elder. The code also takes

anatomy and physiology into account, and discourses on the probability

whether a man would or would not float longer alive than a woman, in

the event of shipwreck. The English law is less precise in this

matter. It is more prone to infer simultaneous death, unless proof of

survivorship be actually brought forward. Counsel, of course, do not

fail to make the best of any straw to catch at. According to the

circumstances of the case, they argue that a man, being usually

stronger than a woman, probably survives her a little in a case of

{126} simultaneous drowning; that, irrespective of comparative

strength, her greater terror and timidity would incapacitate her from

making exertions which would be possible to him; that a seafaring man

has a chance of surviving a landsman, on account of his experience in

salt-water matters; that where there is no evidence to the contrary, a

child may be presumed to have outlived his father; that a man in good

health would survive one in ill health; and so forth.

The nick of time is not less an important matter in reference to

single deaths, under various circumstances. People are often very much

interested in knowing whether a certain person is dead or not. Unless

under specified circumstances, the law refuses to kill a man--that is,

a man known to have been alive at a certain date is presumed to

continue to live, unless and until proof to the contrary is adduced.

But there are certain cases in which the application of this rule

would involve hardship. Many leases are dependent on lives; and both

lessor and lessee are concerned in knowing whether a particular life

has terminated or not. Therefore, special statutes have been passed,

in relation to a limited number of circumstances, enacting that if a

man were seen alive more than seven years ago, and has not since been

seen or heard of, he may be treated as dead.

The nick of time occasionally affects the distribution or amount of

property in relation to particular seasons. Some years ago the

newspapers remarked on the fact that a lord of broad acres, whose

rent-roll reached something like L40,000 a year, died "about midnight"

between the 10th and 11th of October; and the possible consequences of

this were thus set forth: "His rents are payable at 'old time,' that

is, old Lady-day and old Michaelmas-day. Old Michaelmas-day fell this

year on Sunday, the 11th instant. The day begins at midnight. Now, the

rent is due upon the first moment of the day it becomes due; so that

at one second beyond twelve o'clock of the 10th instant, rent payable

at old Michaelmas-day is in law due. If the lord died before twelve,

the rents belong to the parties taking the estates; but if after

twelve, then they belong to and form part of his personal estate. The

difference of one minute might thus involve a question on the title to

about L20,000." We do not know that a legal difficulty did arise; the

facts only indicate the mode in which one might have arisen. Sometimes

that ancient British institution, the house clock, has been at war

with another British institution, the parish church clock. A baby was

born, or an old person died, just before the house clock struck twelve

on a particular night, but after the church clock struck. On which day

did the birth or death take place--yesterday or to-day? And how would

this fact be ascertained, to settle the inheritance of an estate? We

know an instance (not involving, however, the inheritance to property)

of a lady whose relations never have definitely known on which day she

was born; the pocket watch of the accoucheur who attended her mother

pointed to a little before twelve at midnight, whereas the church

clock had just struck twelve. Of course a particular day had to be

named in the register; and as the doctor maintained that his watch was

right, there were the materials for a very pretty quarrel if the

parties concerned had been so disposed. It might be that the nick of

time was midnight exactly, as measured by solar or sun-dial time: that

is, the sun may have been precisely in the nadir at that moment; but

this difficulty would not arise in practice, as the law knows only

mean time, not sun-dial time. If Greenwich time were made legal

everywhere, and if electric clocks everywhere established

communication with the master clock at the observatory, there might be

another test supplied; but under the conditions stated, it would be a

nice matter of _Tweedledum_ and _Tweedledee_ {127} to determine

whether the house clock, the church clock, or a pocket watch, should

be relied upon. All the pocket watches in the town might be brought

into the witness-box, but without avail; for if some accorded with the

house clock, others would surely be found to agree better with the

church clock.

This question of clocks, as compared with time measured by the sun,

presents some very curious aspects in relation to longitude. What's

o'clock in London will not tell you what's o'clock in Falmouth, unless

you know the difference of longitude between the two places. The sun

takes about twenty minutes to go from the zenith of the one to the

zenith of the other. Local time, the time at any particular town, is

measured from the moment of noon at that town; and noon itself is when

the sun comes to the meridian of that place. Hence Falmouth noon is

twenty minutes after London noon, Falmouth midnight twenty minutes

after London midnight; and so on. When it is ten minutes after

midnight, on the morning of Sunday, the 1st of January, in London, it

is ten minutes before midnight, on Saturday, the 31st of December, at

Falmouth. It is a Sabbath at the one place, a working-day at the

other. That particular moment of absolute time is in the year 1865 at

the one, and 1864 at the other. Therefore, we see, it might become a

ticklish point in what year a man died, solely on account of this

question of longitude, irrespective of any wrong-going or wrong-doing

of clocks, or of any other doubtful points whatever. Sooner or later

this question will have to be attended to. In all our chief towns,

nearly all our towns indeed, the railway-station clocks mark Greenwich

time, or, as it is called, "railway time;" the church clocks generally

mark local time; and some commercial clocks, to serve all parties,

mark both kinds of time on the same dial-face, by the aid of an

additional index hand. Railway time is gradually beating local time;

and the law will by-and-by have to settle which shall be used as the

standard in determining the moment of important events. Some of the

steamers plying between England and Ireland use Greenwich time in

notifying the departures from the English port, and Dublin time in

notifying those from the Irish port; a method singularly embarrassing

to a traveller who is in the habit of relying on his own watch. Does a

sailor get more prog, more grog, more pay, within a given space of

absolute time when coming from America to England, or when going from

England to America? The difference is far too slight to attract either

his attention or that of his employers; yet it really is the case that

he obtains more good things in the former of these cases than in the

latter. His days are shorter on the homeward than on the outward

voyage; and if he receive so much provisions and pay per day, he

interprets day as it is to him on shipboard. When in harbor, say at

Liverpool, a day is, to him as to every one else who is stationary

like himself, a period of definite length; but when he travels

Eastward or Westward, his days are variable in length. When he travels

West, he and the sun run a race; the sun of course beats; but the

sailor accomplishes a little, and the sun has to fetch up that little

before he can complete what foot-racers call a lap. In other words,

there is a longer absolute time between noon and noon to the sailor

going West, than to the sailor ashore. When he travels East, on the

contrary, he and the sun run toward each other; insomuch that there is

less absolute time in the period between his Monday's noon and

Tuesday's noon than when he was ashore. The ship's noon is usually

dinner-time for the sailors; and the interval between that and the

next noon (measured by the sun, not by the chronometer) varies in

length through the causes just noticed. Once now and then there are

facts recorded in the newspapers which bring this {128} truth into

prominence--a truth demonstrable enough in science, but not very

familiar to the general public. When the _Great Eastern_ made her first

veritable voyage across the Atlantic in June, 1860, she left

Southampton on the 17th, and reached New York on the 28th. As the ship

was going West, more or less, all the while, she was going with or

rather after the sun; the interval was greater between noon and noon

than when the ship was anchored off Southampton; and the so-called

eleven days of the voyage were eleven long days. As it was important,

in reference to a problem in steam navigation, to know how many

revolutions the paddles made in a given time, to test the power of the

mighty ship, it was necessary to bear in mind that the ship's day was

longer than a shore day; and it was found that, taking latitude and

longitude into account, the day on which the greatest run was made was

nearly twenty-four and a half hours long; the ship's day was equal to

half an hour more than a landsman's day. The other days varied from

twenty-four to twenty-four and a half. On the return voyage all this

was reversed; the ship met the sun, the days were less than

twenty-four ordinary hours long, and the calculations had to be

modified in consequence. The sailors, too, got more food in a homeward

week than an outward week, owing to the intervals between the meals

being shorter albeit, their appetites may not have been cognizant of

the difference.

And this brings us back to our hypothetical Mullets. Josiah died at

noon (Sydney time), and Jasper died on the same day at noon (Greenwich

time). Which died first? Sydney, although not quite at the other side

of the world, is nearly so; it is ten hours of longitude Eastward of

Greenwich; the sun rises there ten hours earlier than with us. It is

nearly bed-time with Sydney folks when our artisans strike work for

dinner. There would, therefore, be a reasonable ground for saying that

Josiah died first. But had it been New Zealand, a curious question

might arise. Otago, and some other of the settlements in those

islands, are so near the antipodes of Greenwich, that they may either

be called eleven and three-quarter hours East, or twelve and a quarter

hours West, of Greenwich, according as we suppose the navigator to go

round the Cape of Good Hope or round Cape Horn. At six in the morning

in London, it is about six in the evening at New Zealand. But of which

day? When it is Monday morning in London, is it Sunday evening or

Monday evening in New Zealand? This question is not so easy to solve

as might be supposed. When a ship called at Pitcairn Island several

years ago, to visit the singular little community that had descended

from the mutineers of the Bounty, the captain was surprised to find

exactly one day difference between his ship's reckoning and that of

the islanders; what was Monday, the 26th, to the one, was Tuesday, the

27th, to the other. A voyage East had been the origin of one

reckoning, a voyage West that of the other. Not unlikely we should

have to go back to the voyage of the Bounty itself, seventy-seven

years ago, to get to the real origin of the Pitcairners' reckoning.

How it may be with the English settlers in New Zealand, we feel by no

means certain. If the present reckoning began with some voyage made

round Cape Horn, then our Monday morning is New Zealand Sunday

evening; but if with some voyage made round the Cape of Good Hope,

then our Monday morning is New Zealand Monday evening. Probabilities

are perhaps in favor of the latter supposition. We need not ask,

"What's o'clock at New Zealand?" for that can be ascertained to a

minute by counting the difference of longitude; but to ask, "What day

of the week and of the month is it at New Zealand?" is a question that

might, for aught we can see, involve very important legal

consequences.

------

{129}

From the Dublin Review.

RECENT DISCOVERIES IN THE CATACOMBS.

The chromo-lithographic press, established at Rome by the munificence

of Pius IX., has issued its first publication, four sheets in large

folio, _Imagines Selectae Deiparae Virginis in Caemeteriis Suburbanis

Udo depictae_, with about twenty pages of text from the pen of the

Cavaliere G. B. de Rossi. The subject and the author are amply

sufficient to recommend them to the Christian archaeologist, and the

work of the artists employed is in every way worthy of both. It is by

no means an uncommon idea, even among Catholics who have visited Rome

and _done_ the catacombs, that our Blessed Lady does not hold any

prominent place in the decorations of those subterranean cemeteries.

Protestant tourists often boldly publish that she is nowhere to be

found there. The present publication will suffice to show, even to

those who never leave their own homes, the falsehood of this statement

and impression. De Rossi has here set before us a selection of four

different representations of Holy Mary, as she appears in that

earliest monument of the Christian Church; and, in illustrating these,

he has taken occasion to mention a score or two of others. Moreover,

he has vindicated for them an antiquity and an importance far beyond

what we were prepared to expect; and those who have ever either made

personal acquaintance with him, or have studied his former writings,

well know how far removed he is from anything like uncritical and

enthusiastic exaggerations. Even such writers as Mr. Burgon ("Letters

from Rome") cannot refrain from bearing testimony to his learning,

moderation, and candor; they praise him, often by way of contrast with

some Jesuit or other clerical exponent of the mysteries of the

catacombs, for all those qualities which are calculated to inspire us

with confidence in his interpretations of any nice points of Christian

archaeology. But we fear his Protestant admirers will be led to lower

their tone of admiration for him, and henceforward to discover some

flaw in his powers of criticism, when they find him, as in these

pages, gravely maintaining, concerning a particular representation of

the Madonna in the catacombs, that it is of Apostolic, or

quasi-Apostolic antiquity. It is a painting on the vaulted roof of an

_arcosolium_ in the cemetery of St. Priscilla, and it is reproduced in

the work before us in its original size. The Blessed Virgin sits, her

head partially covered by a short slight veil, holding the Divine

Infant in her arms; opposite to her stands a man, holding in one hand

a volume, and with the other pointing to a star which appears between

the two figures. This star almost always accompanies our Blessed Lady

in ancient paintings or sculptures, wherever she is represented either

with the Magi offering their gifts, or by the manger's side with the

ox and the ass; but with a single figure, as in the present instance,

it is unusual. Archaeologists will probably differ in their

interpretation of this figure; the most obvious conjecture would, of

course, fix on St. Joseph; there seem to be solid reasons, however,

for preferring (with De Rossi) the prophet Isaias, whose predictions

concerning the Messias abound with imagery borrowed from light, and

who may be identified on an old Christian glass by the superscription

of his name. But this question, interesting as it is, is not so

important as the probable date of the painting itself; and here no

abridgment or analysis of' De Rossi's arguments can do justice to the

moderation, yet irresistible force, with which he accumulates proofs

of {130} the conclusion we have already stated, viz., that the

painting was executed, if not in Apostolic times and as it were under

the very eyes of the Apostles themselves, yet certainly within the

first 150 years of the Christian era. He first bids us carefully to

study the art displayed in the design and execution of the painting;

he compares it with the decorations of the famous Pagan tombs

discovered on the Via Latina in 1858, and which are referred to the

times of the Antoninuses; with the paintings in the pontifical

_cubiculum_ in the cemetery of St. Callixtus, and with others more

recently discovered in the cemetery of Pretextatus, to both of which a

very high antiquity is conceded by all competent judges; and he justly

argues that the more classical style of the painting now under

examination _obliges_ us to assign to it a still earlier date. Next, he

shows that the catacomb in which it appears was one of the oldest,--St.

Priscilla, from whom it receives its name, having been the mother of

Pudens and a contemporary of the Apostles (the impress of a seal, with

the name _Pudens Felix_, is repeated several times on the mortar round

the edge of a grave in this cemetery); nay, further still, it can be

shown that the tombs of Sts. Pudentiana and Praxedes, and therefore,

probably, of their father St. Pudens himself, were in the immediate

neighborhood of the very chapel in which this Madonna is to be seen;

moreover, the inscriptions which are found there bear manifest tokens

of a higher antiquity than can be claimed by any others from the

catacombs: there is the complete triple nomenclature of pagan times,

e.g., Titus Flavius Felicissimus; the epitaphs are not even in the

usual form, _in pace_, but simply the Apostolic salutation, _Pax

tecum, Pax tibi_; and finally, the greater number of them are not cut

on stone or marble slabs, but written with red paint on the tiles

which close the graves--a mode of inscription of which not a single

example, we believe, has hitherto been found in any other part the

catacombs. This is a mere outline of the arguments by which De Rossi

establishes his conclusion respecting the age of this painting, and

they are not even exhibited in their full force in the present

publication at all. For a more copious induction of facts, and a more

complete elucidation both of the history and topography of the

catacombs, we must be content to wait till the author's larger work on

_Roma Sotterranea_ shall appear.

The most recent painting of the Madonna which De Rossi has here

published is that with which our readers will be the most familiar. It

is the one to which the late Father Marchi, S.J., never failed to

introduce every visitor to the catacomb of St. Agnes, and has been

reproduced in various works; the Holy Mother with her hands

outstretched in prayer, the Divine Infant on her bosom, and the

Christian monogram on either side of her and turned toward her. This

last particular naturally directs our thoughts to the fourth century

as the date of this work; and the absence of the _nimbus_ and some other

indications lead our author to fix the earlier half of the century in

preference to the later. Between these two limits, then, of the first

or second, and the fourth century, he would place the two others which

are now published; he distinguishes them more doubtfully, as belonging

respectively to the first and second half of the third century. In

one, from the cemetery of Domitilla, the Blessed Virgin sits holding

the Holy Child on her lap, whilst four Magi offer their gifts; the

other, from the catacomb of Sts. Peter and Marcellinus, represents the

same scene, but with two Magi only. In both there is the same

departure from the ancient tradition of the number of the wise men,

and from the same cause, viz., the desire to give a proper balance and

proportion to the two sides of the picture, the Virgin occupying the

middle place. Indeed, in one of them, it is still possible to trace

{131} the original sketch of the artist, designing another arrangement

with the three figures only; but the result did not promise to be

satisfactory, and he did what thousands of his craft have continued to

do ever since, sacrificed historic truth to the exigencies of his art.

We trust our readers will be induced to get this valuable work and to

study it for themselves; the text may be procured either in French or

in Italian, so that it is readily accessible to all. At the same time

we would take the opportunity of introducing to them another work by

the same indefatigable author, which is also published both in French

and in Italian. At least, such is the announcement of a prospectus now

lying before us, which states that the French translation is published

by Vives, in Paris. We have ourselves only seen the original Italian.

It is a short monthly periodical, illustrations, _Bollettino di

Archeologia Cristiana_, and is addressed not merely to _savans_,

Fellows of Royal Societies, and the like, but rather to all educated

men who care for the history of their religion and are capable of

appreciating its evidences. De Rossi claims for the recent discoveries

in the Roman catacombs the very highest place among the scientific

events of the day which have an important religious bearing, and we

think that the justice of his plea must be admitted. Unfortunately,

however, the vastness of the subject, the multiplied engagements of

the author, and (not least) the political vicissitudes of the times,

have hitherto prevented the publication of these discoveries in a

complete and extended form. We are happy to know that the work is

satisfactorily progressing; but meanwhile he has been persuaded by the

suggestions of many friends, and by the convenience of the thing

itself, to publish this monthly periodical, which will keep us _au

courant_ with the most important additions that are being made from

time to time to our knowledge of those precious memorials of primitive

Christianity, and also supply much interesting information on other

archaeological matters. In these pages the reader is allowed to

accompany, as it were, the author himself in his subterranean

researches, to assist at his discoveries, to trace the happy but

doubtful conjecture of a moment through all its gradual stages, until

it reaches the moral certainty of a conclusion which can no longer be

called in question; _e.g._, the author gives us a portion of a lecture

which he delivered on July 3, 1852, to the Roman Pontifical Academy of

Archaeology. In this lecture he maintained, in opposition to the usual

nomenclature of the catacombs, and entirely on the strength of certain

topographical observations, that a particular cemetery, into which a

very partial opening had been made in 1848, was that anciently called

by the name of Pretextatus, and in which were buried St. Januarius,

the eldest of the seven sons of St. Felicitas, Felicissimus and

Agapitus, deacons of St. Sixtus, Pope Urban, Quirinus, and other

famous martyrs. Five years passed away, and this opinion had been

neither confirmed nor refuted; but in 1857, excavations undertaken for

another purpose introduced our author into a crypt of this cemetery,

of unusual size and richness of ornament, where one of the _loculi_

bore an inscription on the mortar which had secured the grave-stone,

invoking the assistance of "Januarius, Agatopus (for Agapitus), and

Felicissimus, martyrs!" This, of course, was a strong confirmation of

the conjecture which had been published so long before; but this was

all which he could produce in the first number of his _Bollettino_ in

January, 1863. In the second number he could add that, as he was going

to press (February 21), small fragments of an inscription on marble

had been disinterred from the same place, of which only single letters

had yet been found, but which, he did not hesitate to say, had been

written by Pope Damasus and contained his name, as well as the name of

{132} St. Januarius. In March he published the twelve or fourteen

letters which had been discovered, arranging them in the place he

supposed them to have occupied in the inscription, which he

conjecturally restored, and which consisted altogether of more than

forty letters. In April he was able still further to add, that they

had now recovered other portions; amongst the rest, a whole word, or

rather the contraction of a word (_episcop._ for _episcopus_), exactly in

accordance with his conjecture, though, at the time he made the

conjecture, only half of one of the letters had yet come to light.

We need not pursue the subject further. Enough has been said to

satisfy those of our readers who have any acquaintance with the

catacombs, both as to the kind and the degree of interest and

importance which belong to this publication. Its intelligence,

however, is by no means confined to the catacombs. The basilica of San

Clemente; the recent excavations at San Lorenzo, _fuori le mura_; the

postscript of St. Pamphilus the Martyr at the end of one of his

manuscript copies of the Bible, reproduced in the Codex Sinaiticus

lately published by Tischendorf; the arch of Constantine; ancient

scribblings on the wall (_graffiti_) of the palace of the Caesars on

the Palatine, etc., etc., are subjects of able and learned articles in

the several numbers we have received. With reference to the

_graffiti_, one singular circumstance mentioned by De Rossi is worth

repeating here. Most of our readers are probably acquainted with the

_graffiti_ from this place, published by P. Garrucci, in which one

Alessamenus is ridiculed for worshipping as his God the figure of a

man, but with the head of an ass, nailed to a cross. P. Garrucci had

very reasonably conjectured that this was intended as a blasphemous

caricature of the Christian worship; and recently other _graffiti_ in

the very same place have been discovered with the title _Episcopus_,

apparently given in ridicule to some Christian youth; for that the

room on whose walls these scribblings appear was used for educational

purposes is abundantly proved by the numerous inscriptions announcing

that such or such a one _exit de paedagogio_. We seem, therefore, in

deciphering these rude scrawls, to assist, as it were, at one of the

minor scenes of that great struggle between paganism and Christianity,

whereof the sufferings of the early martyrs, the apologies of Justin

Martyr, etc., were only another but more public and historical phase.

History tells us that Caracalla, when a boy, saw one of his companions

beaten because he professed the Christian faith. These _graffiti_ seem

to teach us that there were many others of the same tender age, _de

domo Caesaris_, who suffered more or less of persecution for the same

cause. Other interesting details of the same struggle have been

brought together by De Rossi, carefully gleaned from the patrician

names which appear on some of the ancient grave-stones, sometimes as

belonging to young virgins or widows who had dedicated themselves to

the service of Christ under the discipline of a religious community.

That such a community was to be found early in the fifth century, in

the immediate neighborhood of _S. Lorenzo fuori le mura_, or, at

least, that the members of such a community were always buried about

that time in that cemetery, is one of the circumstances which may be

said to be clearly proved by the recent discoveries. The proofs are

too numerous and minute for abridgment, but the student will be

interested in examining them as they appear in the _Bollettino_.

Another feature in this archaeological publication is its convenience

as a supplement to the volume of Christian Inscriptions published by

the same author. That volume, as our readers are already aware,

contains only such inscriptions of the first six centuries as bear a

distinct chronological note by the names of the chief magistrates, or

in some other way. Additional specimens of these are not unfrequently

discovered in the excavations still {133} in progress on various sides

of the city; and these De Rossi is careful to chronicle, and generally

also to illustrate by notes, in the pages of his _Bollettino_. The

chief value of these additions, perhaps, is to be found in the

corroboration they _uniformly_ give to the conclusions which De Rossi

had already deduced, the canons of chronological distinction and

distribution which he had established, from the larger collection of

inscriptions in the work referred to--whether as to the style of

writing or of diction and sentiments, etc.--canons, the full

importance of which will only be recognized when he shall have

published the second volume of the collection of epitaphs bearing upon

questions of Christian doctrine and practice.

In the earlier numbers of the _Bollettino_ for the present year there

is a very interesting account of the recent discoveries in the

Ambrosian basilica of Milan, where there seems no room to doubt but

that they have brought to light the very sarcophagus in which the

relics of the great St. Ambrose, as well as those of the martyrs Sts.

Gervasius and Protasius, have rested for more than ten centuries. The

history of the discovery is too long to be inserted here, and too

interesting to be abridged. One circumstance, however, connected with

it is too important to be omitted. The sarcophagus itself has not yet,

we believe, been opened; but, from the two sepulchres below and on

either side of it, where the bishop and the martyrs were originally

deposited, and where they remained until their translation in the

ninth century, many valuable relics have been gleaned. We will only

mention one of them--viz., portions of an _ampulla_ such as are found

in the catacombs, and concerning which Dr. Biraghi, the librarian of

the Bibliotheca Ambrosiana (to whose zeal we are indebted for the

whole discovery, and for the account of it to his learning), assures

us that it has been subjected to a chemical examination, and is shown

to have contained blood. This, as De Rossi truly remarks, is the most

notable instance which has yet come before us of this _ampulla_ having

been placed in the sepulchre of famous and historical martyrs, and it

is of very special importance as throwing a flood of light on those

words of St. Ambrose about these relics so often quoted in the

controversy on this subject--_Sanguine, tumulus madet; apparent

cruoris triumphales notae; inviolatae reliquiae loco suo et ordine

repertae_. And it is certainly singular that this discovery should

have been made at a moment when the validity of these _ampullae_, as

sure signs of martyrdom, has been so much called in question. The

Sacred Congregation of Rites had only recently reaffirmed their former

sentence on this matter; and this fact now comes most opportunely from

Milan to add further weight to their decision, by giving a historical

basis to an opinion which before had been thought by some rather to

rest upon theory and conjecture. It will go far, we should think,

toward _rehabilitating_ in the minds of Christian archaeologists the

pious belief of former ages upon this subject, wherever it may have

been shaken.

------

{134}

MISCELLANY.

SCIENCE.

_The Mason-Spider of Corfu_.--A correspondent of a London journal gives

an interesting account of certain habits of this insect, which belongs

to the _mygalidae_ family. The mygales are chiefly found in hot

climates, and include the largest specimens of spiders known. They are

called mason-spiders, from the curious manner in which they build

their houses. "The mygale nest," says the correspondent, "varies much

in size, from one inch in length to three or four, and even six or

seven inches. In the West Indies, where the spiders are crab-like, the

insects measure six inches over. One nest, especially mentioned and

minutely described by Mr. Oudouin, was three inches and a quarter long

and eight-tenths of an inch wide. The nest, of cylindrical form, is

made by boring into the earth; making his excavation, the next thing,

having decided upon the dimensions of his habitation, is to furnish

it, and most beautiful are his paper-hangings. The whole of the

interior is lined with the softest possible silk, a tissue which the

'major domo' spins all over the apartment until it is padded to a

sufficient thickness and made soft enough. Silk lining like this gives

the idea of the mygale having a luxurious turn. This done, and the

interior finished, the mygale shows his peculiarity by taking steps to

keep out the [Greek text] of intruders by making not only a door, and

that self-closing, but a door with swinging hinge, and sometimes one

at each end of his nest, which shows that he has a very good opinion

of his own work within, and knows how to take care of it. Not having

met with any case where any one had seen the positive operation of

making the door of these nests, I thought the details would be

interesting, the more so as they corroborated preconceived ideas of

their construction, and were noticed by a friend quartered at Corfu,

who brought home the nest with him. The following is the description

he gave me:

"Lying out in one of the sandy plateaux covered with olive groves

with which Corfu abounds, enjoying his cigar and lounging about in

the sandy soil, he came to a spider's nest. Examining it, he found

the lid or door would not open, and seemed held firmly within by the

proprietor--as if Jack were at home--so he applied forthwith the

leverage of a knife-blade, upon which the inmate retired to his

inner chamber. The aggressor decided not to disturb him any more

that day, but marking the place--most necessary thing to do--thought

he would explore further the next day, if fine.

"Accordingly, the next day my friend called early, intending to take

off the door and to watch the progress of restoration, and how it

would be accomplished. After waiting a long time, out came Monsieur

Mygale, and looking carefully round, and finding all quiet,

commenced operations by running his web backward and forward across

the orifice of his nest, till there was a layer of silken web; upon

this he ejected a gluten, over which he scratched the fine sand in

the immediate neighborhood of his nest; this done, he again set to

work--webbing, then gluten, sand; then again web, gluten, sand, about

six times; this occupied in all about eight hours. But the puzzling

part was that this time he was cementing and building himself out

from his own mansion, when, to the astonishment and delight of his

anxious looker-on, he began the finishing stroke by cutting and

forming the door by fixing his hind legs in the centre of the new

covering, and from these as a centre he began cutting with his jaws

right through the door he had made, striking a clear circle round,

and leaving about one-eighth of the circumference as a hinge. This

done, he lifted the door up and walked in. My friend then tried to

open the door with a knife, but the insect pulled it tight from the

inside. He therefore dug round him and took him off bodily--mygale

and nest complete. The hinge is most carefully and beautifully

formed; and there appears to be an important object in view when the

spider covers over the whole of the orifice, for immediately the

door is raised it springs back as soon as released; and this is

caused by the elasticity of the web on the hinge and the peculiar

formation of the lid or door, which is made thicker on the lower

side, so that its {135} own weight helps it to be self-closing, and

the rabbeting of the door is wonderfully surfaced. Bolts and Chub

locks with a latch-key the mygale family do not possess, but as a

substitute the lower part of the door has clawholding holes, so that

a bird's beak or other lever being used, Mons. Mygale holds on to

the door by these, and with his legs against the sides of his house,

offers immense resistance against all comers."

_Instinct of Insects_.--One of the regular course of free scientific

lectures delivered at the Paris Sorbonne this last winter, under the

auspices of the Minister of Public Instruction, was by the

distinguished naturalist M. Milne-Edwards, on the instinct and

intelligence of animals. Taking for his text the saying of Linnaeus,

_Natura maxime miranda in minimis,_ he spoke principally of the

instinct of insects, and especially of solitary bees. These

hymenoptera, in fact, afford one of the most striking examples known

of that faculty which impels an animal, either for its own

preservation or for the preservation and development of its offspring,

to perform the most complicated and intelligent actions, readily and

skilfully, yet without having learned how to do them. One species, the

carpenter-bee (_xylocopa_), bores in the trunks of trees galleries

running first horizontally and then vertically to a considerable

depth. She then collects a quantity of wax and honey. The honey she

kneads into a little ball of alimentary matter, in the midst of which

she deposits her first egg. With the wax she constructs a horizontal

partition, formed of concentric annular layers; this encloses the

cell. On this partition she deposits a second egg, enclosed like the

first in the provision destined for the support of the future larva;

and over it builds another partition of wax; and so on, to the top of

the vertical cavity. Then she dies; she never sees her offspring. The

latter, so long as they remain larvae, feed upon the honey which the

maternal foresight provided for them; and so soon as they have passed

through their second metamorphosis and become winged insects, issue

forth from their retreat, to perform in their turn a similar labor.

Another species of solitary bee, whose larva is carnivorous, resorts

to a still more wonderful, but, it must be confessed, very cruel,

expedient to supply the worm-like progeny with food. She constructs a

gallery or tunnel in the earth, and crowns it with a chimney curved

somewhat like a crosier, so as to keep out the rain. Then she goes

a-hunting, and brings back to her den a number of caterpillars. If she

kills them at once, they will spoil before her eggs are hatched; if

she lets them alone, they will run away. What shall she do? She

pierces the caterpillars with her venomous little dart, and injects

into them a drop of poison, which Mr. Claude Bernard no doubt will

analyze some day. It does not kill, it only paralyzes them; and there

they lie, torpid and immovable, till the larvae come into the world

and feast off the sweet and succulent flesh at their leisure.

Everybody is familiar with the habits and wonderful industry of

hive-bees, wasps, and ants. These insects seem to be governed by

something more than blind instinct: it is hardly too much to say that

they give indubitable signs of intelligence. They know how to modify

their course according to circumstances, to provide against unexpected

wants, to avert dangers, and to notify to each other whatever is of

consequence to be known by their whole community. Huber, the

celebrated bee-keeper of Geneva, relates the following anecdote: One

of his hives having been devastated one night by a large sphinx-moth,

the bees set to work the next morning and plastered up the door,

leaving only a small opening which would just admit them, one at a

time, but which the sphinx, with its big body and long wings, could

not pass. As soon as the season arrived when the moths terminate their

short lives, the bees, no longer fearing an invasion, pulled down

their rampart. The next season, as no sphinx appeared to trouble them,

they left their door wide open.

_Ostrich-keeping_.--By late news from the Cape of Good Hope we learn

that the farmers of that colony are beginning to find it profitable to

keep flocks of ostriches, for the feathers of those birds are worth

L25 sterling the pound. For thirty-five ostriches, there must be three

hundred acres of grazing-ground. The plucking takes place once in six

months; the yield of feathers from each bird being worth from L10 to

L12, 10s. The original cost of the young ostriches is said to be L5

each. Some of the {136} farmers who have tried the experiment are of

opinion that ostrich-feathers will pay better than any other produce

of the colony.

_Extraordinary Inland Navigation_.--We hear from South America that a

steamer built in England for the Peruvian government, for the

exploration of rivers, has penetrated the great continent from the

Atlantic side to a distance of ninety-five leagues only from the

Pacific, or nearly all across. The vessel, which draws seven feet

water, steamed seven hundred leagues up the Amazon, two hundred up the

Ucayati, and thence into the Pachitea, which had never before been

navigated except by native canoes. What a magnificent extent of inland

navigation is here opened to commercial enterprise! The mind becomes

somewhat bewildered in imagining the future of those vast

river-valleys when hundreds of steamers shall navigate the streams,

trading among millions of population dwelling on their banks.

_Is the Sun getting Bigger?_--It is known that various speculations

have been put forward as to the cause or source of the sun's heat.

Among those who consider that it consists in the falling of asteroids

or meteorites into the sun, is Mr. J. R. Mayer, of Heilbronn, who

states that the surface of the sun measures 115,000 million square

miles, and that the asteroids falling thereon form a mass every minute

equal in weight to from 94,000 to 188,000 billion kilogrammes. It

might be supposed that this enormous shower would increase the mass

and weight of the sun, and by consequence produce an appreciable

effect on the motion of the planets which compose our system. For

instance, it would shorten our year by a second or something less. But

the calculations of astronomers show that this effect does not take

place; and Mr. Mayer states that to increase the apparent diameter of

the sun a single second by the shower of asteroids would require from

33,000 to 66,000 years.

_Teaching the Deaf and Dumb to Speak_.--Dr. Houdin, director of an

institution for the deaf and dumb at Passy, lately announced to the

French Academy, that after twenty-five years' experience he had proved

the possibility of communicating the faculty of speech, in a certain

degree, to deaf mutes. A commission appointed by the Academy and the

Faculty to investigate the subject, reports that the learned doctor

has really succeeded in several instances in teaching these

unfortunate beings to speak and even comprehend spoken language so

well that it is difficult to believe that they are not guided by the

ear. The patients conversed with the members of the commission, and

answered the different questions put to them. They were found to be

perfectly familiar with the use and mechanism of speech, though

destitute of the sense of hearing, and they comprehended what was said

to them, reading the words upon the lips of the speaker with a

marvellous facility. Thus they become fit to enter into society and

capable of receiving all manner of instruction.

But here is another case still more wonderful. What would you do if

you had to instruct and prepare for first communion a child who was at

the same time deaf, dumb, and _blind_? The case is not an imaginary

one; it has occurred in an asylum for deaf-mutes at Notre Dame de

Larnay, in the diocese of Poitiers. A nun was there charged with the

instruction of a child in this unfortunate state, to whom she could

appeal only by the sense of touch. Yet the child, who astonishes

everybody by her sensibility and intelligence, has come by that means

to a knowledge of the spiritual life, of God and his divine Son, of

religion and its mysteries and precepts--has been prepared, in fine,

for a worthy reception of the Eucharist.

ART.